Outlaws, Matt Rogers [best ereader under 100 TXT] 📗

forehead. Disorienting him, and making him even more uncomfortable.

Good.

King needed him vulnerable.

He said, ‘You’re in deep shit, Quinn. But you can come out of this alive if you get me to that container.’

Quinn squinted harder, confused.

King said, ‘You know people at the port, right? That’s how all this works.’

‘Yes. But they won’t let me in if they see you with me. They don’t know you.’

‘Then they won’t see me.’

‘I don’t remember the details.’

‘I do. Drive.’

They took the Pacific Coast Highway north, passing designer coffee joints packed with hipsters and surfers and rich white-collar workers staying at their holiday homes. Then they saw those holiday homes themselves — the exclusive real estate between Laguna Beach and Newport Beach with staggering ocean views and permanent sunshine. Then came Huntington Beach, followed swiftly by Long Beach, and after that King knew they’d be approaching Terminal Island.

He said, ‘Okay, Quinn. Pep talk.’

Still pale despite the sun beating down on him, Quinn nodded his understanding.

King said, ‘I’m going to get out of sight. I want you to be as charming as you can. If they suspect something’s wrong, I’ll kill you. If you point out that there’s a person in the back who’s currently holding you hostage, I’ll kill you. If you drive straight to any other criminal buddies you have and try to pump me full of lead before I can retaliate, it won’t work … and then I’ll kill you.’

Quinn nodded again.

‘Any questions?’

Quinn shook his head.

‘I’d like to remind you what happened to your buddies.’

‘I know what happened to them,’ Quinn said, like he was trying to hold back tears.

King said, ‘They were prepared. Duke had the jump on me. It was six on one. You all still failed.’

Silence.

King said, ‘Whatever you’re thinking about trying, it won’t work.’

‘I know.’

Resignation.

Acceptance.

Defeat.

King said, ‘Good man. I’m putting my head down now. If I see anything other than Container 55D when I look back up, you’re dead.’

‘What’s the rest of the information?’

King fed it to him, verbatim, reading it off the page he’d memorised.

As Quinn sped along the Seaside Freeway, King turned and put a foot up on the passenger seat and vaulted over into the rear seats. He grabbed the removable soft top usually reserved for draping over the jeep’s frame when it rained once a year in California. He skewered himself down into the footwell, and draped the soft top over his own frame instead.

Darkness.

55

Bumps.

Jolts.

Rattles.

Muted conversation.

More bumps.

More jolts.

More muted conversation.

King listened harder.

He thought he caught snippets of jovial banter — perhaps a half-hearted verbal jab from someone outside the vehicle. Then something very similar to a nervous laugh emanating from the driver’s seat.

He tensed up.

If port security smelled something fishy on Quinn’s end, they might overreact.

Especially if they were on the payroll. Because that made them morally bankrupt, and morally bankrupt people were capable of plenty of unsavoury things.

King imagined the conversation.

Where’s the rest of the boys?

They sent me ahead, to ready the container.

You drew the short straw, hey?

Something like that.

Have a good one, buddy.

You, too.

That was the best case scenario.

That’s not what happened.

The second muted conversation lasted a whole lot longer than the first. The weight of the soft top pressed down on King, stifling his breathing, absorbing the heat of the sun, cooking him in the footwell. He started perspiring freely — his armpits soaked, his face flushed, his grip on the SIG ever so slightly compromised. If they threw the soft top away and tried to shoot him where he lay, that’d be an issue.

He tried his best to control his breathing, fighting off the tendrils of claustrophobia.

Outside the jeep, he thought he heard someone say, ‘How long do you think you’ll be?’

More questions.

Not good.

King tightened his grip. Tried to wipe his palm on his pants, but he couldn’t. The angle wasn’t right. He lay deathly still, not daring to move a muscle. Another voice — a new voice — emanated from the passenger side.

A second port official.

Were they surrounding the car?

He weighed his options. He could sit up, throw the soft top aside, draw a bead on whoever was closest, threaten them until they let him through. It’d work. He doubted port security had the firepower and reflexes to rival his own.

But as soon as Quinn rolled the jeep through, they’d raise the alarm. King might make it to the container in time, but then he’d have the entire port descending on him. If the cargo was something sinister, and required immediate action on King’s end … well, that’d complicate things. It’d be hard to smuggle a nuclear bomb off Terminal Island with alarms blaring and security in hot pursuit.

He stayed put.

It was mightily uncomfortable, but in his profession, what the hell wasn’t?

The voice on the driver’s side moved closer to King. He realised, two feet above him, the official was looking down at the soft top. Scrutinising. Giving the rear seats a once-over.

He held his breath, which wasn’t necessary — it caught in his throat anyway.

Silence.

Then a grunted affirmation, and Quinn threw the jeep into gear, and it rolled off the mark.

King let the breath out. It was masked by the rumbling of the engine. He gave it a full minute, counting out the seconds from one to sixty, until Quinn had accelerated to a respectable speed. Then he sat up and heaved the soft top aside.

Quinn looked twice as nervous as when King had burrowed out of sight.

King said, ‘How’d that go?’

Quinn shook his head, scared shitless. ‘That was close.’

‘Why?’

‘Duke hadn’t called ahead. He always calls ahead.’

‘But they let you through anyway?’

‘We pay them more than enough to allow exceptions.’

King vaulted back into the passenger seat and soaked in the scenery. They were barreling down a giant concrete multi-purpose dock. On either side he eyed a cluster of administrative buildings, a couple of giant warehouse facilities that he guessed were for maintenance, and at least a dozen cranes all around them. In the distance, the rest of the terminals on the island spread out facing the harbour,