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

If he told her the truth, he was effectively ruining her life. Because she’d blame herself for it all, and there was no way in hell he was letting that happen.

He said, ‘I’m sorry. I hope you understand.’

His leather jacket and his Glock were on the table by the door. He slipped the jacket on, picked up the Glock within its polymer holster, and attached it to his waist. He draped the jacket over it. His actions were hollow, empty. Just like he was.

When he was ready, he looked up at her one last time.

She was so beautiful. So strong.

The best thing that had ever happened to him.

She deserved more than him.

She deserved more than chaos, suffering and death.

He forced back the tears with every ounce of his willpower, turned, and walked out.

62

Don’t waste time.

King armed himself with one of the Sig Sauers — a P226 with a black suppressor attached — and hid it under his jacket. He cast one last look at the two operators practically cocooned in duct tape, sandwiched into the rear footwell with only enough space around their heads to breathe.

They weren’t going anywhere.

He left the sedan draped in shadow and threw the keys away. It wasn’t so out of sight that the pair would die of thirst before they were discovered. But it would take at least a couple of hours for a passerby to summon the nerve to check on the car. By which point King would be a world away.

He knew exactly where Violetta’s apartment was, as well as the layout of her building. He recalled what she’d told him about the perimeter. There was another operator in the apartment beside her, and a man staying in her spare room. She was in there, no doubt. Kept on lockdown until the Slater issue was cleared.

The key point being neither her apartment or the one next to her faced the street.

So if there was a sniper’s nest, it was now empty, populated by the two men in the sedan from the opposite building. King shivered as he crossed the street, terrified that his analysis was inaccurate, expecting his head to burst apart at any moment. Seconds later he reached Violetta’s lobby without incident, proving himself correct.

Don’t waste time.

The mantra of the hour.

Every second that went by only threatened to amplify the resistance. He had surprise on his side, and little else.

He caught a twenty-something woman coming out of the lobby, and intercepted her perhaps a dozen feet from the entranceway. He tapped into every sliver of his charm and displayed it across his face, accentuating his physique, flashing a broad grin. It was no secret he was a handsome man. And rugged and built on top of that, which only added to it. He could use it when necessary. She was tall and long-limbed, wearing a blouse tucked into tight blue jeans.

He said, ‘You’re going to think I’m a moron.’

She stopped in her tracks, and gave him the brief once-over that everyone gives a stranger. She clearly liked what she saw. She said, ‘What?’

But there was no irritation in her tone.

It was playful.

He said, ‘It’s petty. But you look like fun. Humour me for a second or two.’

She said, ‘I’m listening.’

He said, ‘Look over my shoulder. You see those balconies across the street?’

She nodded.

He said, ‘My ex-girlfriend lives in one of those apartments. We broke up yesterday. She’s genuinely psycho. She cheated on me, and to make things worse she’s refusing to let me see the dog.’

The woman pouted. ‘What kind of dog?’

‘Golden retriever. His name’s Zeus.’

‘I’m sorry. You deserve better.’

An overt hint.

‘She’s watching us right now,’ King said. ‘I don’t know if you can see. Don’t look too hard.’

Discreetly, the woman scouted the balconies. She said, ‘No. Can’t see her. But I didn’t look too hard.’

‘If you take my hand right now and smile and take me into your lobby, she’ll get so mad she might pass out.’

A devilish smile crept over the woman’s face before she could suppress it.

She said, ‘Oh, really?’

‘Depends how good of a job you do.’

‘I’m a theatre major.’

‘Let’s go, then.’

He reached out and offered his hand and she took it and cosied up to his arm like they were in the honeymoon stage of a new relationship. He muttered some small talk in her ear and she giggled at it as she turned and retraced her steps. When they stepped into the lobby, they kept their faces turned to each other. She was a good eight inches shorter than him, so it was perfectly natural for him to look down at her, keeping his features masked from any surveillance cameras. They made it all the way across the lobby hand in hand, and King had confidence that his presence would have been automatically discarded by any prying eyes fixed to the CCTV footage. Sure, the physical features matched, but he wasn’t the only big guy on Staten Island. They hadn’t seen his face, and if he was hand in hand with a resident they could assume he hadn’t kidnapped or blackmailed her.

He stopped by the elevators, let go of her hand, and said, ‘Thanks. She’ll be traumatised.’

‘Glad I could be of service.’

He loitered, waiting for her to leave.

She looked him up and down. ‘Want my number?’

He half-smiled. ‘No. It’s for your own good. I’m trouble.’

He got into a waiting cable car and smacked the button for the eighth floor.

The doors whispered closed in her face.

63

King stepped out into a quaint hallway made silent by thick carpet that silenced his footfalls.

Good.

He had reasonable expectations that no one knew he was here, so he made straight for Violetta’s apartment, recalling the words that had come through the phone at John Wayne Airport.

One in the apartment next to mine.

If he’d asked her to clarify whether that was left or right, it would have triggered all kinds of suspicion.

So he simply walked up to the apartment to the left of hers, knocked sharply three times — rap-rap-rap —