Ciphers, Matt Rogers [a court of thorns and roses ebook free TXT] 📗

out of the wreckage of the coffee table and shot to his feet, his ribs lit up like they’d been torched with a flamethrower.

He almost went back down on one knee, but he knew that was as good as suicide.

He barely faltered. Barely wavered. But a half-grimace tickled the corners of his mouth, and the bull-like man across from him noticed. In a fight with stakes like this, it might as well have been the largest display of weakness in human history. The guy’s face contorted into a sneer and he broke into an all-out charge, smelling blood in the water, sensing an opportunity to kill.

King readied himself.

There’s no feeling quite like being overwhelmed by true pain. The type of pain that drills deep, that evokes primal fear, that screams at you, You’re really fucking hurt. Don’t move! Survive!

King couldn’t listen to it, but it distracted him endlessly. He barely even realised his MP7 was nowhere to be found, and he caught it at the last second in his peripheral vision, buried under the splintered wood of the table. He had no time to reach for it, because the bull in human form had picked up serious momentum, and the next moment he launched himself with barbarism at King, who stood there rigid as if frozen in place.

No, King told the voice. I have to move.

His ribs screamed with every slight disturbance, but he didn’t pay it a moment’s thought. Thousands of hours of practice hardening his mind came together in one collective moment and gave him the strength to side-step, catch the guy under the arm and heave him forward, taking him completely off the ground, using the momentum of his own charge to rotate him half a revolution in the air and dropping him upside down. The top of the man’s skull hit the ground so hard that it very nearly split open, but the thud told King everything he needed to know. If the guy wasn’t dead, he was damn close to it, but King made sure by kicking the MP7 out of the wrecked table, sliding down and lifting it off the ground with three fingers, planting it on the back of the guy’s thick squat neck, and sending two bullets ripping through his throat.

Then, with his face contorted into a show of weakness he could finally allow, he ran for the curtains, hoping, praying, that Slater hadn’t actually moved after fifteen seconds.

He shouldered through the thick brown sheets, fully aware that he could catch a bullet in the face for his troubles, but also aware that he had no other choice. Slater needed him. He exposed half his frame, but thankfully there was no one paying enough attention to capitalise on it. The enormous guy was nowhere to be seen — maybe wounded, maybe dead.

Two new mercenaries had appeared out of nowhere, but they were focused on the manhole, slinking toward it with Kalashnikov AK-47s aimed dead at the blackness.

The curved magazines, full with lead, seemed to ripple in the lowlight.

Ready to spew forth their rounds into an unsuspecting Will Slater.

King intuitively switched the MP7 to semi-automatic with a flick of his index finger, then shot the first mercenary square between the eyes. Blood geysered out the back of the guy’s head, which was sufficient enough to distract his comrade. The second merc wheeled around with his eyes wide, trying to discern where—

King put two rounds into his face, too. He let both corpses drop to the floor, and then trained his vision wide, taking in the entire lobby.

All quiet.

‘Now!’ he roared.

63

Slater had his MP7 trained on the space above the manhole, but his heart rate was through the roof, and he couldn’t bring it down.

Fifteen seconds had well and truly passed, and there was no sign of King.

Doubt began gnawing at the back of his mind.

If he’s dead, you should regroup.

Of course, there would be the soul-crushing loss to deal with if Jason King had truly met his demise, but all Slater could focus on right now was the eight million who needed power. Compartmentalisation was in full swing, and he started planning a tactical retreat, perhaps a call with Violetta to discuss what sort of reinforcements he had access to…

‘Now!’ King roared from above.

Slater flipped an internal switch.

All thoughts fell away.

He scrambled up the last few rungs, vaulted out into the cavernous space, then spotted King positioned between two brown curtains on the left-hand side of the lobby, his weapon trained to provide covering fire.

Slater recognised that he was covered, and began a beeline for King’s position.

Then two rounds hit King full in the chest and sent him sprawling back out of sight.

He vanished behind the curtains.

Slater didn’t think. Didn’t waste a millisecond. Just jerked hard to the left and ducked low and threw himself forward over one shoulder, rolling wildly to throw off the aim of anyone looking to follow up the initial shots.

And they sure tried.

A chunk of tile exploded in his face as he rolled, and loose shards gashed his cheek and forehead, coming perilously close to removing an eyeball. He realised a bullet had struck the ground directly underneath him, and he lurched to his feet and covered the final dozen feet to another pair of curtains. He realised he’d ended up running in the opposite direction to King’s position — he’d shouldered through the curtains to the east, and King was to the west. The shots had come from the north.

He came to a skidding halt in a large bare room with the same tiled floor. There was no furniture, nothing at all besides the beginnings of a modern refurbishment.

But the room wasn’t empty.

There was a man standing in front of Slater, five inches taller than him, far wider, far thicker, far denser. Huge hands, huge feet, but sharp, laser-focused eyes and a thin cruel mouth. Handsome features for an otherwise bullish man. He had a hand to his bowling-ball sized shoulder, and his skin was ghost