Ghosts, Matt Rogers [reading the story of the .txt] 📗

have Omar with him, he would have gone insane already.

Maybe he already was.

They had no one to bounce their concerns off besides each other.

They’d figured out some of it. They’d been thrown into this room together on the same day all those months ago, and they didn’t know each other. But after many conversations in whispered Spanish it became clear — Fabian had an older brother in Calle 18, and so did Omar. They’d spoken about it at length. They hoped their big brothers were safe, hadn’t been hit by rival gangs or busted by the cops. But there was no way to know what was going on in the outside world.

Now Omar woke up. He had short close-cropped hair and a skinny frame. He was more sensitive than Fabian. Prone to outbursts. Never anger, only sadness. Fabian pitied the boy, despite the fact they were the same age.

Omar cracked an eyelid open and said, ‘Still here?’

Fabian nodded. ‘Still here.’

Omar went back to sleep.

Fabian closed his eyes, too, but sleep wouldn’t come.

He wondered if he’d be trapped in this prison forever.

Then something happened that ruptured the routine.

He heard a horn blaring, over and over and over again.

Loud enough to stir the whole complex.

Then minutes of silence.

Then gunshots.

Dozens of them.

And screams.

71

King said, ‘You think there’ll be more than eight men out front?’

Slater said, ‘I doubt it.’

‘You think there’ll be snipers in the windows?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘Then we take them by surprise,’ King said. ‘You know the drill.’

Slater nodded.

Zoned in.

Henderson flashed past. The police lights were a distant memory. Now they raced through sleepy suburbia, entombed by the night, minutes out from the complex. Satellite imagery identified it as some sort of industrial building. There was a main office complex and a loading bay out back. There were acres of land all around it. The neighbouring establishments weren’t close. They’d have some discretion to do their work, but the gunfire would send all Henderson’s residents heads’ shooting off their pillows.

There was no way around it.

Get in. Get the job done. Get out.

Don’t be there for the aftermath.

For King and Slater, no problem. That’s the way they’d operated their whole lives.

There was no build up. No drums beating in the distance, signifying war was coming. One moment they were in a side street and the next the complex was there in front of them. It was a three-storey structure, relatively modern, built with cheap materials. Like it had been taken out of a formulaic magazine, blown up to full size, and dropped into a sand lot. It was completely unimpressive — you wouldn’t look twice at it. Which was the point.

Slater said, ‘You sure about this?’

King gripped his SIG. ‘Very sure.’

‘Okay, then.’

Slater pulled up to the gate, nosed the ram bumper right up to the wire, and blasted the horn.

It was an overwhelming combination. The Rezvani’s headlights were fearsome, illuminating the whole complex and everything around it. They were basically industrial floodlights bolted to the front of the truck. And the horn pierced the night, drawing endless unwanted attention. Slater didn’t hold back. He beeped for three seconds, then released, then repeated the process. A consistent droning roar that would make mercenaries hearts’ thud in their chests.

Like, What the hell is this? We’re trying to run a discreet operation here.

There was a benefit to being so brazen. Icke’s security team was on guard, but this was so insane, so over-the-top, that it couldn’t possibly be an adversary. They’d be expecting adversaries to sneak up on them, and on the off chance anyone would mount a frontal assault, they’d simply smash through the gate. The wire was flimsy enough. Slater could do it in a heartbeat. But then they’d be fighting right away, and it was better to put the enemy on the back foot.

Urban warfare, distilled down to its essence, there for the taking if you had the courage.

It sure didn’t take long.

Two men came sprinting out of a door on the ground floor, squinting against the glare of the headlights, waving their arms frantically over their heads.

Gesturing, Stop making so much fucking noise!

Slater relented. He eased off the horn, but the noise was still considerable — the V8 engine rumbling, the lights beaming, as if the new arrivals were lighting a runway to a place where crimes were taking place.

The two men running for the gate had sidearms, but they were holstered at their waists. Smart move. They wouldn’t be able to make out a single detail of the vehicle behind the glare. For all they knew, it could be SWAT, here with a warrant, demanding an unannounced search. They sure suspected something along those lines, because their faces were overcast. They weren’t angry.

They were rattled.

One guy — short but muscly, with a head shaved bald — fiddled with the gate lock and threw it open. He ushered them inside.

‘Simple as that,’ Slater said.

King fired a text to Violetta: “Four of Icke’s best men.” I need names.

She came back in seconds: Kerr said “Bowman.”

He slid the phone into his pocket and rolled down the window.

The bald guy ran straight up to the truck and leapt onto the side step. His face was frantic. He looked once at them, noted the civilian truck and the tactical gear they wore, and pulled his piece. He stuck it in King’s face, who didn’t so much as blink, let alone cower.

Like he’d thought earlier: there for the taking if you had the courage. Emphasis on “courage.”

It was a brash manoeuvre, but it worked.

He acted like nothing was wrong in the world.

The guy hissed, ‘What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?’

King said, ‘Get that out of my face.’

‘Not a chance.’

Slater leant across the centre console. ‘Listen. There’s a problem.’

‘What problem?’ the guy said. ‘Who are you?’

King said, ‘Bowman split.’

‘What?’

‘What do you know about it?’

‘Huh?’

‘I’d be careful how you answer.’

‘I’m the one with the gun.’

‘And we’re the ones working for Gloria,’ King said. ‘Bowman and the others never met her at the top of the road.