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

That’s why she’s not here yet. Where’d they go?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Did you see Bowman leave the complex?’

‘Yeah,’ the guy said. ‘Just before. He said the boss had a task for him.’

‘He’s lying. He got spooked and disappeared. Why?’

‘You’re asking me?’

‘How do you know the feds aren’t on their way? How do you know Bowman wasn’t an undercover? It’s not that much of a stretch.’

The bald guy didn’t answer. He hunched over slightly, overwhelmed, trying to process. King didn’t blame him. It was an age-old principle used by dictators to distribute propaganda. Throw as much false information as you can out there and make sure no one has any idea what the truth actually is.

The bald guy said, ‘I don’t know, man. Isn’t Kerr supposed to be here?’

‘You’re slow, aren’t you?’ King said. ‘We’re Kerr’s right-hand men. We’re here to clear the place, make sure nothing’s amiss. Where’s Icke?’

‘Inside.’

‘Then let’s go. You want a ride back there?’

The bald guy looked out over the property. It was maybe a hundred feet to the front of the complex, but he was already up on the side step, and it’d be an inconvenience to get down. It was a harmless offering.

The guy said, ‘Sure.’

Slater touched the accelerator and crawled the Rezvani down the unpaved driveway. The second thug had heard the entire conversation, and he walked fast alongside the truck, his guard down.

It was a strange scene. Two of Icke’s men had gone out to intercept a potentially hostile arrival, and now one guy was riding the side step and gripping the windowsill and the other was striding alongside it.

Like a guard of honour.

It had its intended effect. Three more men spilled out of the doorway, practically tripping over themselves to get outside.

One of them waved their arms like the first guy had: No, wait there!

The bald guy waved his arms back: Relax, it’s fine!

The other two stood around clutching carbine rifles, unsure of themselves. Heavy duty firepower. If King or Slater were off by inches or seconds, they’d die in a blaze of fury.

Tension mounted.

Five men outside.

No more barriers between them and the complex.

Slater looked over.

King nodded.

He rolled the bulletproof window up before the bald guy could reach in and stop him and said, ‘Go.’

72

Slater didn’t need to be told twice.

There were teenage slaves in this building.

He unleashed.

Adrenaline spelled it all out, clear and simple, and he followed what his brain told him to do. He stamped the pedal to the floor, tapping into all one thousand horsepower, and the Tank lurched forward, wheels gripping the dirt and biting. The bald guy on the side step didn’t leap off, but held on tighter, clutching an indent on the roof to avoid spilling under the wheels.

Slater jerked the wheel all the way to the right, as the truck was still taking off.

The back end slid out, and the B6-armour-coated chassis hit the guy who was walking beside the truck at considerable speed. He crumpled and went under the wheels.

Paralysed or dead.

No need to check which.

Slater corrected course, ignoring the bald guy shouting and the three men ahead panicking.

One of the newcomers raised his carbine and sent a brief burst at the windshield.

He missed most of them. He was stressed to the eyeballs.

One thwacked off the windshield but the pane held. Bulletproof glass, doing its job.

Slater picked up serious speed, bearing down right on top of the trio. Two dove away, abandoning their firing positions, but the one with the raised carbine didn’t. He was brave.

Slater rewarded his bravery by stamping the brakes and throwing the wheel hard to the right.

By then he’d picked up more speed, and the bald guy flew off the side step, carried by gravity and momentum.

A human-sized projectile.

The bald guy collided with the guy brandishing the carbine and both went down in a tangle of broken bones.

The Tank had slowed enough to safely disembark.

Well, maybe not “safely.”

But doable.

Slater’s ankle prevented him from any radical movements so King took the initiative, hurling the passenger door open and flinging himself out of the truck. He landed on his feet, stumbled briefly as Slater roared the truck past, and a picture-perfect window opened.

The two guys who’d leapt out of the way were sprawled on the ground, picking themselves up, unable to believe what was happening.

King thought he’d end their confusion.

He shot them once each in the head.

They went straight back down to earth.

Five men were down in a handful of seconds, but Slater wasn’t done.

King watched the Tank roar away from him.

He said, ‘Oh, shit.’

He ran after it.

Slater picked up as much speed as he could and simply rammed it through the front wall.

73

Fabian listened hard.

His surroundings fell away. He’d spent long enough in this windowless box to know what every inch of it looked like. He could tune it out when he pleased, and he did so now. Gunshots could be good, or gunshots could be bad. They could mean the police, or they could mean a rival gang. Fabian wasn’t even sure if the police would be a good thing. He knew little about America, but he was old enough and smart enough to know his family hadn’t brought him here legally. He’d never seen paperwork or forms or been asked questions by strange men and women in suits.

And a rival gang would be worse than bad.

He’d glimpsed enough big scary soldiers who’d brought him food over the past months to know there were at least a dozen guys on rotation in this place — whatever it was, whoever they were. And if these people were brave enough to snatch two kids with no fear of repercussions … well, then it was a whole different ball game to what Fabian was used to.

Before this, Calle 18 had been the overlords. The cruelest people he knew, the most menacing, the most dangerous. His brother — and Omar’s brother — had joined out of necessity. They’d tried to do things the right way, but the shot callers for 18