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

He kissed her on the lips, then stepped out of the car and reflexively touched his own Glock in its appendix holster. He adjusted his leather jacket over the concealed weapon, shot a final look up and down the street, and then strode into the shadows, aiming for the weak entranceway light of the building.

No one followed.

There was no explosive reaction from hidden vantage points.

Just the quiet of a residential suburb.

He stepped up onto the concrete patio and stopped in front of the sliding glass doors. A sensor light blinked in recognition above his head, but the doors didn’t part. Common enough procedure. He’d need to be buzzed in after hours. He wiped all trace of hostility or tension from his face, slumped his shoulders as if in embarrassment, and rapped his knuckles lightly on the glass. A startled receptionist’s head popped up from behind the desk on the left of the sparsely furnished lobby. She was mid-fifties, slightly overweight, with deep stress lines etched into her face.

Slater offered a smile of apology.

She shook her head, but only half-heartedly.

He injected something vague into his eyes, and stared right at her.

Sadness. Urgency. Uncertainty.

This is important.

I need to see a loved one.

She buzzed him in, and the doors slid open.

He made straight for the desk. ‘I’m so sorry about the timing. I’ve driven all day.’

‘Who are you here to see?’

‘Jonathan Powell.’

‘Are you a relative?’

‘I’m from the brotherhood.’

She looked at him.

He said, ‘We were in the military together.’

Her expression softened. She said, ‘He never mentioned he was in the military.’

‘That’s something we have in common,’ he said. ‘We’re private men. Listen, I have news he needs to hear. Something personal. I’d prefer to catch him awake.’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’

She glanced at the visitor log book in front of her, contemplating whether to make him fill it out. Then she shrugged and waved him through. ‘Go on. Get to it. You look like you need rest, darling.’

‘It’s been a long day.’

‘For you and me both.’

‘What’s his room number?’

’52,’ she said. ‘Just down the hall and to the left. You’ll see the signs.’

‘Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

He set off at a brisk but unsuspicious pace. As if he truly did have news for the man, instead of the revelation that he was here to effectively kidnap him. He went to the end of the hall and turned left, exactly as she’d instructed, and found a door labelled “52” after a couple of minutes following signs through sterilised carpeted corridors. It was thick and pale cream in colour, also surrounded by pale cream walls. The place felt like a hospital wing.

Slater knocked three times, waited a few beats out of courtesy, and then opened the door and stepped into the room.

73

Quinn Chapman didn’t lead a good life, and he’d finally made the admission that it was his own doing.

It was a weight off his shoulders. In fact, it was the first time he’d truly been objective since he’d moved into Duke’s multi-million dollar shack. It also didn’t mean he was going to stop. Recognising you were scum and taking steps to change your ways were two very different things.

He was willing to do one, but not the other.

The money was just too damn good.

He killed the majority of overhead lights in the mansion with an app on his phone, and then finally let himself breathe out. Standing on the enormous front porch, draped in shadow, he was safe, enclosed, protected by the darkness. It was a second home to him. It had afforded him the resolve to bury Duke, Kurt and Aaron in the Cajon Pass, just as the mysterious assassin had suggested. They were now packed into a shallow grave in the lee of a boulder at the bottom of a steep slope, and no one was going to find them for months at the very least. Cops might swing by asking questions, but it’d be easy to act oblivious for a couple of days. He didn’t need to worry about who would inherit the house or its contents or Duke’s vast fortune.

As soon as he delivered Container 55E and its contents to its rightful owners, he’d be the one to receive the cash for it.

Now, there was no boss to cart the profits back to.

Just Quinn.

Cal and Vince were still badly concussed. They’d spent the whole day in their beds, tossing and turning, groaning in pain, sensitive to light. They wouldn’t be functional for days. Days was more than enough time for Quinn to disappear with a cool five hundred k in cash. That’d last him years on the road living a simple life. A decade, if he was lucky. He was on the precipice of living a simple carefree life for the rest of his existence, and all he needed to do was be blissfully oblivious for another hour, tops.

Pretend you don’t know what’s in that container.

Deliver it.

Collect the payment.

Dust your hands off, and move on.

The container in question rested within the trailer Duke owned, pulled by the tractor unit Duke owned, all resting in the driveway Duke owned. It didn’t seem out of place against the backdrop of the enormous house. An unmarked delivery truck, probably dropping off designer furniture or a hundred-inch television — at least, that’s what any nosy neighbours would assume if they peered through the gate.

Hiding in plain sight.

Quinn locked up, making sure the giant double doors were secure, and then trotted down the front steps. He liked the dark. There was room for all sorts of flexibility in the dark. For reasons he’d never know, the mystery assassin had spared him. The guy actually thought he’d turn and run, even though the real payload was still there, and all that separated Quinn from five hundred thousand was satisfactory delivery.

He could do that on his own, that’s for damn sure.

He made for the tractor unit, made to get behind the wheel.

Halfway across the driveway — firmly in no man’s land — he froze in his