Contracts, Matt Rogers [phonics reading books TXT] 📗

them both tumbling to the floor.

Slater landed on top of King, who groaned in protest. He had no time to check on his friend’s condition — everything was a fast-paced blur, and concentration was impossible — so he rolled off King and tried to get to his feet.

Perry lunged into range, got both hands around Slater’s mid-section, and locked them together.

‘Fuck,’ Slater snarled.

He smashed an open palm down, catching Perry in the nose. The appendage broke, and blood sprayed. Then Slater used the same arm to drop an elbow into the soft flesh behind the man’s ear. It was a brutal strike, like a blunt axe ricocheting off a coconut, but Perry didn’t go out. He stumbled, wobbled, but kept his grip tight.

Then he picked Slater up and dumped him down on his head.

Slater tucked his chin to his chest at the last second, and came down on the concrete on the base of his neck. Then all Perry’s weight crushed on top of him, driving him harder into the floor. A wave of nausea rippled through him and as he broke free of the man’s grasp he fought the urge to vomit. But he simply couldn’t afford to, no matter how hurt he was. Anyone who stayed still for longer than a second was going to get beaten to death.

Perry swung with a looping right hook and missed, and Slater thought, Now.

He dove on Perry, who’d overcommitted with the punch, and wrestled him down to his knees. Then he interlocked his fingers behind the man’s skull and crushed his face with a scything knee.

Thwack.

Right into the broken nose.

Blood sprayed again, this time coating both Slater and King, and Slater followed up with another knee to the same spot. The results were gnarly, and the extent of the damage made Slater hesitate as he figured out exactly how to kill Oscar Perry with his bare hands. Really, it was only half a second of decision-making, unnoticeable to the untrained observer, but Perry noticed.

And he was a tough son-of-a-bitch.

Because he ignored his broken nose and shattered face and ducked his head low, breaking free of the Muay Thai clinch. He backed away, still on his knees, and dove for one of the guns.

Slater dove for Perry.

Another impact, just as brutal as the last.

The crash-tackle took them both into the side of the nearest bed frame, and the impact stunned them both. Either man could capitalise on the narrow window, and Slater tried to, but—

He was a few milliseconds too late.

Perry seized the leverage and scrambled on top of Slater, distributing all his weight evenly. Slater tried to gouge an eye but Perry dropped a devastating elbow. It sliced across the top of Slater’s forehead, and suddenly all he could see was blood. He tried to fight through the crimson mask, but it was futile. He felt crushing pressure on either side of his head, and realised Perry had seized hold of his skull.

The bodyguard smashed Slater’s head into one of the metal legs.

He lost sensation in his hands and feet.

He was on the verge of unconsciousness.

About to slip into a long and dreamless—

Then the hands fell away. Suddenly Perry’s weight pressing down on him was nowhere to be found, and Slater took the opportunity to reach up and wipe the blood out of his eyes.

He blinked twice, and saw Perry scrambling for the nearest weapon.

But he didn’t get there in time.

Jason King, gun in hand, strode up to Oscar Perry, seized him by his curly blond hair, wrenched him away from the nearest handgun, and placed the barrel against his head.

Perry’s face contorted into a grimace and he squeezed his eyes shut. ‘No, no, no, please—’

King pulled the trigger.

The gunshot exploded in the confined space.

Then the room went quiet.

Slater lay on his back, panting, bleeding, his head throbbing. There was blood everywhere. On the walls, on the mattress, on the floor. All over King.

King surveyed the scene, unblinking, wide-eyed. Probably in shock.

He let the chaos settle, then turned to Slater and said, ‘What just happened?’

79

King caught his breath.

It was difficult, but he managed.

As soon as he’d crawled out of the semi-conscious state, he was free to move. Like a boxer recovering before the ten count, he’d clawed his way back to reality, got to his feet, picked up a gun, and put a bullet through Perry’s head.

Now he stumbled over to Slater and helped the man to his feet.

Slater got up on shaky legs, clutching his forehead to stem the bleeding, and sat down on the mattress.

Wordlessly, King went into his duffel bag and retrieved the medkit. He eyed the staple gun, but Slater hissed, ‘No.’

‘It might be for the best.’

‘It’s not that deep. Just tape it up.’

‘If you say so.’

King swabbed the cut with rubbing alcohol, then pinched it closed for a long thirty-count, and finished by winding a long unbroken strip of medical tape around Slater’s head several times in a row. When he taped it in place, it looked like a makeshift headband.

Slater said, ‘That’s fine. It’ll do until we’re out of here.’

‘What was that?’

‘We probably don’t have time to talk about it,’ Slater said, getting to his feet.

‘Why?’

‘Because Perry and whoever else he’s working with have at least three soldiers in his back pocket.’

‘Wha—?’ King started, and then trailed off.

“It’s fine,” Perry had said.

The troops on the staircase had listened.

He’d given them the all-clear, and they’d let him go.

‘What the hell is going on?’ King muttered to himself.

‘I think I’m putting it together,’ Slater said. ‘But we just fired an unsuppressed round in a civilian lodge. We need to go — right now.’

Sure enough, they made out distant screams echoing down the corridors. They hadn’t been paying attention to them before, but now they were prevalent.

‘After you,’ King said, throwing the duffel over his shoulder.

Slater picked up his own pack, then the three guns. He passed one to King, and tucked the other two in his own waistband. King eyed the shattered laptop warily, and Slater