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

were craters.

‘Elsa,’ King said. ‘And the other two. Where’s the buyer?’

Icke’s face clouded, but clarity struck him after a moment’s thought.

He said, ‘Oh. Russia.’

For some reason it left King at a loss for words.

He couldn’t pinpoint why.

Icke noticed. ‘What?’

King didn’t have an answer, because he didn’t know.

Then, all of a sudden, he did. He saw it all in perfect clarity.

It made him sick.

86

Before Vegas, King had been on a vigilante job in Los Angeles.

He and Violetta had intercepted a shipping container full of trafficked women from Eastern Europe, shipped all the way to the Californian desert to be sodomised and then killed.

Now he was staring at the formula in reverse — girls from the Californian desert, destined for the wintry cold of Mother Russia.

It boiled down to a simple age-old principle.

You want what you can’t have.

Old men in power would never be satiated. They’d chase the thrill forever, believing the key to satisfaction was the treasures of some far-off land. Californian tyrants weren’t content with Californian product, and Eastern European tyrants weren’t content with Eastern European product. They’d trade back and forth forever, chasing some incomprehensible goal they’d never reach.

King knew the answer.

So did they.

They just didn’t want to admit it was staring them in the face.

They didn’t want to admit their lust for power had all been for nothing.

Avoid the temptations, no matter how grotesque they are, no matter what depths your mind wanders to, and you find contentment. You find something men like Alastair Icke will never touch in their lives.

You find peace.

Or chase every cheap thrill, every depraved urge, and you find yourself like Keith Ray and Armando Gates and Alastair Icke and every criminal that dies isolated and lonely and miserable. Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can mask your guilt. It’s always there for everyone — even true psychopaths like Icke, who managed to drown it in any substances he could get his hands on. Maybe he’d stayed oblivious to the suffering he caused right up until the end. Maybe he’d been lucky enough.

He would die a pathetic death all the same.

No one would miss him.

No one would remember him.

Those who did would be glad he was dead.

Another useless body on the pile.

Then a fresh idea struck King. He rolled it over, contemplated it, then looked Icke right in the eyes.

The old man stared back.

King lowered his SIG.

Icke smirked. ‘Smart man. You know if you lay another finger on me my reinforcements will—’

King smashed the butt into Icke’s nose, shattering it. Blood spouted. Icke howled and went down and threw up on the concrete.

King crouched by the man’s hunched shoulders and lowered his voice. ‘You have no army. We slaughtered your army. The men you sent to our estate are dead. You have nothing.’

Icke tried to respond but couldn’t.

King used the top of the SIG’s barrel to weave through Icke’s pudgy hands and tap the metal against the broken bone.

Icke howled again.

King said, ‘What was that about not touching you?’

Icke didn’t respond.

King tapped him on the nose with the barrel again.

Icke didn’t have the strength to howl a third time.

His face contorted into a grimace and he fell to his stomach, lying prone on the concrete with his hands over his head.

Weakness personified.

King said, ‘I’m going to let you live and you’re going to get Josefine Bell out of prison.’

87

Icke said, ‘W-what?’

‘The woman you planted a brick of cocaine on. The woman you gave eleven years to yesterday.’

‘I didn’t give her that sentence,’ he moaned. ‘I wasn’t the presiding judge.’

‘Does it look like I give a shit?’

Icke didn’t know. He couldn’t see. He was crying from the pain.

‘Get it commuted,’ King said. ‘Hell, I don’t care what you do. Use every political and judicial connection you’ve ever made in your life. Call in every favour. Get on the phone to the right people. You’re a relentless man. I’m sure you have a thousand curried favours in your back pocket. You’ve been waiting for the opportunity to use them, to gain more power, to get whatever it is you want from life. Now you’re going to use them to make her sentence disappear.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘I’m making it that simple. A bullet in your fat head, or Josefine’s sentence quashed.’

He said, ‘I can’t guarantee—’

‘Which means I can’t guarantee your life,’ King said. ‘Is that a nice incentive? I’m sure you’ll work hard when you know what’s on the line.’

‘If you let me out of here,’ Icke said, his tiny voice gaining an iota of strength, ‘I’ll never let you forget—’

King smacked him with an open palm on the back of the head, forcing his face into the concrete, squashing his nose against the floor.

Icke screamed.

King said, ‘Are we done with the threats?’

No response.

King raised a hand.

Icke sobbed. Dribbled blood.

King said, ‘Are we?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes what?’

Icke hesitated.

King flicked him in the ear, and Icke flinched harder than anything.

Icke said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better.’

‘Let’s talk this through,’ Icke said. ‘Come on. You’re a reasonable guy. What if my connections don’t get the job done? There’s so much more I can give you. I have money, I have resources. I can make you happy in a million other ways.’

‘I’m happy enough,’ King said. ‘There’s only one thing making me unhappy right now, and that’s Josefine sitting in a cell. Do we have a deal?’

‘I told you—’

‘Do we have a deal?’

Silence.

‘Yes.’

King said, ‘There we go. There’s that intelligence I thought you had.’

Icke started babbling. ‘There’s a risk, you know. We should reach an agreement beforehand. Or, you know what, we should just get another deal done right now. Neither of us want this hanging over our heads. I can’t get Josefine out tonight, but like I said, there’s a whole lot more I can do for you. You know, consider the risks, man. What if I disappear after I walk out of here? Then you’ll be sitting there thinking you should have had a reasonable talk with me beforehand…’

‘Who said anything about walking?’

King smashed the butt of the gun against the exit