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

I’ve heard many empty promises.

He said, ‘Trust me.’

She took a step forward.

He led her out of the container and said, ‘Let’s get you home.’

88

Officer Eddie Ma was tired to the bone.

A cliche, for sure, but that’s what it felt like — the switch to the night shift was killing him, one miserable stack of paperwork at a time. He checked his watch for the millionth time, but it was only eleven. He lowered his head to the desk and saw visions of being cocooned in bed, binging a Netflix show, eating takeout, with no goals and no responsibilities.

Seemed like bliss.

And fantasy.

He picked up a fresh stack of evidence reports that needed filling out when someone banged on the front doors of the station. His desk was closest to the entrance, and he couldn’t deny he welcomed the break in monotony, so he rose on creaky knees and made his way out of the workspace and into the hallway. He made sure to bring his service weapon just in case, but he didn’t figure he’d need it.

Probably just some harmless junkie.

He unlocked the door, swung it open, and came face to face with an enormous man in dirty clothes. The guy was dressed in tight-fitting black khakis and a black long-sleeved shirt, but they couldn’t hide his powerful physique. He had hands and feet like bricks. His fingers and the tops of his hands were caked with dirt and sand, but that didn’t mask the cuts and bruises and swelling underneath. His messy brown hair was matted to his forehead, above eyes like steel and a strong jaw.

He looked like he’d been through hell, but he stood tall regardless, keeping his chin up and his shoulders back.

Eddie said, ‘Can I help you?’

The big man said, ‘I’m a delivery driver. I do most of my work at the ports. I think I picked up the wrong container. I heard banging on the inside. I opened it up, and, well…’

The guy stepped aside.

His mass had filled Eddie’s field of vision, and now with an unobstructed view the officer could see the dozen women huddled in a tight pack on the sidewalk below the portico. They were dirty, too, but nowhere near as bedraggled as the big driver. There was nothing about their presence that conveyed what their fate might have been, but Eddie’s mind ran wild. He thought of containers, and smuggled girls, and all the horrors that sort of business led to.

It was like someone had closed a fist around his guts.

His instincts kicked in, and he fell back to rehearsed practices.

He turned to the driver, already thinking of the questions he’d ask the witness.

The guy wasn’t there.

Eddie realised he’d spent far too long transfixed by the group below.

Only a few seconds, but that was enough, because there was no way the guy was a delivery driver.

Eddie had already pieced that together.

He sensed shuffling behind him, and knew the rest of the night shift officers would be materialising, sniffing out the commotion at the front of house.

Soon there’d be pandemonium. A moral uproar.

A dozen trafficked sex slaves in Laguna Beach.

Strangely, Eddie wasn’t tired anymore. Fatigue falls away when you’ve got a worthy mission. He was, above all, an officer of the law. He was green, for sure, but that didn’t make him naive. There’d be challenges — this was the first of many — but he’d handle them as justly as he could manage.

He ushered the girls inside.

89

Hours later, King sat behind the wheel of a Mercedes-Benz CLA250.

Violetta sat beside him.

The Benz was only a year old at best, and stood out over most of the other traffic putting in the overnight miles, but the choice had been deliberate. If you’re going to steal a car, steal it from a wealthy neighbourhood. They can afford it, and they’re more likely to have insurance. Steal an ordinary vehicle and you could ruin someone’s life. King had used that methodology for close to a decade, and hadn’t felt a shred of guilt.

After all, it was a minor inconvenience for the owner of the car, but for King it was usually life and death.

They only needed the stolen ride for a few hours, anyway. It’d give them a head start cross-country until Alonzo came through with what they needed. Then they’d dump it, torch it, and when the owner woke up and reported the theft to the authorities it’d already be far too late. They’d gone north all the way to Santa Clarita and then turned inland, gunning it north-east toward Victorville.

On the long road to Vegas.

The pre-determined rendezvous point, at a nondescript Airbnb in the outer suburbs, far from the Strip.

Now, Violetta dialled a number. She sucked in her breath as she did, anticipating the call that would spell their fate.

They had reassurances.

But that didn’t mean much when they were wanted fugitives, at the top of the shadow world’s shit list.

The call connected.

She put it on speaker so King could listen in.

Alonzo’s voice resonated through the Merc’s sleek cabin. ‘Yeah?’

‘We’re all clear,’ Violetta said. ‘On our end, and on Slater’s. Everything went according to plan.’

‘Everything?’

She instinctively looked down at the bandages wrapped tight around her arm. ‘Basically. Could have been a whole lot worse.’

‘That’s always the case, isn’t it?’

‘Are you okay with doing this?’ she said. ‘You know what it will entail.’

‘A few polygraphs?’ Alonzo said. ‘That’s all they have to work with, and I can beat those things in my sleep. They’re bullshit. They measure your stress response to questions. If there’s anything this job taught me, it’s how to stay calm in stressful situations.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘From the bottom of my heart.’

‘Spare me,’ Alonzo said. ‘I owe you. You fought for me my whole career. You didn’t go anywhere without dragging me along for the ride. It’s set me up for life.’

‘Because you’re the best.’

‘And I also consider myself a good man. So your secret’s safe. No matter what.’

‘If they find out…’

‘They won’t.’

‘Hypothetically.’

‘I’m a software