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

She said, ‘You want out?’

He tensed up. He didn’t mean to, but the words hung in the sterile tube of the plane, and he turned them over and over again in his head. His core tightened, and his fingers came into his palms as he balled his fists. He tried his best to hide it, but she was leaning against him, and she felt it.

He tried to relax.

It took a few seconds.

Eventually, he settled.

But his pulse had sped up. He knew she felt that, too.

He said, ‘You know me, maybe better than anyone. What do you think I want?’

She said, ‘I think you know. I think you’re just terrified to admit it.’

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and minutes later she dozed off against his shoulder.

He stewed restlessly.

Because he knew she was right.

7

At the same time, back in Manhattan, King faced off with a perplexed receptionist in an impressive yet anonymous building in the Financial District.

His voice seemed to echo off the polished floor beneath him as he said, ‘Trust me.’

The guy behind the desk — dressed in a neatly pressed suit with a name badge that read Francis — furrowed his giant eyebrows. He was early thirties, so King understood the hesitation. Francis had probably worked for Donati Group all his twenties, and now he considered himself something of a guardian for the inner circle of the conglomerate’s head office. He sat in front of a teak-panelled wall, and had a corded phone in a cradle in front of him with an array of buttons ranging from IT to Accounting.

Francis said, ‘Sir, no one has notified me of your arrival, and I assure you it is quite unlike Mr. Donati to not have an appointment scheduled. If you have a complaint, I can be sure to put you in touch with—’

King said, ‘Pick up the phone. Call your boss. Tell him I’m here.’

‘Sir, I’m afraid—’

King gave thanks for his giant wingspan as he reached over the desk. He took Francis’ shoulder in one hand and applied the slightest touch of pressure, which against a pencil-necked civilian was more than enough to keep him glued to his chair. Then he lifted the phone off the receiver with his other hand, and used his index finger to stab the button with Donati scrawled next to it in freehand on an otherwise blank sticker.

Francis shouted, ‘Hey!’

The line rang twice and was answered.

‘What?’ a bombastic deep voice snapped.

‘Jason King. I’m here to see you. Jack Coombs sent me. Your assistant is being an uncooperative little shit so I had to take matters into my own hands.’

A pause.

Then the booming voice said, ‘Be right out. Wait there.’

‘Thank you.’

King put the phone back on its cradle and took his hand off Francis’ shoulder like nothing had happened at all.

The kid leapt to his feet and snatched the phone up in trembling hands. His voice was shaky as he said, ‘Security will be here in a minute. I suggest you leave.’

King sighed, and pressed a finger into each of his closed eyelids.

‘Kid,’ King said, and he injected the faintest hint of a threat into his voice for the first time.

Francis looked up, and froze.

King said, ‘Just sit down. Carry on with your work. Your boss will be right out.’

‘You’ve disrupted his routine,’ Francis said. ‘That is simply not acceptable, and to make things worse—’

A door flew open down the hall, out of both of their lines of sight.

Francis froze, his face paling.

‘Great,’ the kid said. ‘You probably just got me fired.’

King didn’t respond.

Sam Donati materialised in the reception area sixty seconds later. Which meant his office was further away than King had thought, which in turn meant he’d thrown the door open with more verve than normal. King wondered if the man was angry, or if he just approached everything his life with the same rigid intensity.

It turned out to be the latter.

The guy was six-five at least, with an aura like thunder. There was something bristling underneath his exterior, something King didn’t often see outside of live combat situations. He guessed that was the intensity needed to survive in the cutthroat world at the top of the corporate hierarchy. This was the realm where men and women worth ten figures searched and probed for any sliver of weakness to be exploited. You had to be uncompromising, but above all you had to be willing to put it all on the line, which had to be approached with the level of focus that existed behind Donati’s big brown eyes.

In a roundabout way, King respected that.

Donati sized King up in a single glance, strode forward and offered a huge hand.

King shook it. The billionaire’s grip was strong. Nothing King hadn’t felt before.

Donati said, ‘My assistant wasn’t giving you too much hassle, was he?’

Over Donati’s shoulder, King saw what little blood was left in Francis’ cheeks drain away.

‘No,’ King said. ‘He was more than accommodating.’

That didn’t seem to compute. Francis sat rigid and stunned, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it didn’t. King didn’t have time for petty squabbles. Life was not about one-upping anyone and everyone. The kid was harmless.

Donati flicked a fat finger in his direction, wheeled around and set off down the hallway. King followed.

They went all the way to a big oak door, which led through to an office with a view that rivalled King’s penthouse. He took in the sweeping vision of Central Park, and the hundreds of skyscrapers dotting the perimeter of the gargantuan chunk of greenery. It never got old. No matter how many times he soaked it in.

Donati stared at him, assessing his reaction. He probably found it odd that King didn’t seem awed.

He said, ‘You like the view?’

King hid a smirk. I see it every day.

But there was no justifiable reason to explain that based on the role he was playing, so he said, ‘Yeah. It’s great.’

The rest of the office was furnished with Scandinavian minimalism. King saw a desk that would have