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Ciphers

The King & Slater Series Book Three

Matt Rogers

Copyright © 2019 by Matt Rogers

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Onur Aksoy.

www.onegraphica.com

Contents

Reader’s Group

Facebook Page

Books by Matt Rogers

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Announcement

Afterword

Books by Matt Rogers

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About the Author

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Books by Matt Rogers

THE JASON KING SERIES

Isolated (Book 1)

Imprisoned (Book 2)

Reloaded (Book 3)

Betrayed (Book 4)

Corrupted (Book 5)

Hunted (Book 6)

THE JASON KING FILES

Cartel (Book 1)

Warrior (Book 2)

Savages (Book 3)

THE WILL SLATER SERIES

Wolf (Book 1)

Lion (Book 2)

Bear (Book 3)

Lynx (Book 4)

Bull (Book 5)

Hawk (Book 6)

THE KING & SLATER SERIES

Weapons (Book 1)

Contracts (Book 2)

Ciphers (Book 3)

BLACK FORCE SHORTS

The Victor (Book 1)

The Chimera (Book 2)

The Tribe (Book 3)

The Hidden (Book 4)

The Coast (Book 5)

The Storm (Book 6)

The Wicked (Book 7)

The King (Book 8)

The Joker (Book 9)

The Ruins (Book 10)

1

The man had known nothing but pain for the last six months, but alcohol has the universal ability to dull even the most harrowed minds.

He was well and truly drunk.

Self-medication, in his eyes.

He wasn’t sure where he was, or where he was headed. He had a general idea, but specifics eluded him. New York City, like most places, becomes a blur at a certain level of inebriation. All he could see were buildings and lights and sidewalks and traffic and rain and the steady incessant flow of pedestrians heading home, or out to their favourite bars and restaurants. He blended into the stream, getting washed downriver along with the rest of the population. He gazed up at the structures on either side of the street — skyscrapers spearing into the heavens.

As he upturned his face he felt the cool sensation of droplets splashing over his lips and cheeks and forehead.

He smiled.

This was the life.

In the grip of the buzz.

When he was sober he had to think, and there were few pleasant memories to dwell on. Not for the last half-year, anyway. Particularly not for the last month. He gazed down at his attire and the smile turned sad. Truth was, if he could wipe his memory, he might be happy. He was dressed in a tailored Armani suit and an expensive overcoat. There was a Hermés cap on his head. He was in decent shape, although that was rapidly eroding under the bombardment of booze. He had some acceptable material possessions and a good head on his shoulders and a reasonable level of intelligence. He could dress up and take himself seriously and get a job. The market was tough, more competitive than ever, but he didn’t doubt he could snatch some low-hanging fruit and work his way up from there.

But what’s the point of that?

You’re only happy if you’re progressing. Thirty years on this planet and he’d figured out that much. There was nothing satisfying about staying in one place for very long. Maybe if you became a hippie and sold all your possessions and moved to a shack in the middle of nowhere and took psychedelics all day long and meditated until your eyes became permanently fixed in the wrong direction… maybe that would give you enough peace of mind to live out the rest of your days doing absolutely nothing.

But he’d never been partial to any of that shit.

No, he liked thrills. He liked money. He liked power.

The more, the better.

And now he had none of those things.

You can’t stop the spiral until it’s too late. He hadn’t even realised he’d been aiming downward until it all smacked him in the face when it came crashing down around him. He’d had it all. And now he didn’t. That was reason enough to drink.

He’d lost everything.

His position.

His lifestyle.

His family.

Didn’t take long for him to find the ability to suppress it in the bottom of a bottle.

There were businessmen and businesswomen all around him, dressed just as nicely as he was, but they were doing okay. They had places to go. They had things to do. They had people to see.

He had nothing.

Not even a destination.

So he kept walking. Somewhat aimlessly, but he figured he was subconsciously heading for the less desirable parts of the city. Away from the hustle and bustle. Under a darkening sky he aimed for the shadows and the housing commissions and the decrepit side of life. He didn’t know why. He’d been walking for at least an hour, but the drink still had him in its soothing grip. There was sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. He crossed Third Avenue Bridge and stared down into the rippling water.

Then he was in the Bronx.

As if he’d teleported.

Passersby eyed his coat. They absorbed the scent of money. He didn’t have much of it anymore, but the past clung to him like a mocking shadow. Reminding him, Remember what you used to be.

He stumbled through Mott Haven, passing an endless series of public housing projects. Residents clad in drab dollar-store clothes sucked on cigarettes and stared him down. But no one made the move. He almost wished they did, yet not for the reasons one might assume. He wasn’t Batman. He couldn’t beat criminals to a pulp

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