Hunters Matt Rogers (best inspirational books .TXT) 📖

new bottle. ‘These are tens. Those were sixties.’

Alexis said, ‘Oh.’

Violetta grimaced.

Slater, despite everything, was relieved. It could have been a whole lot worse. If it was different medication that had been accidentally administered, the dose might have been fatal.

He undid his seatbelt and shifted his weight onto the centre console so he could reach out and take King by the shoulders. He shook the man once, then waited for the inevitable delay until King focused on him.

Slater cracked a smile. ‘Hey, buddy. You hear me?’

King nodded. His smile back was beyond groggy. And it was real, enhanced by the giddiness of a hundred and twenty milligrams of OxyContin.

Slater spoke loud, accentuating every syllable. ‘You’ve just got to ride this out, okay? You’ll be right as rain in a few hours.’

King slowly raised a thumbs-up gesture, the stupid smile still spread across his face.

Slater patted him on the shoulder, then slid back into the passenger seat.

He lowered his voice and muttered, ‘Why the fuck do you have sixties?’

Antônia’s face was a mixture of shame, guilt, and regret. She took a while to answer. ‘I, uh…’

Slater raised an eyebrow.

‘I might have a problem,’ she finished.

‘You think?’

‘He’ll be okay, right?’

‘He’s been through worse. In fact I’d wager he’s having the time of his life right now. I’m a tad jealous. But we’d better hope no one comes for us until it wears off, because now he’s useless.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Antônia mumbled, more to reassure herself. ‘We’ll be fine.’

‘Did you know?’

The cocktail of shame evaporated, turning instantly to anger. ‘What do you mean, did I know?’

‘You might have thought he needed a little more.’

He was deliberately probing, and he could tell from the visceral reaction she was telling the truth.

‘Fuck you,’ she spat.

Raw frustration.

‘Cool it,’ he said. ‘Just checking.’

‘It’s been a long day.’

‘That it has.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

Slater shook his head. ‘We’ve made worse mistakes lately.’

He thought of Alonzo, probably dragged from his office by muscled henchmen.

They made it to the northern tip of Santa Ana only a few minutes later.

Antônia parked outside a shabby grocery store.

Slater glanced out the fogged-up windshield. ‘This is your place?’

She let out a single, mocking, ‘Ha.’ Then, ‘You want me to park a pickup that’s already reported stolen out the front of the location we’re trying to keep a secret?’

Slater said, ‘Sorry I opened my mouth.’

They all got out.

This time, when Violetta and Alexis took King’s weight, they had to support all of it.

He was in another world.

67

Plenty of Salvadorans saw them hobbling down the sidewalks en route to Antônia’s walk-up building, but there was no way around that.

They stood out amongst the residents of Santa Ana — a beaten, battered quintet, several of them white — but as much as they drew attention, no one who lived here would talk to nosy Americans asking questions. If the hunters came here, they’d be met by a wall of silence.

In the aftermath of the storm the air was something physical, an invisible barrier that wormed its way into their lungs. Slater hadn’t experienced this level of humidity in some time. It was like a fist wrapped around his heart, making it beat harder and faster to compensate for the choking dampness.

Now he had Antônia’s Kalashnikov, and she had the MEU(SOC) pistol. Most of the bulky rifle could fit under his soaked jacket, whereas her tight-fitting clothing had no chance of concealing it. The barrel of the AK-47 still protruded from the hem of his jacket as he strode with it pressed to his side, but passersby were more focused on Violetta and Alexis helping King stumble down the sidewalk. Antônia had the MEU(SOC) concealed inside her tight windbreaker, one hand wrapped around its hilt and the other holding the jumper in place.

They came to the building positioned on an unpaved street opposite a stretch of trees, and Antônia ushered them inside.

Slater went first to clear it, and almost tripped on a body sprawled motionless just inside the entranceway.

He ripped the Kalashnikov out of his jacket and locked his aim onto the corpse.

From behind, Antônia laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

It brought him down from fight-or-flight mode, and he realised the guy wasn’t dead.

The unfortunate soul looked like he was in his sixties, which meant he was probably in his thirties. He was skin and bones, dressed in a tattered singlet and old shorts encrusted with mud. His feet were wrapped in cracked sandals, and most of his toenails were missing. His eyes lolled up into his head, exposing milky whites. He was half-curled in the foetal position, his posture designed to protect his most important possessions.

A half-finished Tic Tack rum bottle.

An opened plastic tube of glue.

And finally, a spoon caked in brown crack cocaine beside a lighter.

Slater grimaced and wrapped his jacket back over the AK-47 before anyone saw him with an automatic weapon.

In a low voice Antônia said, ‘He lives down the hall.’

Slater’s instinct was always to help, but some people were so far off the deep end it was hard to know where to start.

And this wasn’t the time.

He left the resident in his stupor and went to the stairwell, which was the only means of ascending. The shadowy space was damp. Water trickled down from far above. Each step was sodden and his boots squelched against the concrete.

Antônia led them up to the second floor and down an empty hallway to a front door with practically no paint left on it. She unlocked it with a single key, and ushered them in.

The apartment was tiny, claustrophobic, but to them it was a safe haven, its privacy near-angelic. The main space was a conjoined kitchen/living area, each section barely large enough to fit two people. A window faced the street outside and the trees beyond.

Antônia said, ‘Welcome home.’

Slater breathed out, took the AK-47 out of his jacket, and carried it to a cheap sitting chair in the cramped living room. He dropped into the chair, exhaustion flooding him. At the sight of relative safety,