Monsters Matt Rogers (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📖

hard to the left, away from his aim. He pulled the trigger once instinctively, the noise like a detonation in her eardrums, but before he could pivot and fire again she was behind Heidi, one arm around the woman’s neck, hunching to minimise her profile. She aimed the Grach over Heidi’s shoulder, directly at Petr, who locked his own aim back onto the sliver of Alexis’ face that was visible.

The report of the solitary gunshot died away, replaced by a ringing tinnitus.

Alexis said, ‘I assume if you shoot her you don’t get paid.’

Petr still seemed confident he could hit his target. ‘I’ll take that risk.’

‘Will you?’

He let out a low growl of frustration. Then raised an eyebrow and made eye contact with Heidi, who was frozen in Alexis’ choke hold. ‘Help me out, darling.’

Heidi whipped her head back, trying to break Alexis’ nose with the back of her skull.

Alexis saw it coming a mile away but she was focused on too many things at once. She tried to keep her aim on Petr, but by doing so she lost concentration on her forearm around Heidi’s throat. By some miracle, the tiny woman slipped free, and in her desperation Heidi reached for the gun at her waistband, a gun she clearly had little clue how to use. Alexis missed that because she was trying to shoot Petr. She squeezed two shots off but he wasn’t there anymore, had already turned and sprinted away into shadow, powering into the darkness with freakish athleticism. He was gone before she could even figure out whether she’d hit him or not and she wheeled her aim back to find Heidi already aiming a compact SIG P365 at her.

They both took stock of what had happened and neither pulled the trigger.

Again, it’d get them both killed.

Alexis’ nerves were shot, frayed by so many close calls, and Petr was gone.

Again.

She nearly swore in frustration.

He could be out there in the shadows, though, aiming at her head, so she gently circled Heidi in front of her, putting her own back to the lip of the slope.

Another standoff.

64

King closed the gap on Frankie after they crossed the San Mateo Bridge.

Hayward’s suburbia swallowed them and the streets narrowed as their surroundings became residential. King leant on the accelerator, getting closer to Frankie’s taillights. Frankie was driving fast, well over the speed limit, but he wasn’t being insanely reckless. He wasn’t running red lights or missing other cars by inches. He wouldn’t know he was being tailed. He was a thuggish gangster, not a competent soldier, and any nuance or subtlety would be lost on him, especially in this state. It seemed Heidi had summoned him to the San Lorenzo Creek with urgency.

So she’d suspected foul play.

There were too many moving pieces. King hadn’t a clue who was allied with who, whether Slater was even alive, what kind of state Danny was in. He looked across at the young man and saw the whole side of his head stained red, but looking past that he didn’t seem too badly hurt. He must’ve smeared the blood all over his cheek and forehead trying to stop his ear bleeding.

Danny noticed King’s concerned look and said, ‘I just…don’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’ King said, eyes on the road again, ripping a right turn to follow Frankie into San Lorenzo.

‘What are you even doing this for? Like, who’d Frankie make an enemy of? Who’s paying you?’

‘No one’s paying us.’

‘Then…?’

‘One day you’ll get it. Maybe.’

Danny lapsed into a quiet that seemed horrified. After a beat he said, ‘Do you think I would’ve done it? Do you think I would’ve killed someone?’

‘Only you can answer that.’

Danny nodded. Turned his face toward the window, probably so King didn’t see him crying.

King stared ahead and felt his core tighten. ‘You can deal with emotions later. We’re here.’

Danny faced forward in time to see Frankie hit the brakes at the end of a desolate dead-end street in an industrial zone. The red brake lights flared, lit up the gloom. King hovered at the mouth of the street, held his foot gently on his own brake. Ready to accelerate at the slightest hint of hostility. He’d killed his headlights, but Frankie had to know he’d been followed by now…

The driver’s door flew open, and King braced himself to duck if he saw anything resembling gunmetal.

A body flew out the door, its silhouette moving like oil across the street. From King’s viewpoint it was only a flash of movement, but it bled into the shadows and disappeared.

Frankie, running for his life.

Yeah, King thought. He knows.

He stamped on the accelerator, and the car shot down the dead-end street. King kept his eyes peeled for any sign of movement in the dark, but he saw nothing. Danny sat tense as steel beside him, wordless. He kept tight pressure on his missing earlobe. Blacktop flashed by under the hood.

Frankie had only been out of his car for maybe ten seconds, and its engine was still running.

Then, as King closed in on the tail lights, Frankie came sprinting back out of the gloom.

Caught by surprise, King touched the brakes, skidded his own car to a halt maybe thirty feet from the rear bumper. He wanted an optimal position for a shootout. But the silhouette kept running, straight back to the open driver’s door. King couldn’t figure out what the hell Frankie was trying to do…

…until he realised it wasn’t Frankie.

The shape was broader, stockier, its movement more laboured. Like a huffing, puffing cube instead of the oil that King had likened Frankie’s frame to.

It dove behind the wheel of Frankie’s car and slammed the door, shutting the interior lights off, but they stayed illuminated just long enough for King to make out features through the rear windshield, meeting the man’s eyes in the rear view mirror.

Slavic features.

Had to be Petr.

What are the odds?

He didn’t have time to consider the odds because Petr’s eyes widened as he saw King in the mirror. They didn’t know each other, hadn’t