Outlaws Matt Rogers (book recommendations .txt) 📖

He said, ‘I don’t know if you realised this, but I don’t plan my life very far in advance.’

‘You do, though,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen what you put your body and mind through. I’ve glimpsed your training. It’s regimented. It’s disciplined. That takes planning.’

‘But that’s all preparation,’ he said. ‘I never know what I’m preparing for. I just know the value of preparing.’

She nodded.

He said, ‘When we get to Richmond, you might not like what happens.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I might have to become someone you haven’t seen before,’ he said. ‘If the place is protected. If Beckham’s not already dead.’

‘I know what you do.’

‘But you haven’t seen it,’ he said. ‘Not in person. It’s different.’

She kissed him. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘I hope so.’

Any words after that were meaningless, and they both knew it. They held hands and Slater pulled his hood up to disguise his features, and they set off for what the web told them was the closest rental car spot. A smiling staff member took his fake identification without a moment’s suspicion, and thirty minutes and three signatures later they sat in a blue Hyundai i30 that reeked of air freshener.

Slater gripped the wheel and ran his hands over the material. He savoured the moment of stillness. One might think he was hesitant to put the car into gear, hesitant to take the first step. Hesitant to barrel toward a confrontation with the government he’d worked for a week ago.

At least, that’s how Alexis interpreted it.

She said, ‘We don’t have to do this.’

He said, ‘Yes, we do.’

He set the GPS for Richmond, Virginia.

A five and a half hour drive.

They’d reach the Hooper Quadriplegic Centre late in the afternoon. That left all night for a siege, if it was necessary. Slater figured he had one night at the very least. It would take time to determine that Violetta was not a hostage, that she was simultaneously missing and utilising government resources. They’d piece it together eventually, but that didn’t mean their first knee-jerk response would be to execute Beckham.

Or maybe that was all bullshit, and right now they were planning to neutralise him.

He got rid of the stillness, put the Hyundai into “Drive,” and accelerated toward Virginia.

71

Eight hours later…

Joshua Banks had no idea what he was doing in California.

He’d been pulled straight from a hostage rescue drill and shipped out here to watch a goddamn civilian mansion for an unspecified length of time. The lack of information threatened to drive him mental. As an assaulter in Blue Squadron of DEVGRU, he was a world above this bullshit. This was a stakeout, and there was no room in his world for a stakeout.

He’d been briefed on the potential existence of a unicorn — black-ops assaulter Jason King, an enigma in the shadow world who’d maybe gone rogue — but from what little intelligence he’d pored over, it hadn’t been hard to determine that King was nowhere to be seen.

There was a flabby-looking thirty-something guy with a receding hairline who came and went at random, and the most notable part of the whole endeavour was the guy coming back an hour ago at the wheel of a tractor-trailer truck. Then the gates had sealed him in, and now Banks was waiting again.

He’d follow the truck when it left again — that was no problem.

The problem was the futility of this entire job.

He didn’t like being alone either.

His superiors had preached the benefits to him, of course — discretion, ability to blend in with other civilians, the fact that a lone wolf was far more unsuspecting than an entire squadron, especially in a laidback coastal town like Emerald Bay. He’d nodded and nodded and nodded, but now he was here — clad in a ghillie suit, buried in the undergrowth and shrubbery across the street from the mansion’s walled perimeter. He was as much a part of the landscape as the bushes around him, and his skillset was worthless. There was nothing worth watching — even if the tractor-trailer truck contained dark secrets, that was not the responsibility of a DEVGRU member to handle.

Banks was about ready to make a call highlighting the ridiculousness of the operation when someone lay down in the dirt right beside him.

Whoever it was, they’d approached without making the slightest hint of noise. Banks’ resting heart rate was in the forties, and despite being disgruntled he’d still been approaching the task with all the professionalism it required — meaning unflappable situational awareness. He’d been attuned to every discrepancy, every whisper of hostility, so whoever was now alongside him had trumped the tactical skillset of a Blue Squadron member.

Not feasible.

Banks rolled, dropping the night-vision optics, reaching for the knife strapped to his chest, favouring it over the Beretta at his waist.

The man who’d dropped to the ground beside him caught his knife hand and pinned it to his chest.

The assailant’s grip was rigid steel.

To keep Banks from retaliating took inhuman strength. The silhouette had it.

The man said, ‘Relax. Let’s talk.’

Banks didn’t say a word. The moment the hold on his wrist relaxed, he’d wrench his hand free, pull his combat knife and shove it through the guy’s face, just for having the nerve to approach like this.

Then a sliver of moonlight struck the silhouette’s face, illuminating important features.

Banks recognised him. ‘They warned me about you.’

‘You know who I am?’

‘Jason King.’

‘Then you know we’re on the same team.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Not based on the intel,’ King said. ‘I meant based on the fact you’re not dead.’

‘So I’m supposed to side with you?’ Banks said. ‘A rogue operative? All because you didn’t put a bullet in me.’

‘No,’ King said. ‘I don’t want your undying allegiance. Just your help tonight.’

Banks said, ‘Think logically, brother. I have my orders. Orders aren’t something I can pick and choose at random. If I want this gig, I execute them. What do you think my orders are regarding you?’

‘To shoot me on sight, I’m sure.’

‘So let’s not kid ourselves,’ Banks said.