Maybe because he’d spent a decade inching further along the spectrum of self-torture, increasing what his body was capable of tolerating, so that now what he classed as a “decent workout” was probably the equivalent of a civilian running a marathon with no training.

  Exhausted, he showered and changed back only minutes before there was a knock at the door.

  He let King in without checking.

  It wouldn’t be Violetta — not this soon — and he’d firmly warned Alexis to stay away from his building. He still planned to spend the night at her loft in the Bowery, but he’d make sure to get there discreetly, employing a lifetime of espionage training to make sure there wasn’t a soul alive that knew his location.

  As King entered, he said, ‘You’re making me paranoid. You know that?’

  Slater sipped from a gallon jug containing a mixture of chilled water and electrolyte powder. ‘Why?’

  ‘Suggesting that the government is going to force my hand. I spent half the walk back from the BJJ gym looking over my shoulder.’

  ‘I’m the one who should be paranoid,’ Slater said. ‘And I’m not. So cool it.’

  ‘Neither of us are addressing the elephant in the room.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You haven’t asked me what I’d do if they told me to choose.’

  ‘Because that’s your decision to make,’ Slater said. ‘Not mine.’

  ‘You seem indifferent.’

  Slater narrowed his eyes. ‘Really? One option leaves me fighting — and probably losing to — someone I considered a brother, and the other lets me escape to a new life with that brotherhood intact? You honestly think I’m indifferent?’

  ‘Nonplussed, then. You’re hiding it well.’

  ‘Compartmentalising. It’s what we’re best at.’

  ‘Why aren’t you trying to sway me?’

  ‘Because I respect you too much for that,’ Slater said. ‘You care about Violetta just like I care about Alexis. I’m not about to tear your life apart to save my own skin.’

  King didn’t respond. He sauntered over to the kitchen island and pulled out one of the stools. He sat, and drummed his fingers against the countertop.

  Slater said, ‘If it comes to it, just decide. I’ll deal with the fallout.’

  ‘What if they task me with neutralising you?’

  ‘You and I both know there’s not a chance in hell you’d do that.’

  He could see King pondering whether to bluff or not, simply to be hypothetical. But the man gave that up straight away. He knew Slater was right.

  Slater said, ‘That’s not even the biggest elephant in the room.’

  King raised an eyebrow.

  Slater said, ‘This will affect both of us if it goes that way. If they decide that I know too much to be allowed to run around out there in the big wide world on my own, then what does that mean for you?’

  King said, ‘But I don’t want out.’

  ‘You will. Eventually. You don’t want to do this until your body crumbles. Or your brain. That was never on the cards. There had to be an expiration date. Even if it was just to keep you sane.’

  King lapsed into silence.

  Slater said, ‘What are you going to do if I have to go rogue and you’re left here on your own? How long is it going to take you to start doubting everything?’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘There’s been an endgame scenario in both our heads this whole time. The knowledge that, if things get too intense, we can pull the plug and get out. We’re independent contractors, after all. So, what if you see me going rogue, and realise that quietly retiring was never an option? That’ll pull the rug out from under you.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  ‘I’m just asking you to think,’ Slater said. ‘It might affect who you’re likely to side with.’

  ‘I thought that’s what this was.’

  ‘I need to keep my own best interests in mind,’ Slater said. ‘But that doesn’t mean I want you to get fucked over in the process.’

  ‘What if I don’t want out?’ King said. ‘I mean, ever. You said yourself that you’re not going to stop helping people. I’m the same. It’s in our DNA. So why would I ever want to do it outside of this structure? Think about it. We have our country on our side. We’re given tasks that do the most overall good. We get compensated handsomely. It’s beneficial all round.’

  ‘But we’re not free,’ Slater said. ‘We always thought we were. And now Violetta is probably going to come back and say, “Sorry, no deal.” What then? You’re just going to be blissfully oblivious? You’re going to pretend you’re not trapped in a cage you can’t escape?’

  ‘It’s not a cage.’

  ‘Stockholm syndrome.’

  ‘Cut the shit,’ King said. ‘I—’

  Slater said, ‘Have you and Violetta ever spoken about who she works for?’

  ‘The upper—’

  ‘The upper echelon,’ Slater said. ‘I know. That’s what I was told too. But that tells us absolutely nothing. Has she ever elaborated?’

  ‘It’s off-limits,’ King said. ‘And it benefits no one for me to know. We talk about work. But not about that.’

  ‘You should have seen what she was like in here. She smiled the saddest smile when I said I wanted out. None of this is up to her.’

  King didn’t say a word.

  Slater said, ‘She’s trapped. Just as much as we are.’

  ‘This whole thing is overblown. In all likelihood she’ll come back here and give you the all-clear.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t?’

  King stood up. ‘Then we’ll talk.’

  He made for the door. Slater could see, below the always-calm exterior, the man was rattled. Because Slater had gone for the jugular, and King hadn’t masked the doubt with anger. He’d stayed calm, subdued, processing it instead of allowing himself to react immaturely.

  Which meant he was taking it seriously.

  Slater said, ‘Where are you going?’

  King froze with a palm on the door handle.

  He turned back.

  He said, ‘Now I need time alone.’

  Then he left.

  29

  Some time later, afternoon transitioned to dusk, and Slater flicked a handful of light switches the moment the sun dropped below the horizon.

  The last thing he wanted was to spend any time in the shadows.

  Not right now.

  Somewhat unnerved, he dialled Violetta.

  It rang, on and on and on. The faint ringtone emanating from the tiny phone speakers was the only sound in the penthouse.

  She didn’t pick up.

  He tried again.

  Same result.

  ‘Fuck this,’ he muttered.

  He snatched up a coat to combat the evening chill and left the apartment. The hallway was dead quiet, but that was to be expected. Soundproofing and competent insulation were the foundation of any expensive piece of Manhattan real estate. Paper-thin walls weren’t a problem. Hell, both he and King had fired unsuppressed gunshots at assailants on this very floor. They still passed other residents in the lobby without incident. There was no suspicion of illicit activity whatsoever, despite waging war two separate times since they’d moved in.

  He made it to the lobby and exchanged a passive nod with the concierge, a polite man in his forties named Sebastian. Slater had spoken to him a handful of times, but not for long. He still remembered the last concierge, caught in the crossfire when mercenaries targeted Slater and King during a city-wide blackout.

  Now he refrained from getting too close to any of the staff.

  The last thing he wanted was for his goodwill to cost them their lives.

  Which concerned him, the more he thought about it. He knew, deep down, that anyone he got close to was in danger. So if he truly cared about Alexis, then by extension he should cut her off.

  For her own good.

  But not even someone of Slater’s mental toughness could dip to that level of self-torture.

  He made a beeline for the Bowery, despite what was smart.

  No one’s perfect, after all.

  He traced the same route that he and King had followed on that fateful night months earlier, when the lights had gone out and they’d prevented the city being plunged into anarchy by a hair’s breadth. It still lingered in the back of his mind. It always would. Each past operation was the same. It existed as a fragmented memory, a cut-together rapid-fire blur of sight and sensation. Most of it violent. Most of it agonising.

  All of it unpleasant.

  He had memories like that everywhere. All across the globe. If location alone triggered the post-traumatic recollections, then he’d never be able to step foot outside his apartment. Thankfully, he could force it aside when he needed to. He could work on his harrowing past when he deemed it necessary — it didn’t roar into his prefrontal cortex at random, debilitating him on the spot.

  He knew there were many, many men and women who’d seen combat who weren’t so lucky.

  He took random lefts and rights throughout the trip, zigzagging down side alleys, loitering sporadically at random intervals, never adopting a pattern, never making things predictable. There wasn’t a chance a sentry trying to keep track of him could do so without being spotted. They’d get caught up in trying to guess his movements and eventually run into him. But no one did. He was confident there was no one following him.

  Evidently, Violetta and her superiors weren’t that paranoid yet.

  He made it to a familiar intersection in the Bowery, and saw the giant bank building across the street, still cordoned off with police tape. There was little commotion around it, but for a few weeks after the blackout it had been constantly swarmed by nosy civilians and rabid journalists alike. There’d been dozens of eyewitness reports of a brutal shootout on this very intersection.

  The NYPD realised the speculation wouldn’t fade on its own, and immediately issued a press release, claiming that a gang shootout exacerbated by the tension of the blackout had spilled out onto the streets. Several officers had fallen in the line of fire, and their heroism would be honoured with a state funeral.

  There’d been no mention of two vigilantes storming the building, tearing it apart from the inside, putting a stop to something far more sinister than anyone thought possible.

  Slater didn’t care.

  Being the subject of headlines would only make things a hundred times worse.

  Opposite the bank building was the same residential complex he’d sought refuge in on that fateful night. The complex where he’d met the woman he now loved.

  So was it fate? Did you need to suffer that night, to find someone you shared a connection with? Would your bond be as strong if you hadn’t met at such a turbulent time?

  He didn’t like to think about any of that.

  It went down dark, dead-end roads.

  There wasn’t much good in his world. When it came, he liked to make it uncomplicated, so he could appreciate it all the more.

  He entered the lobby of Alexis’ building, and this concierge recognised him too. He nodded to her, then strode fast and hard for the stairwell instead of the elevator. He stepped inside the cold concrete cylinder and moved to the side as soon as the door swung closed.

  There, he waited.

  For a truly unnecessary length of time.

  No one followed. No one came creeping in, not ten minutes after he entered, not fifteen, not twenty. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted, which was simple enough. Doing absolutely nothing was effortless. He’d emptied his mind before he stepped out of his penthouse, maximally focused on not getting tailed.

  When he stepped back into the lobby, it was empty save for a couple of residents. They didn’t throw a second glance his way.

  The concierge did.

  She said, ‘Forgot something?’

  He crossed to the elevators and stabbed the Up button with his thumb. ‘I was just getting some exercise in the stairwell. Missed my workout today.’

  She laughed, unsure whether he was serious, opting to interpret it as a joke regardless.

  Exactly what he wanted.

  He stepped into the elevator when it arrived and it whisked him upwards, leaving her awfully confused.

  30

  Alexis answered the door with her familiar smile, and Slater found himself spontaneously struck by insidious thoughts.

  Not toward her.

  Toward the rest of his life.

  She could tell. ‘What’s up? Do you have your answer?’

  Slater said, ‘No.’

  He stood there, thinking.

  She let him.

  Finally he said, ‘Do I need an answer?’

  She didn’t respond. She knew what he meant. She clearly didn’t like it.

  He kissed her and stepped into her loft. He’d grown to love her space — his own home was cold and empty in comparison. Here he appreciated the exposed wooden beams along the ceiling, the staggering array of greenery from a nearby nursery, the tastefully arranged furniture. It was all less expensive than the contents of his penthouse, but he’d come to learn that money didn’t mean a thing if you didn’t know what to do with it. The priciest furniture in the world was still ugly if your home didn’t feel like a home.

  Slater’s home felt like a training compound.

  Which wasn’t a bad thing, given his occupation. It was better to expunge feelings and hone your skills if your life depended on it.

  But he didn’t want that anymore.

  Alexis followed him inside and said, ‘What are you saying?’

  He turned to her. ‘I’m saying why am I waiting for permission?’

  ‘Aren’t there logistical problems?’ she said. ‘Don’t they control your fortune?’

  ‘No. I’ve always made sure my accounts are untraceable. I set it up that way when I was a vigilante, scattering my wealth through Grand Cayman. I didn’t hand over control when I came back to work for the government. I just gave them an account for one of my shell corporations, to deposit the money into. From there, I send the funds straight into the labyrinth. They might be able to trace it to one or two other entities, but never all of them. They’ll never be able to hit me where it hurts.’

  She processed this.

  He said, ‘So let’s go. Right now.’

  ‘Have you spoken to King?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve said your goodbyes?’

  Slater paused. ‘I’ll see him again. Eventually.’

  ‘Is that smart?’

  ‘It’s the way it has to be. He means too much to me. It’s hard to explain.’

  ‘I get it,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen combat, but… I get it.’

  ‘You can’t really explain the bond.’

  She nodded.

  Then she said, ‘They might be expecting you to run.’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s a chance they saw me leaving my building. But not arriving here. And I didn’t step out with a single possession. Not even a bag.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Clothes? Personal stuff?’

  He stared, unresponsive.

  She said, ‘You don’t have personal stuff, do you?’

  ‘I have you,’ he said. ‘That’s about the extent of my life outside of work.’

  ‘We need to work on that.’

  ‘We will. We have the chance, now.’

  A smile came over her, despite the circumstances. She stepped forward, closing the gap, killing the separation between them. He reached out for her, and pulled her in, and kissed her.

  When they parted, he said, ‘What do you say?’

  ‘If you were going to wait around for the answer, what do you think it would be?’

  ‘I don’t think they’re going to let me walk away.’

  ‘So no matter what, we need to run?’

  He took his time to nod. He didn’t want to admit the truth. But he nodded all the same, because he’d been taught to only deal with the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

  She said, ‘I’ll pack.’

  His heart thudded. Packing meant cutting off everything they had here in the city. It meant fleeing with new identities, new lives. It meant tipping their whole world on its head.

  And for Slater, perhaps most importantly it meant walking away from Jason King.

  She made for the bedroom, where the closet contained the suitcases she needed to fill with all her worldly possessions, and he stayed behind in the living room.

  He reached for his phone out of impulse.

  To find the contact King and dial.

  But when he pulled it out he stopped his thumb in its tracks, refusing to swipe across the screen and unlock it.

  He couldn’t half-commit.

  He couldn’t seesaw back and forth.

  Calling to say, ‘Sorry, I didn’t get to say goodbye.’

  Full measures only.

  It was the only way.

  So he inched his phone back toward his jeans.

  Then it rang.

  He looked at the screen.

  Violetta.

  His heart thudded again.

  Time to decide.

  He answered and lifted it to his ear and said, ‘Hey.’

  She didn’t talk for a beat.

  Long enough for him to ponder whether she was even on the other end of the line or not.

  But she was.

  She said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’

  31

  He didn’t skip a beat.

  Hesitation kills.