He knew what she was really asking.

  Did I agree to run away with a monster?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘But she deserves to be worried about it, at the very least.’

  Alexis nodded. She couldn’t hide her relief.

  Slater said, ‘Come on. It’s this building here.’

  He led her across the wide road to an orange brick building facing the park. It was three-storey, old-school, built like a motel with landings out the front of the apartments, all three walkways connected by thin metal staircases.

  There were no witnesses in sight as they sauntered up to the second level. Slater put his hands on the railing and looked out at the park, the bridge, and the skyline. The clouds had receded, and the sun was out, and the view was beautiful. Birds chirped in the trees. He savoured it, knowing full well he probably wouldn’t step outside for quite some time.

  She stood alongside him, doing the same.

  Subconsciously, she knew too.

  Then he turned to face room 204, fished the key out of the pot plant by the welcome mat (as per the Airbnb instructions), unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

  The modern equivalent of going dark.

  49

  King thought about waiting.

  It made sense for so many different reasons, the first of which was ordinary common sense.

  He’d been at their Emerald Bay compound for less than a half-day, and knew nothing about the layout of the house. He had a handful of rudimentary details about the operation itself. There was also much to gain by cosying up to Duke and his crew at dinner, and then the subsequent morning. Maybe they’d go for a surf at Laguna Beach, or play volleyball at the nets on Main Beach, or down a couple of pre-game beers at one of the hotel bars before the big job tomorrow night.

  But, really, all of that was unnecessary. Truth was, King had sized them all up, and despite his unpreparedness he wasn’t worried about going for it.

  There were bigger things on his mind than a ragtag gang of crooks who thought they were geniuses because they could launder their dirty money.

  Quinn led him through the open-plan kitchen and living room, and now that King didn’t have to focus on introducing himself to five different people he could take in the towering ceilings and stark white walls and columns scattered throughout. There’d been no corners cut on construction of the house — everything was expensive, and everything was high quality.

  King said, ‘You like it here?’

  Quinn looked over his shoulder. ‘Of course, bro.’

  King nodded. ‘Thought as much. I’d love to live in a place like this.’

  It subconsciously put him below Quinn on the dominance hierarchy. He wanted to appear like he was looking up to the crew, wondering how they were living such an incredible life, fantasising about one day maybe joining them. It said, I’m not as good as you, without explicitly stating it.

  It disarmed Quinn.

  He shrugged, almost sheepishly. ‘One day, man. Never say never.’

  They went down the big central hallway branching off from the kitchen, leading into a number of bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms. King knew this because some of the doors lay ajar, offering views of big rooms with unmade king-sized beds and messy clothes strewn across floors. It seemed all of Duke’s crew were similarly unruly, adding to the frat-house feel. He spotted a couple of surfboards propped against walls, a few wall-mounted TVs facing the beds, and state-of-the-art laptops and MacBooks thrown around the floors at random.

  Young, dumb and rich.

  That’s what they were.

  Then, en route to the communal bathroom at the end of the hall, King glanced into the last bedroom and spotted a sleek grey SIG Sauer P226 handgun resting on one corner of the mattress. There was no magazine inserted, but he saw a couple of full mags on the desk opposite the bed. He estimated that the gun and the ammunition were ten feet apart.

  He veered left and stepped into the room.

  Quinn said, ‘Whoa. What are you doing?’

  King pointed to the abstract hand-painted art piece mounted to the wall above the headboard. ‘That’s fucking awesome. Is that an original?’

  He took another step forward.

  Quinn was oblivious. He lingered in the doorway. ‘Yeah, man. Cal likes art.’

  ‘What’s that bit on the corner?’ King said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘On the corner of the piece. Right there.’

  He pointed.

  Quinn stepped into the room, squinting.

  King picked up the SIG and pivoted and thrust the barrel into Quinn’s trachea. The metal smashed against his windpipe and choked him up, and he doubled over, his face turning the same shade as a beetroot. Veins protruded from his forehead, and his hands flew to his throat, and by the time he’d recovered enough to eke out a cry of protest King had crossed to the desk and chambered a magazine of Parabellum rounds.

  He had the loaded gun aimed squarely at Quinn’s forehead before the guy could open his mouth and shout.

  Quinn froze, face paling.

  King kept his voice even, maintaining the exact same tone as before, so anyone within earshot would hear identical murmurings with no change in intensity.

  He said, ‘You ever had a gun aimed at you before, Quinn?’

  Quinn’s mouth said yes.

  His eyes said, Fuck no.

  King said, ‘You’re not ready to die.’

  Quinn tried to maintain a brave face. It was respectable. He gave it all he had. But his hands began to tremble involuntarily. Staying calm whilst staring death in the face is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do.

  King said, ‘Do you know how to get into Duke’s computer, or are you useless to me?’

  Quinn’s pupils flared as he spiked with adrenalin.

  He knew what being useless would mean.

  He said, ‘I’m—’

  ‘Voice down,’ King said.

  Quinn composed himself. ‘I’m the tech guy. Of course I have access. I’m the one who does all the dark web stuff through Tor browsers. Duke doesn’t have a clue. He delegates.’

  ‘Good,’ King said. ‘Then you’re useful. Congratulations.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Bring up the dialogue with Donati Group. I need to know which container you’re picking up.’

  ‘The computer’s in the den.’

  ‘Where’s the den?’

  ‘Back the way we came.’

  ‘Then that’s where we’re going,’ King said. ‘You’ll walk first. If you even think about alerting one of the others I’ll put two rounds through the back of your head. Pop pop. Got it?’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘You’re not going to fuck me over, are you?’

  ‘No,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Say it. I want to hear it from you.’

  ‘I’m not going to fuck you over.’

  King nodded. ‘Excellent. After you, then.’

  Quinn tried to relax his shaking hands, but couldn’t. Eventually he gave up, took a deep breath, and spun to leave Cal’s bedroom. King tucked the SIG under his shirt, then spotted something hanging on a desk chair in the corner of the room.

  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Wait right there.’

  Quinn froze.

  King said, ‘Don’t move. Don’t turn around.’

  He busied himself with the object. He was familiar with it, so it only took half a minute to achieve what he needed. When he was done, he said, ‘Okay. Go.’

  Quinn set off, and King maintained a respectable distance, only a couple of steps behind.

  Quinn stepped out.

  King followed.

  Cal was right there in their faces, a questioning look on his face.

  Like, What are you doing in my room?

  He looked at Quinn. Who was pale, and still shaking, and wide-eyed, despite his best efforts to mask it. Then Cal’s gaze switched to King.

  Who had a distinct bulge at the front of his shirt, with one hand underneath it, too.

  Cal knew what his own gun looked like.

  And he was a lean, wiry ball of aggression.

  He didn’t shout for help. He didn’t turn and run.

  He lunged forward with venom in his eyes.

  50

  King sized up trajectories and angles.

  His brain became a supercomputer, calculating a precise algorithm.

  And it found a solution.

  Cal came in fast and determined, his chin raised and his right arm in the process of cocking back to deliver a colossal hook to King’s jaw. An observer would have seen only a flash of rapid violent movement, but King saw every muscular twitch, every intention in the kid’s eyes, every inch of his footwork. It wasn’t slow motion, per se — just a fundamental understanding of how the human body operated in motion. It allowed him to predict where Cal was going to be a second from now, and therefore avoid it, setting up an elbow of his own.

  It broke Cal’s face.

  The kid didn’t cry or gasp or yell — he couldn’t. Pain like that is so overwhelming you can’t do anything but silently collapse. He hit the tiles on his stomach, and his chest and face followed suit, aggravating all the injuries King had just created. King dropped to one knee, right beside Cal’s head, and grabbed his skull with an open palm — like cradling a bowling ball — and drove it downward.

  Bounced it right off the tiles.

  Putting him out cold.

  He didn’t bother with restraints. The moment he’d picked up the SIG he’d created an invisible countdown timer, inching steadily down to an inevitable explosion. There was no way to cover this up, so the key was rapid movement. The sooner he extracted the information he needed, the sooner he could get the hell out of here before he had to deal with four more angry criminals.

  King stood up over the unconscious body and saw Quinn staring, slack-jawed.

  The man had never seen anything like that.

  Never seen anyone move like that.

  ‘What have I got myself into?’ he bemoaned.

  Cal looked dead, but King knew he wasn’t. The man would wake up in a couple of minutes with an unstoppable headache and fuzzy short-term memory. He’d sit there on the tiles, feeling cold and confused for a few minutes more, before stumbling back to Duke and the rest of the crew. He might throw up. They’d think he’d fainted. On the off chance he remembered exactly what had happened to him, he’d still have trouble forming coherent sentences for at least half an hour. It’d take an impressive effort on Duke’s part to get the necessary information in time.

  So King forgot about him, and turned back to Quinn, and said, ‘The den. Now.’

  Quinn didn’t need further prompting. He’d just witnessed this volatile madman break his friend’s face by using his elbow as a whip. He led King straight down the hallway and into a sizeable den, complete with an iMac Pro desktop set up on a huge oak desk facing the driveway and courtyard. King looked down through the big windows at the jeep, the Maybach, and the Rolls Royce Phantom. Three tiers of wealth, all of which were affordable to Ryan Duke.

  He gave the rest of the room a quick once-over. Beside a broad bookshelf covering one wall was a whiteboard with various indecipherable business dealings scrawled across it. King recognised at least one word — a formula written on the top left of the board.

  Donati = 1R.

  Payment instructions, maybe.

  King grabbed Quinn by the back of the collar and dumped him down in the desk chair. ‘Work your magic.’

  Quinn nodded, still trembling.

  ‘I’m watching closely,’ King said. ‘You do anything you’re not supposed to, and…’

  He took the SIG out and rested the barrel against the back of Quinn’s head.

  The trembling got worse.

  Quinn tapped in the password. He navigated to an internet browser application that King didn’t recognise, but figured was something related to the dark web. What had Duke mentioned before? Tor browser?

  Quinn dived into a complicated web of folders that King guessed were uploaded to a cloud buried in the deep web, so they could be accessed from anywhere with total privacy. He found a subfolder labelled Donati and opened it up. It contained a single file.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s what you need.’

  King hunched forward and scrutinised the information.

  From what he could gather, the payload in question was a refrigerated container (a typical twenty-foot TEU) connected to one of eighteen hundred plugs at the Pier 400 Container Terminal. That terminal rested between berths 401 and 406 in the port. The plug served to keep the container at a certain temperature in storage until it was collected.

  It had already arrived. It was scheduled for collection tomorrow evening.

  King didn’t want to wait that long.

  He memorised the plug number and the details of the Pier 400 Container Terminal, and then said, ‘Okay — thanks for that.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Now I have a talk to you and your friends.’

  ‘A talk?’

  ‘If I’m going to be honest, I’m a little pressed for time. This isn’t how I wanted this to go. I need to deter the lot of you from a life of crime. Ready?’

  Quinn’s hands shook.

  ‘Come on,’ King said. ‘Get up.’

  Quinn stayed where he was.

  King said, ‘Up.’

  Quinn got up.

  King grabbed him, spun him around, and jammed the barrel into the small of his back. He led him like that across the den, and told Quinn to open the door, slowly and carefully.

  Quinn opened the door, slowly and carefully.

  He froze in place.

  King poised behind him, calculating.

  A voice said, ‘Jesus Christ, Quinn. You see what happened here? Cal fuckin’ fainted…’

  Quinn stayed where he was, his frame filling the doorway, blocking King’s line of sight. King could hear the man flapping his lips, unsure how to respond.

  ‘Quinn?’ the other voice said.

  Harmless. Non-threatening.

  King recognised his cue.

  He shoved past Quinn, keeping the SIG behind his back. Vince was there, crouched over Cal. Cal was semi-conscious, his eyes glassy and unfocused, no threat whatsoever. His skin was still pale and clammy. The elbow and subsequent impact with the floor had mangled his nose beyond recognition. Vince was cradling Cal’s head in his hands, propping him up, his own face wracked with confusion and shock.

  King widened his eyes in mock surprise. ‘That’s gnarly.’

  Vince barely even looked at King. He kept his eyes down, focused on Cal. ‘I know, man. I just found him here like this. What—’

  King stepped forward and punted Vince square in the jaw.

  51

  It was a clean connection.

  Lights out.

  Vince flailed back, spread-eagling across the tiles like a starfish, his face now in a similar condition to Cal’s.

  King wheeled to face Quinn, bringing the SIG up to make sure he didn’t get any rebellious ideas. ‘For a bunch of traffickers, you’re all terrible at being cautious.’

  Quinn didn’t answer. He gulped. There’d been hope before. Sure, King had neutralised Cal without blinking, but everyone gets lucky occasionally.

  Now, King had casually smashed Vince’s face in with a well-placed boot.

  Things weren’t looking too hot.

  King grabbed Quinn by the collar again and threw him in the direction of the open-plan area. Quinn stumbled out into the kitchen, heading for the floor-to-ceiling windows and second-storey balcony opposite.

  Aaron and Kurt were furthest away, holding half-finished Coronas, seated on bar stools, confused as to Quinn’s behaviour.

  Duke was closer.

  Standing on this side of the kitchen island. One palm on the countertop. The other empty. His eyes cunning, calculating. He’d figured it all out in a heartbeat. Saw Quinn stumble into view, pale and sweaty and wide-eyed, and knew what was happening before King followed a second later.

  When King stepped into view with his SIG raised, Duke looked like he’d been expecting it.

  ‘You fucking idiot, Quinn,’ Duke said, more disappointed than fearful.

  King hesitated.

  Quinn said, ‘I’m sorry. He got the jump on me.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean,’ Duke said. ‘Watch this.’

  He jerked hard in King’s direction.

  Moved like a whip.

  King reacted instinctively to the sudden threat. Turned and lined up his aim and pumped the trigger once without a shred of hesitation or remorse. That was the way it had to go, especially in this world. Anything else would get you killed.

  But nothing happened.

  The trigger clicked uselessly.

  The confusion took milliseconds to recover from, milliseconds King didn’t have. Because his only chance was to make a last-ditch, leaping lunge of his own. He didn’t commit to it, opting instead to beat down the three remaining men with his bare hands, but he didn’t get the chance.

  Duke smacked the big coffee machine aside with an open palm and snatched up the identical SIG Sauer P226 resting behind it.

  Loaded with a full magazine, already cocked.

  No obstacles between Duke’s finger and the trigger.

  He had that weapon aimed between King’s eyes before King could blink.

  King lowered his own useless gun.

  Now his pulse rose.

  Duke’s bright eyes flared, and he flashed a glance at Quinn. ‘You don’t remember what Cal did to his gun?’

  ‘Oh,’ Quinn said, taking a step back, away from King. ‘You’re right. I am a fucking idiot.’

  ‘When am I wrong?’

  King glanced down at the SIG in his palm. ‘Fingerprint sensitive?’

  Duke nodded. ‘Cal’s a little bit mechanic, a little bit electrical engineer. And a whole lot bored.’

  Aaron and Kurt shot to their feet, as if on a live-action tape delay. They’d seemingly just figured out that Duke had regained control of the situation. Aaron kept his cool, but Kurt grinned broadly, spreading his big lips in a lurid smile. He towered over everyone.