‘Why would he send a group of fresh faces instead of coming himself?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  Silence.

  Then Violetta nodded. ‘He doesn’t have to be here. He’s a man of efficiency.’

  ‘This is all going to come down to confidence,’ King said. ‘Just act like you belong.’

  He got a pair of nods in return.

  They both knew the drill.

  They weren’t novices in this realm.

  One slip-up, one misplaced word, and they’d pay for it with their lives. It was the risk they took on each and every outing. The fact that they did it voluntarily was nothing to scoff at.

  King mounted the narrow trail running to the compound’s entrance and let the truck’s big headlights illuminate the gate in stark detail. A pair of perimeter guards — cartel thugs, through and through — made straight for the tractor unit as it slowed.

  King wound down the driver’s window as one of them — a thirty-something man with intense blue eyes and a shaved head — leapt up onto the exterior step.

  King nodded a wordless greeting.

  The sicario took out a revolver and stuck the barrel in his face.

  78

  Slater wheeled Beckham through a communal space with bookshelves and a cluster of chairs that could be arranged in circles or rows depending on the nature of the group activity.

  He reached the corridor leading to the entrance lobby, and pulled the wheelchair back in its trajectory at the last second. The desperate move kept Beckham out of sight by inches, both of them pressed to the wall beside the big archway.

  He’d heard unfamiliar voices.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ the receptionist was saying. ‘I had no idea…’

  A deep male voice said, ’It’s not your fault. Which way did he go?’

  ‘To visit one of our residents. Jonathan Powell. Oh, God, don’t tell me he was here to hurt—’

  ‘We don’t know, ma’am. We’ll find out what happened. He’s still in there?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since. So, yes, he’s probably still…’

  She trailed off as her voice was drowned out by rapid, heavy footsteps. Slater soaked it all in as the footfalls grew louder, rapidly approaching their position, seconds away from bursting out into the communal space and—

  Slater iced his veins. These men, whether government employees or not, had come to execute an innocent man with no ability to defend himself. They were lower than scum.

  He kept that in mind.

  There was a rudimentary attempt on their part to sweep the communal space, but they were too hasty. Everything they’d heard from the receptionist indicated they could catch Slater off-guard in room 52. They weren’t really expecting him to be lying in wait, so they barrelled into the open too fast, barely taking the time to scan the space with their weapons.

  Slater didn’t know how many there were — he just burst into motion.

  Shot the first man to step into view through the side of the head, showering the opposite wall of the archway with brain matter, and then lashed out and kicked his body to the floor to make room for a follow-up shot. Which went through the face of the second man, knocking him back into the third as the life sapped from his limbs. It gave Slater a half-second to assess features — there were five of them in total, all clad in nondescript mercenary gear, sporting bulletproof vests and thick combat boots and black pants and black shirts. Nothing affiliated to any division of the U.S. government, but being used by them all the same. Maybe active operatives with no morality, called in for an important black op, told to carry out orders with no questions or protests.

  The fact that they were here, obeying their masters without a moment’s hesitation, said it all.

  Slater fired a three-round burst into the face and throat of the third man — the guy who’d caught his dead partner in his arms. Both of them — now lifeless corpses — toppled, exposing the final pair in mid-lunge.

  Not lunging for Slater.

  Smart.

  They dived behind columns on either side of the hallway before Slater could finish them off. Sensing a bad position, he fired a handful of rounds to give himself covering fire as he ducked back out of sight. He sensed Beckham right behind him, silently terrified, hoping like hell this was all a bad dream.

  A quick calculation on Slater’s part revealed the Glock was out.

  He ejected the empty magazine out the bottom of the handle and reached back instinctively for a fresh one.

  His fingers grasped at air.

  His blood ran cold and nervous sweat leached from his pores.

  He patted himself down, all around the waist.

  The utility belt he used to store spare magazines had been ripped from his waist, probably when he’d crushed himself into Beckham’s doorway to avoid getting nicked by the syringe. Where it had fallen, or how he’d missed it, was entirely lost on him. Adrenaline was a crazy bitch of a drug, and not even a seasoned practitioner like Slater could overcome the occasional mishap. Putting himself into situations like this — volatile, highly reactionary, often tactically improvised — meant it came with the territory.

  He maintained a crouch, staring at his feet, running through a dozen different options.

  Then he heard murmurs round the corner, drifting down the corridor.

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘I don’t fuckin’ know. You check.’

  Slater ran through hypotheticals. These men were more than likely tier-one, but they wouldn’t have a clue who Slater was. The five here and the two who’d led the charge would have all been summoned simultaneously to the disability centre. Seven total operatives for an assignment that should have taken one guy at the very maximum. Kill a cripple? How much manpower did that really require?

  So maybe, just maybe, the pair up the back might have disregarded arming themselves to the teeth.

  The five in the lead could get the job done, right?

  Slater chanced a look, peeking round the corner.

  He caught them halfway through the act. They’d both stepped out from cover in unison, and they were running for the bodies littered across the carpet beside Slater.

  The bodies that had dropped guns.

  Slater stepped into view, bent down, and snatched up one of the dead men’s Berettas. He got there seconds before the two men did, which might as well have been years in their world. He checked the weapon was ready to fire and then aimed it at the unarmed duo, freezing them in their tracks.

  One guy said, ‘Cool it. Let’s talk.’

  Slater kept the barrel trained on the dead space between them, ready to flick the gun to either party and fire at a moment’s notice.

  Then he sidestepped so he could reach out and grab the armrest of Beckham’s wheelchair and pull the whole thing out from behind cover.

  So Beckham could see the pair.

  Slater said to them, ‘Here he is. The guy you came to murder.’

  They stared at Beckham, unable to mask the guilt. They were seasoned combatants who’d probably seen war, which meant they’d learned to compartmentalise just as Slater had, but they weren’t incapable of shame.

  This was their failure, laid out before them.

  What was supposed to be a discreet assassination. In and out fast. No witnesses. No judgment.

  Now, not only was an enemy combatant judging them, but so was the target in question.

  They looked at their feet, one by one.

  As if it wouldn’t exist if they didn’t look.

  Own your choices.

  Slater shot them once each through the tops of their heads.

  He got behind the wheelchair and pushed it through the scene of slaughter, navigating the bodies. He found the receptionist bolt upright in her swivel chair, on the verge of passing out from terror.

  He locked eyes with her.

  She screamed.

  He waited for her to finish.

  She sat there, practically catatonic.

  He said, ‘Nothing I say will make you understand. But know I’m the only person keeping this man alive.’

  He gestured to Beckham, and then wheeled him straight out of the Hooper Quadriplegic Centre.

  Leaving seven dead men in his wake.

  79

  King stared down the chamber of the snubnose revolver.

  It was a Colt Detective Special, short and fat and guaranteed to blow his brain to pieces at this range. An ineffective weapon for combat, as all old-school revolvers were, but good for making a statement. Which the owner was currently doing.

  King said, ‘That’s not very nice.’

  Violetta sat rigid beside him.

  Banks didn’t say a word.

  The thug pierced them all with his baby blue eyes, which settled on Violetta. He said, ‘Hello, mamacita.’

  King said, ‘Don’t talk to her like that.’

  ‘I talk to her how I want, ese. You came here.’

  ‘This is where we were told to come.’

  ‘Were you? Cause I don’t recognise a single fucking one of you.’

  ‘I’m Liam Kingsley,’ King said. ‘Duke would have sent my file over. I’m new.’

  The blue eyes pierced him, now. A glimmer of recognition passed over the man’s face. ‘Maybe you right. Maybe I do know you. But these two...’

  He shook the Colt at Violetta and Banks.

  King could have ripped it right out of his hands, pistol-whipped him in the face with it, then turned it on him and put one through his temple. It might have taken him two seconds, tops.

  But he didn’t.

  He sat still, tense and ready for anything, forcing an aura of calm.

  It was critical.

  They needed to get inside before they started a war.

  Before anyone could respond, all of them noticed headlights far behind them — first the trio in the cabin saw them in the side mirrors, and then the gate guard caught them in his peripheral vision and turned to look.

  It was a civilian vehicle, not a truck — long and low to the ground — and it was making a beeline for the compound.

  An old-school muscle car.

  Maybe a Dodge.

  Hard to tell in the darkness.

  King said, ‘Expecting company?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ the guard said. ‘A private client. Here for one of the girls in particular. He’s right on time.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘We’ve dealt with him before. He has … a certain arrangement with the boss man.’

  ‘Right,’ King said. ‘Doesn’t make a difference to me. Where do you want the container?’

  ‘Inside,’ the guard said. ‘But I’ll need your weapons first.’

  ‘That’s not happening,’ King said.

  ‘Pinche gringo. Excuse me?’

  ‘This isn’t charity. We’re not beneath you. We have cargo in the back that you want your hands on. So it’s a two-way street. Treat us with respect, and that’s how we’ll treat you.’

  ‘There are sixteen of us here,’ the guard said. ‘We can take it by force.’

  ‘Maybe. But we’ll kill at least a few of you. And yes, I know how this works — you’ve got a reputation to uphold. It’s worth losing a few men to avoid looking weak. In your world weakness is death. But you’ll also lose access to the supply we consistently provide, and that won’t make upper management happy.’

  The guard bristled on the elevated step, looking King right in the eyes, waiting for him to back down.

  King didn’t.

  Then the guard started truly considering it.

  King said, ‘I’ll do many things, but I won’t hand over my weapon. I respect myself too much to submit to you. But if you let us through, you have my word there’ll be no problems. We’ll get the container out of the trailer, you’ll pay us, and we’ll be on our way. Simple as that.’

  The guard said nothing.

  King said, ‘Or we go the other way.’

  For dramatic effect, he placed his hand on the grip of his weapon.

  The guard leered.

  He was enjoying this.

  He clearly respected confidence.

  ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ’But I don’t know about letting all three of you in. I only know you, Liam Kingsley.’

  Violetta leant forward. ‘Honey, if you ever want to do business with Ryan Duke again, you’ll let his woman in. And Josh here is his right-hand man. You think he’s going to tolerate any bullshit you try to put us through?’

  The guard stared at her for a long beat.

  Then he drifted the Colt slowly over to aim at her face.

  But the Dodge pulled up behind the truck, and the muscle car’s engine rumbled in the night, and the guard became aware that he was keeping an important client waiting.

  He winked, blew her a kiss, and leapt down off the step.

  King breathed out.

  The guard signalled, and two men on the perimeter wall ducked into a booth atop the parapet. A moment later, the gates inched open, accompanied by a mechanical whir.

  King drove through.

  The Dodge followed, stalking its prey.

  King thought he made out a silhouette behind the wheel in the side mirror, but it might have been a figment of his imagination.

  The tractor unit crossed the threshold and a couple of seconds later the entire truck entered the compound.

  Swallowed whole.

  80

  The night drenched Slater as he wheeled Beckham across the road.

  Everything was still.

  Ordinary suburbia.

  A world away from the bloodbath he’d caused back there. He felt nothing toward what he’d done. No one had died who hadn’t fully deserved it. Some residents might have been startled by the racket, but that was necessary collateral.

  Now, Slater pushed the wheelchair faster and faster toward the dormant Hyundai across the street. It was too dark to see inside. His stomach had knotted long ago, and he wouldn’t dare relax until he knew—

  The passenger door flung outward, and Alexis stepped out, Glock in hand.

  The knot loosened.

  Slater masked a sigh of relief.

  ‘Girlfriend?’ Beckham said when they were still halfway across the street. He made sure to keep his voice low.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  He wheeled Beckham right up to the rear passenger door.

  Alexis rounded the hood to greet them.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hello,’ Beckham said.

  ‘I wish we could have all met under different circumstances,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re doing okay.’

  Beckham craned his neck to look up at Slater, then back to Alexis. ‘Do you know what your boyfriend did back there?’

  Alexis met Slater’s gaze, and nodded slowly before turning back to Beckham. ‘I saw seven men go in. You two came out. I think I can figure that out for myself.’

  ‘Are you military?’ Beckham asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just a civilian like me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Beckham shook his head, still pale, still in a state of shock. He would be for quite some time. The memories of what he’d seen would live with him forever. But it was a whole lot more preferable than being incapable of memory, buried in an early grave.

  Beckham said, ‘This is madness.’

  ‘Welcome to my life,’ Slater said.

  He and Alexis got to work helping the man out of his wheelchair, lifting him gently up and placing him in the back seat. They strapped him in, draping the seatbelt over his frail torso. He nodded his thanks, but it was half-hearted. He was distant. Detached.

  Slater said, ‘Relax. You don’t have to be cordial. You’re allowed to think I’m a monster.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that stick with you? If everyone thought that.’

  ‘I don’t care what people think.’

  Slater folded up the modified wheelchair and manhandled it into the two rear seats Beckham wasn’t occupying. There was no space in the trunk of the i30. Then he got behind the wheel and swivelled to make sure Beckham was settled in okay.

  They locked eyes.

  Beckham said, ‘I don’t think you’re a monster.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t care.’

  ‘Maybe I do,’ Slater said. ‘Just a little bit.’

  ‘You just saved my life, but everyone’s going to think you murdered seven loyal patriotic troops and kidnapped a cripple.’

  ‘People believe what they’re led to believe,’ Slater said. ‘Sometimes doing the right thing is messy. As long as the people in this car, and a certain few outside of it, know who I really am … that’s all that matters.’

  After that Beckham went quiet, and they drove for close to an hour in silence, barreling as far away from Stratford Hills as they could feasibly get. Separating themselves from a messy crime scene that would undoubtedly make national, if not international, headlines. After such a prolonged quiet, Slater figured Beckham was in the midst of an adrenaline dump, and might even be fast asleep back there. But when he angled the rear view mirror to check on the man, he found him wide awake, meeting Slater’s gaze with an unblinking stare.

  Slater said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What happened between Violetta and I was messy,’ he said. ‘How couldn’t it have been? But maybe you’re right. Maybe she was doing the right thing all along.’

  Slater nodded.

  When he shot a glance at Alexis, he was surprised to find her staring at him with a tear in her eye.

  Probably remembering what had happened earlier that morning.

  Sometimes doing the right thing is messy.

  She reached out and gripped his thigh with her hand.

  Gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  Maybe it would all be okay.

  81

  The house in the centre of the compound was long and low and enormous, built ranch-style.

  It sprawled out across the space, surrounded by a couple of outbuildings — each of them probably home to bunks for the extra manpower. To the right there was a big garage with the roller doors up, home to a number of off-road vehicles and more traditional SUVs. Four mean-looking guys with Hermès caps atop their heads milled around out the front of the garage. A couple of them had AK-47s hanging off slings over their shoulders, and the other two had clearly visible semi-automatic pistols in holsters on the belts of their jeans. All four weapons were on full display.