Hunters - Matt Rogers (good novels to read TXT) 📗

slowed by old age. On that day you’ll both give it up for good without a second thought. And then … well, we can enjoy the fruits of our labours, can’t we?’

Slater listened to the spiel without reaction. When Violetta finished she focused on him. ‘What is it?’

He said, ‘If I wanted to enjoy the fruits of my labours I would have kept the four hundred million dollars I stole in Macau.’

She said, ‘We still have this house, still have over three and a half million in the bank. We’re nowhere near poor.’

‘You’re missing the point.’

‘And that is?’

‘Being in the fight,’ Slater said. ‘That’s my reward. Not what comes after it. The actual job itself — that’s the fruit, and the labour. Which makes me a lucky man. I get to do what I love and it’s what makes most people sick.’

‘You’re addicted to the adrenaline?’

‘You know I’m not.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘It’s what I was put on this earth to do.’

He didn’t elaborate. Those words said everything.

Violetta looked to Alexis, expecting to see hesitation, or doubt, or disapproval. Instead Violetta saw pride. Alexis was still feeling the effects of multiple drinks, so her feelings were uninhibited. She was practically beaming at Slater.

Alexis turned her attention to Violetta. ‘What?’

‘Didn’t think you’d approve of that.’

‘You think I’d still be with him if I didn’t approve of what he does?’

Violetta nodded, retreating from the debate, conceding.

Slater said, ‘You’re changing.’

Violetta cocked her head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Soon you’ll be a mother. You don’t want this life for your kid. You’re subconsciously gagging when you reflect on what we’ve done over the last few months. It’s understandable.’

Her instincts told her to argue, but it only took a moment of consideration to realise he was right.

She said, ‘Maybe I am.’

King kissed her on the top of the head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that.’

Slater said, ‘It would be strange if you weren’t feeling that way.’

She looped her arms around King’s waist, resting her temple against his chest.

Then she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

She fished it out.

Alonzo Romero — their point of contact in the clandestine world of government black-ops.

Looming over her, King stared down at the phone screen. ‘What does he want? He’s never the one to call first.’

Violetta said, ‘I don’t know.’

Suddenly there was a chill in the air. The big house felt awfully empty. The ceiling stretched out high overhead, cathedral-esque in its vastness. Not even King’s warmth could steady her racing pulse. She couldn’t figure out why, then she realised Alonzo was her subconscious connection to her old life, her old role as black-ops handler.

That was a cold, sterile, ruthless world with no room for sentimentality.

It was no world for a new mother.

She answered, but her voice was timid. ‘Hey, Alonzo.’

His voice in turn was loud, sharp, and urgent. ‘They know where you are.’

‘What?’

‘I just saw your address on a call transcription.’

‘A call? Between…?’

The kitchen window facing the front of the estate exploded into shards.

That’s what they sensed first, and they jolted.

Then came the report of the bullet that cracked the pane, blasting through the evening quiet, accompanied by the sound of glass shattering.

A flashbang grenade flew in through the window frame.

16

King moved first.

The specifics of what was happening didn’t matter. Not who, or why. The only important thing was preservation — first Violetta and the baby inside her, then Slater and Alexis, then himself last. As soon as the window exploded he sprinted toward the sound, following his learned instincts instead of his primal ones. His primal ones shouted, Threat! Run!, but the decades of military conditioning calmly instructed, Retaliate.

Within half a second he was off the mark, rounding the kitchen island at a sprint, which put him in the right place at the right time when the flash grenade came flying in.

Or the wrong place at the wrong time, depending on your perspective.

Whoever had thrown the grenade had done so with serious power. It came in like a baseball, fast and hard instead of slow and looping, and its trajectory had it on a collision course with the surface of the kitchen island.

King had two choices.

Dive away, shield his eyes and ears. He and Slater could react to danger in the blink of an eye, so they’d probably make it, but Alexis and Violetta wouldn’t. They’d take the full force of the blast to their faces, maybe blinding or deafening them permanently.

The other choice was to stop in his tracks.

He skidded to a halt.

The flashbang bounced on the hard countertop and spun away at an awkward angle. King snatched it out of the air, drew his arm back, and hurled it like a professional pitcher.

Straight back out the window.

The whole sequence had taken a hair longer than a second.

Window break, grenade in, bounce, catch, throw.

If he’d hesitated for even a moment, it would have gone off in his hand.

Probably fatal.

Those are the risks you take.

King squeezed his eyes shut as he threw and used the momentum of the pitcher’s swing to twist away, turning his back to the window. The grenade went off milliseconds after it passed through the window frame, like a supernova in the subdued gated community. The noise was horrid, the flash even worse. King had his palms clamped to his ears and his eyelids squeezed so tight you couldn’t pry them open if you tried, but he was still knocked to the floor by the concussive blast. He landed on his chest, rolled to his side and levered back to his feet, a headache already splitting to life.

But he was conscious, and superficial discomfort didn’t mean a damn thing.

He assessed the situation. Slater was on his feet. He’d grabbed Alexis, twisted away, shielded her with his own body, then covered his ears and closed his eyes. He was unfazed, further away from the blast than King. Alexis hadn’t covered her ears. She was blinking hard, working her jaw, temporarily deaf.

Violetta.

Our child.

She was nowhere to be seen. He sprinted round the kitchen island and found her