Ghosts - Matt Rogers (warren buffett book recommendations .TXT) 📗

add to your problems, or let us out of here and focus on cleaning up your own mess.’

Gates bristled.

Then, after what seemed an eternity, he started to cackle.

He turned to each of his henchmen in question, as if saying, Are you hearing this shit? and then lowered the Glock.

He looked at Slater and said, ‘I like you. You’re loco.’

‘We’re restless,’ King said. ‘Now what are we doing here?’

‘This,’ Gates said, stepped forward and struck him full in the face with an open palm.

The smack reverberated. The office was so small it bounced off the walls.

Slater’s insides froze.

He knew, if he was on the receiving end, he wouldn’t have been able to control himself.

Then again, King had always been able to do what Slater never could.

King sat still, his gaze steel, but he didn’t react. His cheek was already red from the handprint, the skin swelling.

Gates turned to Slater.

In his own head, Slater screamed, Calm!

Gates hit him even harder.

An absolute thunderclap, all Gates’ wiry muscle and lanky wingspan translating to a mean unforgiving swing. Slater’s skull rattled and the noise boomed in his head and pain exploded on one side of his face.

Slater sat there.

He took it.

It was harder than he’d ever thought.

Gates said, ‘Just in case you two forgot who the king of the jungle was. Now get out of my establishment and never show your faces in this city again.’

There was no reason for the outburst. Gates seemed to believe them, which meant he knew they had nothing to do with the war he’d found himself embroiled in. But he’d tried to assert dominance anyway, just for the sake of it.

Definitely cocaine, Slater thought.

From first-hand experience, he knew how reckless it made you.

You understand the consequences of your actions.

You just don’t care.

Gates said, ‘Won’t do it yourself? Fine.’

He signalled to his henchmen, who hauled the hostages to their feet and dragged them back down the corridor to the rear of the building. They threw them out the door, letting them tumble down the short flight of concrete steps to the garbage-strewn laneway. Slater landed in a heap, and felt King come down beside him. The thugs loomed over them, sneering, then turned and slammed the door shut, sealing them out.

Slater made sure to pant for breath and look forlorn as he picked himself up, dusted his dirty suit off, and moped back to the BMW.

King went to the Bentley in the garage with equal misery.

As soon as they both got behind the respective wheels, their faces hardened to stone.

They drove away in a two-car convoy.

27

Alexis didn’t go straight home.

She knew she’d be a burden to Violetta if she tagged along, but it didn’t feel right to call it a day just yet. She drove away from Ward’s squad car and doubled back along Tropicana Avenue, hesitant to leave the city centre. What if her phone shrieked? What if someone pushed their panic button?

What? she scolded herself. What could you possibly do for them?

The answer was “nothing.” She knew it. Maybe eventually she’d gain confidence through consistent repeated training, but right now she was green. As green as you could get, and monumentally out of place amidst a trio of seasoned operators.

Patience, she told herself. All in due time.

She parked in the lot of a fast food restaurant facing Tropicana Avenue and settled back, watching the traffic pass by. All these people, their worries superficial, their lives relatively simple. Part of her missed it. Most of her didn’t.

Then she saw something out of place.

Ward’s LVMPD car, racing past her position, lights flashing. He was behind the wheel, hunched over it, staring hard out the windshield.

Searching for someone.

Me?

Yes.

There’s something he forgot to tell me.

Before she knew it she was reversing hard out of the parking spot, veering back onto Tropicana Avenue, gunning it after the squad car. She shot past vehicles obeying the speed limit, one after another, until Ward’s rear bumper was right in front of her.

She leant on the horn, one long continuous beep.

He noticed her right behind him.

Signalled to the left.

She pulled to the shoulder, slowing horizontally across a long row of empty parking bays outside a pawn shop. She figured he would stop in front of her, get out, deliver the additional information, and peel away. But he continued a hundred feet ahead to the mouth of a side street weaving between two rows of shops. She didn’t think anything of it. She was parked illegally, after all, and it’d be wise to get off Tropicana Avenue so they could properly pull over. She put the Toyota back into gear, looped out of the bays and turned left into the side street.

She should have thought twice.

He was already out of the squad car, his expression strange. She pulled up behind him and rolled her window down. Call it foolishness, call it whatever you’d like. She didn’t call it anything, because the human brain is a strange thing. She literally didn’t have time to consider it. Operatives like King and Slater and Violetta know how to keep a cool head under pressure, and make decisions in milliseconds. Common folk like her … well, it’s like a deer in headlights.

She saw him striding for her car, and in the half-second of time she had to contemplate what he was doing, she thought, I hope this is nothing.

Because his service weapon was in its holster at his waist.

She thought about reaching into her pocket, just in case—

Suddenly he was there.

A foot from the sill.

‘Hands where I can see them, please, Alexis,’ he said.

She paused. ‘Why?’

‘Just want to make sure you don’t try anything stupid.’

‘Why would I try something stupid?’

‘Word gets around this town quick.’

She looked up at him.

She didn’t ask for answers, because he knew damn well he hadn’t provided any. He didn’t need reminding.

She said, ‘What is this?’

He looked sorry.

As if that meant anything.

He looked all around for witnesses, then took the gun out of its holster and fed it through the open window frame, touching the barrel