Sharks - Matt Rogers (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📗

hamstring, maybe severing an artery. He didn’t really care either way.

The Glock’s suppressor gave a vicious cough, loud enough to rattle the walk-up’s residents.

Then the first sentry panicked.

As soon as the first shot was fired he mirrored his buddy’s actions, diving for his weapon — another Ruger, same as Vince’s.

King hesitated.

Did he really want to kill these men? Did he know enough about them? Did they choose this life, or were they indoctrinated? Do they even know right from wrong?

Bad questions to ask yourself in a firefight.

So he stopped asking them and shot the second sentry in the throat as the man got a hand on his Ruger and brought it up.

He splayed back, spraying blood from his neck, and King turned to the last sentry just as—

A shot blared behind him.

He ducked and flinched and wheeled.

Saw his worst nightmare come to life.

Will Slater going down in a spray of blood.

Vince Ricci diving back into his own car.

King saw blistering, flaming red.

52

LaQuan was the de facto leader of the hit team.

He knew why. He wasn’t stupid. The only reason he’d worked hard labour jobs on Grand Bahama his whole life was because of lack of opportunity, not an empty skull. So when Dylan Walcott called him personally and explained that he had the location of the woman who’d killed Zidane, he didn’t let the fog of pure rage cloud his senses.

Well, that’s a lie.

He definitely did, but when the anger faded from a deafening roar to a dull buzz, he was able to think. He realised he was being used as a kamikaze, a suicide bomber, a sacrifice for the cause. His steam would be used as an effective first wave, to disorientate and confuse. To put them on the back foot. But even as he’d realised all of that, he’d also figured out he didn’t much care.

He’d do anything for a chance to get his hands on them.

Zidane, his coworker and closest friend, had never woken up. He’d died on that trail the night before, and LaQuan had sat there for hours in the dark, sobbing, unable to believe what had happened. All the bitch with the green eyes had done was hit him once to put him down, then kick him to put him out. But the human anatomy is notoriously unpredictable, and it seemed one of the two strikes had shut off some sort of vital blood flow to the brain and Zidane took his last ragged breath as LaQuan held him.

It had nearly given LaQuan an existential crisis.

He’d sat there, holding Zidane’s body, and for a fleeting moment he’d thought, This is what we do to other people.

This is what the families of the people we kill have to go through.

That train of thought didn’t last long.

It was drowned out by fury.

The morning after had been a daze of pain until Walcott called. LaQuan’s leg was bound with bandages where the bullet had gone in, but he hadn’t gone to the hospital. He knew he’d be needed before then. He knew nothing about infection, didn’t know the consequences of the bullet staying in his leg. Besides, rage was a powerful suppressant. He hadn’t lost the use of his leg, and that’s all that mattered.

LaQuan had never spoken to Walcott, so the incoming call jolted him out of the coma of grief.

He’d picked up. ‘Yessir?’

‘I heard what happened to your friend. My deepest condolences.’

‘Thank ya, sir. D’ya know who it was? I ain’t neva seen that bitch before.’

‘That’s why I’m calling. A car will pick you up in one hour. It will take you to a house, one of those rentals on Coral Beach. One of my companies owns it discreetly. Real expensive area. My sources tell me that two women are staying in that house. One of them killed your friend, but they’re both working together. I want you to make them suffer. I want you to make them pay for what they did.’

LaQuan’s soul had burned so hot and dark that he didn’t feel human anymore.

He’d said, ‘What am I allowed ta do ta them, bossman?’

‘Anything you want, LaQuan. Anything at all. Be creative.’

‘I...’

He’d trailed off.

Walcott had said, ‘What is it, LaQuan?’

‘I know ya keep ya cards close to ya chest, Mista Walcott. I know ya don’t like … whatsa word … spectacle. What I wanna do to dat girl … well, it might not make ya reputation look good.’

‘Mostly true, LaQuan. The word on the street is accurate, it seems. But every now and then the king of the jungle has to do something that reminds everyone why he’s at the top. I want you to be my messenger. Consider yourself lucky — it’s a great honour. Will you do this for me?’

‘Nothing I want more in the whole wide world, Mista Walcott.’

‘One hour.’

The hour had passed, and a black SUV with tinted windows had rolled up at his shack right on time. LaQuan had brought his knives and a Ruger LCRx .38 Special revolver that could fit in his pocket. It had been a gift from Eric, coincidentally enough. A reward from the top — from Walcott himself — for carrying out a couple of simple tasks for the organisation.

This task wouldn’t be so simple.

Blood would be spilled.

Lots of it.

Now he sat in the passenger seat, in a car full of operators. There were four of them — the driver, and three in the back. These boys were on a whole different level to a labourer who did crimes of opportunity on the side. LaQuan was objective enough to see that. They were white boys, decked out in combat gear — vests, khaki shirts and pants, earpieces, wraparound shades. They looked like serious business. LaQuan sat there in his dirty shirt and pants that he hadn’t washed in a few days, both items yellow with stained sweat. He knew he stank. He knew he was out of place, holding a tiny pocket pistol in comparison to the arsenal the operators were kitted