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

in Nevada had come calling, and they’d explained that as the older brothers they were the men of the family, and the men of the family had to provide. If they didn’t come and work for them, they’d be killed. Slowly and painfully. To set an example for the rest of the Guatemalans in Vegas.

But Calle 18 was amateur hour compared to this operation. It was foolproof, everything timed to perfection to prevent any thought of escaping. No sloppiness, no hedonism, nothing like the handful of times Fabian had met his brother’s fellow gang members in shoddy tenement buildings, pumping music and drinking and drugging.

So if it was a rival gang, then they were just as airtight, and it wouldn’t be in their best interests to let a pair of teenage witnesses live to tell the tale.

Fabian’s hands shook as he listened.

Then the building exploded.

Well, that’s what he first thought, and he dove for his mattress as the walls rumbled and the earth shook and a hideous noise blasted his eardrums. He landed on the thin foam on his stomach and pressed his face into the pillow and put his hands over his ears.

Seconds later, when he realised he was still alive, he rolled over.

Omar hadn’t moved. The small boy was cowering on his own mattress, eyes wide in terror, staring at the closed door like it could answer all their questions.

A serious weight slammed against the door.

It rattled in its frame.

Omar screamed.

Fabian heard the sounds of struggling, of fists being thrown, of bodies clashing.

Then a couple of clearly audible strikes, then silence, followed by muffled English he couldn’t understand.

A thought struck him.

The door had rattled hard.

Maybe…?

He got to his feet.

Omar hissed, ‘What are you doing?’

‘Shut up.’

He tiptoed over and tried the handle.

It was unlocked.

74

Slater aimed for the open doorway, but the Tank was massive, and the ram bumper caught a couple of feet of the walls on either side.

Supports groaned and metal screeched and plasterboard broke like thunderclaps.

The truck came to rest half inside the building, half out. It gave Slater an unobstructed view of the internal corridor, spilling away in either direction. He didn’t rush to throw a door open. He stayed put behind the bulletproof glass and surveyed the scene.

No one downstairs, unless they’d managed to hide in connecting offices within the half-second they’d heard the Rezvani gunning for the wall.

Unlikely.

Smooth and controlled, he buzzed the driver’s window down a crack and shouted, ‘Clear,’ into the night.

King burst into the hallway, having leapfrogged the rubble and debris littered around the Tank. There was a couple of feet of space on either side, allowing him easy access to the complex. He swept every corner and shadow with his SIG, finding nothing.

Until he did.

Slater spotted the hint of a shadow in the doorway of a connecting room and thought, What the hell?

He shouted, ‘Left!’

King would have got the jump on the guy on his own, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He spun, carrying the barrel’s trajectory with his pivot, and intercepted a guy in tactical military getup brandishing a semi-automatic pistol of his own. King put two shots into him, reached out with an open palm and shoved his face backward, toppling him over in the doorway.

A second shape appeared, leaping over the first, and crash-tackled King. They fell back into a door set into the opposite wall, rattling it in place.

Then they rebounded off.

A pair made more sense. Two mercenaries slacking on the job, aware of the fact they’d been defending the complex from non-existent invasions for the better part of a year, maybe more. Probably playing cards in an empty office when they should have been out patrolling the perimeter. A simple mistake, but an understandable one.

It meant King and Slater hadn’t cleaned them up in the first wave.

It gave them the slightest advantage.

King spilled to the ground with the guy, who was almost as big as he was. They were clawing for control of the SIG. With the Tank’s headlights pressed into the far wall it was dark and chaotic as they jerked and writhed around in the halo of rubble. The Tank’s windows were tinted — Slater couldn’t see much other than two spasming silhouettes.

The rest of the adrenaline hit him.

He got a tight grip on his own SIG and heaved the driver’s door open. The Tank was between him and King, obstructing his view, ruining any aim he could get from inside the car.

He leapt down.

Landed on a twisted chunk of rubble and the tape around his ankle tore at the same time that the joint popped.

He didn’t make a sound, but his world lit on fire.

He went down uncontrollably, but he followed it through. King was more important than a broken ankle and the associated agony. He landed on his stomach, flattening prone on the rubble, and it offered him a perfect line of sight underneath the truck. The Tank’s body was jacked up on modified suspension, so there was more than enough room for a clear shot.

Slater lined up his aim.

Took a deep breath.

Then watched King smack an open palm into the bridge of the attacker’s nose from the bottom, sending his head snapping back like it was on tracks. The guy spilled off him and King scrambled on top, dropped a staggering elbow that resonated through the hallway, then collected his weapon from the rubble and shot the man once in the head.

Slater said, ‘Shit.’

King looked over, underneath the truck. ‘You good?’

‘No.’

‘Ankle?’

‘Yeah.’

King looked around, eyes wide with energy. He said, ‘Stay there. Prop yourself up in case Bowman comes back. I’ll go get Elsa.’

‘You need me.’

King looked under the truck at Slater, stretched out on his side, a hideous wince on his face.

‘Not like that I don’t,’ King said.

Slater relented and gave a nod. ‘Don’t be long. We’re running out the clock.’

King counted out loud. ‘Two here. Five out there. Four sent out to North Racetrack Road.’

Slater nodded again.

King said, ‘What’d Kerr say? Roughly a dozen?’

‘Roughly.’

‘Then