Ciphers
The King & Slater Series Book Three
Matt Rogers
Copyright © 2019 by Matt Rogers
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Onur Aksoy.
www.onegraphica.com
Contents
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Books by Matt Rogers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Announcement
Afterword
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Books by Matt Rogers
THE JASON KING SERIES
Isolated (Book 1)
Imprisoned (Book 2)
Reloaded (Book 3)
Betrayed (Book 4)
Corrupted (Book 5)
Hunted (Book 6)
THE JASON KING FILES
Cartel (Book 1)
Warrior (Book 2)
Savages (Book 3)
THE WILL SLATER SERIES
Wolf (Book 1)
Lion (Book 2)
Bear (Book 3)
Lynx (Book 4)
Bull (Book 5)
Hawk (Book 6)
THE KING & SLATER SERIES
Weapons (Book 1)
Contracts (Book 2)
Ciphers (Book 3)
BLACK FORCE SHORTS
The Victor (Book 1)
The Chimera (Book 2)
The Tribe (Book 3)
The Hidden (Book 4)
The Coast (Book 5)
The Storm (Book 6)
The Wicked (Book 7)
The King (Book 8)
The Joker (Book 9)
The Ruins (Book 10)
1
The man had known nothing but pain for the last six months, but alcohol has the universal ability to dull even the most harrowed minds.
He was well and truly drunk.
Self-medication, in his eyes.
He wasn’t sure where he was, or where he was headed. He had a general idea, but specifics eluded him. New York City, like most places, becomes a blur at a certain level of inebriation. All he could see were buildings and lights and sidewalks and traffic and rain and the steady incessant flow of pedestrians heading home, or out to their favourite bars and restaurants. He blended into the stream, getting washed downriver along with the rest of the population. He gazed up at the structures on either side of the street — skyscrapers spearing into the heavens.
As he upturned his face he felt the cool sensation of droplets splashing over his lips and cheeks and forehead.
He smiled.
This was the life.
In the grip of the buzz.
When he was sober he had to think, and there were few pleasant memories to dwell on. Not for the last half-year, anyway. Particularly not for the last month. He gazed down at his attire and the smile turned sad. Truth was, if he could wipe his memory, he might be happy. He was dressed in a tailored Armani suit and an expensive overcoat. There was a Hermés cap on his head. He was in decent shape, although that was rapidly eroding under the bombardment of booze. He had some acceptable material possessions and a good head on his shoulders and a reasonable level of intelligence. He could dress up and take himself seriously and get a job. The market was tough, more competitive than ever, but he didn’t doubt he could snatch some low-hanging fruit and work his way up from there.
But what’s the point of that?
You’re only happy if you’re progressing. Thirty years on this planet and he’d figured out that much. There was nothing satisfying about staying in one place for very long. Maybe if you became a hippie and sold all your possessions and moved to a shack in the middle of nowhere and took psychedelics all day long and meditated until your eyes became permanently fixed in the wrong direction… maybe that would give you enough peace of mind to live out the rest of your days doing absolutely nothing.
But he’d never been partial to any of that shit.
No, he liked thrills. He liked money. He liked power.
The more, the better.
And now he had none of those things.
You can’t stop the spiral until it’s too late. He hadn’t even realised he’d been aiming downward until it all smacked him in the face when it came crashing down around him. He’d had it all. And now he didn’t. That was reason enough to drink.
He’d lost everything.
His position.
His lifestyle.
His family.
Didn’t take long for him to find the ability to suppress it in the bottom of a bottle.
There were businessmen and businesswomen all around him, dressed just as nicely as he was, but they were doing okay. They had places to go. They had things to do. They had people to see.
He had nothing.
Not even a destination.
So he kept walking. Somewhat aimlessly, but he figured he was subconsciously heading for the less desirable parts of the city. Away from the hustle and bustle. Under a darkening sky he aimed for the shadows and the housing commissions and the decrepit side of lif
e. He didn’t know why. He’d been walking for at least an hour, but the drink still had him in its soothing grip. There was sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. He crossed Third Avenue Bridge and stared down into the rippling water.
Then he was in the Bronx.
As if he’d teleported.
Passersby eyed his coat. They absorbed the scent of money. He didn’t have much of it anymore, but the past clung to him like a mocking shadow. Reminding him, Remember what you used to be.
He stumbled through Mott Haven, passing an endless series of public housing projects. Residents clad in drab dollar-store clothes sucked on cigarettes and stared him down. But no one made the move. He almost wished they did, yet not for the reasons one might assume. He wasn’t Batman. He couldn’t beat criminals to a pulp with one hand tied behind his back. In the past there’d been a never-ending stream of hangers-on willing to do anything for the right price, and he’d always paid handsomely for them to take care of his problems. They weren’t around anymore. The resources and access to henchmen had vanished along with the money.
No, his desire was a little different.
He wanted to be hit, to be slapped or punched in the face or cut or beaten, just to feel something. Something visceral. Something real. He didn’t have the balls to approach any of the gangbangers himself, so he continued up through the Bronx in this state of limbo, wondering who might be the first to try to steal his twenty-thousand dollar coat.
Then, in the drink-addled haze, he spotted a familiar face.
He pulled to a halt. He was beside Patterson Houses, a collection of fifteen public housing buildings home to a couple thousand apartments. The maze of russet structures dwarfed him, and he remembered how many of the men that had worked for him in the past had come from this development. Of course, he’d never ventured into these parts before. He used to live on the Upper East Side — a notably nicer environment. They always came to him.
Because they were desperate, and because he had what they needed.
Not anymore.
Now he was staring across the street, watching a man in a cheap canvas jacket hustle north under the weak glow of the streetlights. The yellow hue didn’t provide the best illumination, but the man in the expensive coat knew exactly who he was looking at.
He’d always remember the shaved head, the wide eyes, the hollow cheekbones, the pale clammy complexion.
Built like a walking skeleton.
He waited a few seconds until the guy hurried out of sight, then followed him into the shadows.
They headed further north up Third Avenue, leaving Patterson Houses behind. Then they turned right on East 146th Street, and a moment later the skeleton ducked into a narrow alleyway behind a disused warehouse with dirty brick walls. He stopped at a big metal side door without a handle and eased it open. As soon as he disappeared inside, the man in the expensive coat strode fast into the alley and caught the door at the end of its trajectory. He followed the guy inside, and gently eased the door closed.
When he turned around, there was a gun in his face.
It hadn’t felt real, until it was. He’d followed in a drunken stupor, barely registering what was happening until it all unfolded. He knew how unstable the kid was. That had always been at the forefront of his mind. He just hadn’t understood the consequences until they were staring him in the face.
He said, ‘Hey, Samuel.’
‘Hey,’ the kid said.
‘What are you doing around here?’
Samuel’s wide eyes stared back, unblinking. ‘Not much.’
‘Didn’t think you’d still be around.’
‘I didn’t run away like the rest of them.’
‘What is this place?’
Samuel looked over one shoulder. The man in the coat followed his gaze. The warehouse had been split in two by a plasterboard partition, leaving this cavernous space up the back disused. There was a thick layer of dust on the floor, and a couple of broken pieces of machinery tucked into the corner, and an old rusting forklift in the centre of the room.
Samuel said, ‘I’m here to kill them.’
‘Who?’
Samuel pointed.
Then the man in the coat saw them. They were tied up, a man and a woman, gagged with packing tape and bound at the wrists and ankles with nylon rope. The bindings were chained to the forklift. A single weak bulb shone far over all their heads, barely illuminating the space. It flickered every couple of seconds. The prisoners fell in and out of shadow.
The man said, ‘Who are they?’
Samuel said, ‘I picked them off the street.’
‘Why?’
‘For the thrill.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you here to stop me?’
The man looked at the handgun pointed squarely at his own face.
He said, ‘No, Samuel. I’m not.’
‘Good.’
Samuel put the gun down. Walked over to a folding table along the nearest wall and unsheathed a knife. It was a thing of beauty. About eleven inches long, with a serrated steel blade. He tested its weight, then shot an enquiring look at the newcomer.
The man in the coat took a step backward.
Showing he had no intention of interfering.
The prisoners were awake, and crying. Muffled grunts resonated from between their gagged lips. The woman was blonde, maybe thirty, with a paunchy build and a plain acne-ridden face. The guy was skinny, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and oversized pants and sneakers. He had male pattern baldness and bloodshot eyes. They were both sweaty and rancid and terrified.
Both junkies.
Especially if they were snatched off the street around these parts.
Samuel walked up to them robotically. There was no emotion in his eyes. The blade in his hand was impossibly sharp, and he proved it by taking it in a tight grip and shoving it through the top of the guy’s skull, right up to the hilt. The man’s eyes rolled back and his legs spasmed and he went limp. Then Samuel wrenched the blade out and repeated the gesture with the woman.
There was only a few seconds between the two actions. Only a few seconds for the girl to process the death of her boyfriend, and what was about to happen to her.
That was a small mercy, at least.
Samuel left the knife embedded in the top of her head. He used the guy’s hoodie to wipe the blood off his hands, then turned and gave a satisfied sigh.
The man in the coat watched, unfazed.
Samuel said, ‘Thank you. I’d been waiting all day for that. Now, why are you here?’
‘I saw you. On the street.’
‘So?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Everyone left town. Bailed on us.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Why don’t we rally up who’s still around? Put the old crew back together.’
Samuel smiled.
Under the weak light in the warehouse, his face seemed more gaunt than ever. Skin stretched tight over a skull, revealing every bone.
The man in the expensive coat smiled, too.
To the future, he thought.
2
Six weeks later…
Jason King said, ‘Hold on. I need to puke.’
He doubled over and perspiration showered off his face and neck, dotting the white towels laid neatly on the floor of his penthouse.
He was in the living room, beside an unrivalled view of Central Park. Manhattan swept out before him in all its regality. New York was a city of potential, a collection of men and women striving to climb. Maybe that’s what had brought him here for good. He’d spent most of his life on the road, and a permanent dwelling was a fresh concept, just as m
uch for himself as it was for Will Slater. But now they were side-by-side in a pair of penthouses that cost more than a big-shot CEO hoped to make over his entire working career, and he found himself strangely reluctant to pack up and leave.
That bug had plagued him for decades, but New York had quashed it. He appreciated that it was a city of harsh truths — make it, or go home.
He and Slater had made it a thousand times over, but they would never abandon the climb.
It wasn’t about the money.
It was about the pursuit of betterment.
A man stood across from him, practically the same size, the same build. Like looking in a mirror. They were both six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds, give or take, but Rory Barker was at least twenty years older. Which made it all the more impressive that he’d maintained such a fearsome physique so far into his retirement. He was the premier mixed-martial-arts trainer in the country, able to blend the most effective disciplines into a ferocious skillset. A former K-1 kickboxing champion with a professional record for the ages, Rory regularly charged thousands of dollars for mere hours of his time. He was brought into the training camps of professional MMA fighters at pivotal moments, whereupon he would dissect the competition and tell the coaches exactly what they needed to do to lay down a surgical beating on their fighter’s opponent. And then he was gone, off to another gym to provide the same service.