Outlaws, page 6
‘What is?’ he said, but he knew.
‘You’re… not doing anything.’
‘Maybe I’m tired from last night.’
She narrowed her eyes mockingly.
Again, he said, ‘What?’
‘We’ve been together for two months,’ she said. ‘I know you don’t get tired.’
That made him laugh.
She offered a smile. ‘Poor me, right?’
He held up his hands like a criminal caught in the act. ‘I’m here to please.’
She sauntered back to bed with a mug of brew-filtered coffee in each hand. He watched her plant one toned leg in front of the other in a mesmerising pattern. She passed one of the mugs across, and lingered over him for a second too long. He reached up, placed his palm on the back of her neck, and drew her in.
They kissed, long and slow.
Nowhere to rush to.
Nowhere to be.
He drank in the taste of her, the warmth of her lips on his. Breathed her scent. He was truly comfortable, and he couldn’t remember feeling like that around anyone. His time with Ruby had been a whirlwind of foreign sensations. He’d never had the time to get to know her, to learn to co-exist with her in mutual harmony.
With Alexis, he did.
And he couldn’t be happier.
She parted first, and tucked her feet underneath her butt, levering herself up into a seated position so she could take a sip of coffee. Now post-dawn, the first rays of sunlight came filtering in through the big windows, drenching everything in gold. Slater remained sprawled on his back. The mug insulated the boiling water enough to let him rest it on his chest. He sipped at it, too, and they both embraced the quiet.
In the quiet, Slater could think best.
He could empty his mind only the way a practiced meditator could.
She noticed him withdraw into himself.
She said, ‘Are you deciding?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just… being still.’
‘You haven’t done that before, have you?’
He said, ‘All the time. I’ve been meditating for over a decade. But… never actually surrounded by stillness.’
She said, ‘Go down to the shoreline.’
He hesitated. ‘Now?’
‘Yes. Go sit out there, on the beach. Find somewhere real quiet. Somewhere you won’t be disturbed. Sit there for an hour. Maybe more. I think, when you’re that still, and you come out of it… you’ll know what you want.’
He took a moment to digest her words.
Then he said, ‘I think you know me better than anyone.’
She said, ‘I love you. That’s why.’
He sat up, drawing closer to her. She placed a hand on his giant shoulder and kissed him, a little softer, a little more gentle.
Then she said, ‘Go. Decide.’
He peeled the covers off. Stood up, slipped into a pair of athletic shorts, and went to the front door of the hut, still barefoot, still shirtless. The sun hit him, highlighting every nook and crevasse of his musculature. Highlighting the jagged scars, too.
He turned back. ‘I love you, too.’
She nodded slowly.
She knew.
They both did.
He left the sanctuary of the villa and stepped out into the sand. It was fine and white and slipped between his toes. He made his way down to the shoreline, where the golden hue was seemingly stronger, and sat down a few feet from the gently lapping waves. There was no one else on the beach. Not this early. He was alone with his thoughts and the sun and the sand and the quiet breeze.
He shifted to a comfortable position, straightened his back, rested his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes.
Reality fell away.
It wasn’t some fantastical sensation, complete with hallucinogenic visions and spiralling thoughts. No, it was just quiet. A total, complete quietness, something that could only be achieved by learning to not think. Which was awfully hard to do in the modern world. Thoughts came racing in, seemingly faster and faster with each passing day, and it took serious discipline to force them aside and simply exist.
Now, Slater existed.
Eventually his sense of time fell away too. Time is noticeable when you have a reference point. When you can compare what you did ten minutes ago to what you’re doing now. Slater couldn’t. It was all the same — closed eyes, dark vision, the calming sound of nature all around. There was nothing else.
He didn’t think. Didn’t feel. Didn’t let his mind wander.
Didn’t do anything at all.
It could have been an hour, but it might have been two or three. There was no way to know for sure, but he knew to open his eyes. A faint command from an unconscious region of his brain told him to bring his mind back to the present.
So he opened his eyes.
And there, with his mind completely empty and his thoughts completely still, he searched for the first thing to think about.
He found his answer.
It lit up his frontal lobe, bursting forth from his subconscious.
He stood up, slightly unsteady on his feet after what could have been hours of motionlessness. The sun was far higher in the sky. He realised it was close to midday. It somewhat unnerved him. It meant he’d been in a trance-like state for nearly five hours. His stomach grumbled in protest. His limbs felt stiff and heavy.
But his mind was clearer than ever.
He walked back to the hut. Alexis was still there. Fresh ingredients dotted the kitchen countertop. She’d been into town.
She put down the kitchen knife and turned to face him, her expression guarded. He could see how much this meant to her, and he admired the restraint she was showing not to voice her own opinion on the matter. She knew he needed to decide for himself, and no one else.
He had.
She said, ‘Did you decide?’
He said, ‘I’ve given this everything. I’m done.’
13
Donati said, ‘She’s nobody.’
King let the silence drag out deliberately. He studied the surveillance photo closer. He guessed the image was taken somewhere in Moscow. King had been to Russia’s capital before — the architecture of the shops in the background and the general vibe of the surrounding pedestrians fit the bill. It was certainly somewhere in Eastern Europe. Outside of that he couldn’t be certain, but it made sense for it to be Moscow. The dossier appeared to contain information pertaining to the negotiations Donati was set to enter.
So she wasn’t nobody.
King said, ‘She looks like somebody.’
Donati looked up from the dossier, meeting King’s gaze. ‘You really don’t trust me, do you?’
‘I barely know you. I’m impartial toward you.’
‘It’s none of your business who she is,’ Donati said, and then seemed to relent. ‘But I respect you, and I want you on my side, so I’ll clarify. She really is nobody.’
Donati placed a fat thumb on the top corner of the image, highlighting one of the pedestrians in the background. The rest of the photo was blurry because of the woman taking up the foreground, but enough details were visible to make out his features. The guy was in his fifties, with a paunchy belly and a grey receding hairline. He wore a grey suit over a white dress shirt that seemed to prop up his sizeable gut. Outside of that, he looked like any ordinary white-collar Russian.
Donati said, ‘He’s somebody.’
‘Who is he?’
‘The Chief Financial Officer for Zima Group.’
King knew almost nothing about Donati’s forthcoming negotiations — it wasn’t his job, so he simply hadn’t worried about it. But he’d overheard snippets of conversation throughout their short time together, and pieced together a framework. Zima Group was Donati’s biggest rival, a multi-billion dollar conglomerate that owned and controlled almost all the port facilities in Eastern Europe.
King shivered.
He had bad memories of a port in the Russian Far East.
Years ago, trouble in Vladivostok had brought him out of retirement.
He quashed that down, and focused on what he knew about the future. Donati was en route to Moscow to negotiate with Zima Group about a potential merger.
King said, ‘Okay.’
Donati shifted his thumb an inch to the right, so it came to rest on the shopfront directly behind the paunchy man. There was nothing remarkable about the building — low, one-storey, shoddy, rundown. There was no signage visible. It could have been anything.
Donati said, ‘That is the reason I have this photo.’
‘What is it?’
‘One of Moscow’s most notorious fetish clubs.’
‘Oh.’
King scrutinised the image. The CFO was most definitely leaving the building in question. The small door behind him was in the process of swinging shut. It was hard to discern features from a CCTV feed across the street, but King thought he could see something close to guilt on the man’s face.
King said, ‘What goes on in that particular fetish club?’
Donati said, ‘You don’t want to know. Nothing illegal. Just… perverted.’
‘So this is for blackmail?’
Donati said, ‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘You seem to think I have a problem with everything.’
‘You seem cautious. And wary.’
‘Guilty. I like to know things. Doesn’t mean I disapprove.’
‘He’s a piece of shit,’ Donati said. ‘I’m going to use this to get a better deal. They’re all corrupt over here. It’s a prerequisite for being an oligarch. I refuse to play by their rules, but if they’re doing some shady stuff in their personal lives, I’m not above using it.’
‘Trust me,’ King said. ‘I know what oligarchs are like.’
He refrained from adding, I suspect you’re the same, deep down.
Because he didn’t know for sure.
And until he had actual confirmation, everything else was irrelevant.
Donati said, ‘Do me a favour.’
King raised an eyebrow.
Donati said, ‘I get your shtick. You’re morally righteous. You’re inquisitive. But this is a murky world. I made a compromise with that information I just gave you, but when we touch down I can’t waste time explaining every little thing you’re suspicious of. I’m paying you to keep me alive. Is that clear?’
It was the first time the man had been firm with King.
King was unperturbed.
He said, ‘That’s fine.’
‘We land in Moscow in eight hours. At Sheremetyevo. It’ll be ten-thirty p.m. over there because of the time difference. I have town cars waiting to take us to our hotel. We’re staying in the penthouse suite of the Zvezda. They’ve ensured we’ll have total privacy — part of the asking price. Once we touch down, I’ll alert our arms dealer, and he’ll meet us at our suite with the weapons we ordered.’
‘What did you get?’
‘Glock 17s,’ Donati said. ‘And a few MP5s, just in case shit hits the fan.’
King nodded. ‘Works for me.’
‘Anything else you need to know?’
‘There’s two days of meetings, right?’
Donati nodded. ‘We’ll get a few hours of sleep tonight, then it’s straight into business. My biggest fear is travelling to and from Zima’s HQ. As far as I can tell, that’ll be the opportune time to take me out and make it look like a regular road accident. And, let’s face it, things will escalate when I reveal I have this photo.’
‘How did you get it?’
‘I have hundreds of people working directly for me,’ Donati said.
He seemingly didn’t feel the need to elaborate further.
King nodded.
Donati said, ‘What else do you need from me?’
King shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Did you want to run me through your procedures—?’
King gave the man a withering look, silencing him.
King said, ‘You asked me to stop concerning myself with your business. I’ll ask you to stop concerning yourself with mine.’
He could have elaborated. He could have said, All it really comes down to is reaction speed. There’s only so much tactical surveillance you can do before you’ve covered all your bases. If someone gets through the outer perimeter, all that matters is winning the game of instincts. That means being on guard, and I don’t need your input for that.
But Donati didn’t need to know any of that.
The billionaire had his own problems to worry about.
King settled back into his seat.
Truth was, he didn’t trust anyone.
Not Donati. Not his men. Not Zima Group.
He was here because Slater owed Coombs, and that was it.
14
Slater had reached his decision, but it didn’t feel real.
Sure, he’d spent months considering it. Weeks seesawing back and forth, refusing to continue lying to himself. Now he’d meditated for close to five hours to confirm it.
But it was still all he’d known for fifteen years.
There was still so much to unpack.
He decided to cleanse himself the only other way he knew how. He’d heard rumours of a unique Tulum gym along the beach, but he’d never seen it in the flesh. He told Alexis he needed more time to think, and that he’d be back in a few hours. She didn’t seem fazed. Neither of them were needy. Back home, she was a busy professional, and so was he. Different sorts of professionals, sure, but mutually busy. There wasn’t an enormous chunk of time across their schedules to coordinate, so they had to cherish what time they did spend with each other. Now, in each other’s company for days straight with nothing on their calendars, their time seemed endless.
Being apart for a few hours at a time was the least of their concerns.
He found the destination on his smartphone and strolled for the better part of half an hour along the shoreline, welcoming the harsh heat of the day. Perspiration broke out along the back of his neck and in his armpits, but it barely fazed him. Discomfort was second nature. He felt right at home at the height of it. He ended up encouraging the sweating by breaking into a comfortable jog, his bare feet sinking an inch or so into the damp sand with each footfall.
He pulled up to the Tulum Jungle Gym with a thin coating of sweat covering his entire body.
He paid the exorbitant daily fee at the reception desk, but he figured the price was justified. Half the outdoor gym rested on the beach itself, and the rest was composed of a collection of cabañas with traditional thatched roofs. The receptionist informed him that all the equipment had bamboo and wooden exteriors, with stone filling the inside to add weight. Slater took in the old-school setup and smiled.
It was primitive, primal, animalistic.
A throwback to simpler times.
Just what he preferred.
He found his tunnel vision, and tuned everything else out, and pushed his body to its physical limits. He lifted wooden, stone-filled barbells until his heart rate skyrocketed, then pushed harder by heaving sizeable boulders off the sand and hurling them over his shoulder. He repeated the process, sweating and panting, his muscles burning, his lungs screaming for mercy.
Everything else fell away, giving him time to think about what made him happy.
This did.
Life, as far as he was concerned, was simple. The rapid advancement of modernity across the first world had created swathes of unhappy, unfulfilled, unsatisfied people. He saw it every day back in Manhattan, every time he stepped out onto the street. He watched men and women in formal attire rush to their cubicles, their minds clouded by uncertainty, unsure of what they really wanted from life.
Slater didn’t blame them. He’d grappled with the same issues for most of his career.
At first, he thought it was money he wanted. Black Force paid handsomely, but it only took a few months of financial freedom to realise he needed a better reason to throw his life on the line over and over again. Then, he pivoted into genuinely wanting to help people. But that too could only last so long. You couldn’t ignore your selfish impulses forever. Sure, he wanted to do good, but it couldn’t be his only reason for embracing a life filled with such an ungodly amount of suffering.
Eventually he had to learn to find joy in the suffering.
And he had.
So wanting out didn’t mean abandoning what made him happy. Pushing himself, testing his limits, seeing what could be accomplished with his physical vessel — that gave him contentment. And as much as he didn’t want to admit it, so did righting wrongs.
He decided it wouldn’t be retirement.
Not completely.
But he had to step away from Violetta and her shadowy subdivision and the rest of the government.
He had to be free.
Maxing his heart rate, pouring sweat, he finished his final boulder throw and dropped into the sand beside the giant rock.
It only took a few minutes to catch his breath, no thanks to unparalleled cardiovascular conditioning. He could recover from physical exertion like a world-class endurance athlete. By the time he sat up, head clear, mind sharp, his heart rate had plummeted.
He saw a future laid out before him.
He walked back to the villa. The afternoon sun was no less intense. Halfway back, he dove into the ocean to shed the salt caked to his skin from the workout. Enclosed by the coolness of the sea, stillness flooded him.
When he resurfaced, he opened his eyes to a new world.
A world without unending self-expectation. A world where he wasn’t going to mentally beat himself up for slacking off. He’d given fifteen years to unconditional self-improvement, and he’d done everything for his country. He’d saved thousands of people. Millions, if you factored in the disasters he’d prevented.
He found an ultimatum, and etched it into his mind.
Alexis was waiting for him in the villa, her head buried in a faded paperback. She’d draped herself across one of the decorative reclining chairs to catch the rays of sun filtering in over the windowsill, and when he stepped inside she lifted her gaze to meet his. Her eyes glowed green in the sunlight.
