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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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 life. 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
