If they died in the field, it was her fault.
Which also worried King.
Because if the death of an operative under her supervision crushed her soul, how would she take it if the man she loved died under her watch?
Then he figured, It’d be worse for me than it would be for her.
I’d be dead.
He and Rory snaked their way out of the establishment, past the outdoor heaters and crimson decorative lights and overhanging vines and throngs of tipsy socialites. Then through the bar, where there were a few slightly more unruly characters throwing back neat whiskey and vodka, all of them manicured and moisturised and dressed as expensively as their counterparts out in the beer garden.
It was the same as every bar on earth.
The fact that its clientele resided in a different socioeconomic bracket didn’t change a thing about human nature.
Everyone loves to dull the bad memories.
King felt a faint twinge of something. Some repressed urge. Right then, he wanted nothing more than another drink. The pull for it tugged at his brain, gnawing at him.
Wouldn’t you like to forget everything you’ve done?
Everything that’s been done to you?
But out of habit he crushed the moment of weakness, and when he stepped outside with Rory into a cool, crisp New York evening, he was back to savouring the time he had available instead of trying to suppress the entirety of his off-duty life.
He couldn’t say that Slater was doing the same.
He and Rory put their hands in their coat pockets and watched their breath fog under the streetlights and stared up at the infinite rows of windows in the skyscrapers all around them. There was something magical about New York. It was all concrete and brick and glass, and in the summertime the streets stank of fetid garbage, but at the same time there was a mysticism to it that didn’t gel with the ultra-modern setting. King figured he could spend the rest of his life here. It was chaotic, but he’d always thrived in chaos.
He preferred noise and excitement to peace and quiet.
Always had.
Always would.
Still gazing up, Rory said, ‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘What?’
‘Live here. You could live anywhere.’
‘I take it you plan to retire somewhere else.’
‘I’ve spent most of my life fighting,’ Rory said. ‘When I have what I need, I’m out.’
‘How long?’
‘Maybe a few more years.’
‘Then I’d better make the most of you while you’re around,’ King said.
They both smiled.
Rory offered a hand.
King reached out and shook it.
‘Be seeing you,’ Rory said.
King nodded.
Then, in one all-encompassing moment, every square of light emanating from the windows above them flickered out.
As did the streetlights.
Their whole world plunged into darkness.
10
The bodyguards noticed Slater was ready to go down in a blaze of glory.
They must have seen the look in his eyes. They sized him up, alternating their gazes between Slater and Rico, and finally one of them reached out and snatched the kid by the arm and hauled him back into the VIP booth.
The other four followed.
A collective decision.
Not worth the trouble.
Slater turned back to his own booth. Pat was watching in awe from the corner of his booth. It was awfully difficult to mask emotions when you were drunk. Slater half-smiled at him and shooed him away. Don’t draw attention.
Pat tipped back the remainder of a vodka shot and shook his head, flabbergasted. He must have been watching the whole time. Understanding the nuance of what was unfolding. Seeing Slater handle it like an artisan as he floated from one confrontation to the next with ease, chaining them together into a perfect sequence. Slater never really considered it from an outsider’s perspective. Most people in modern society were afraid of confrontation to begin with. Not only was he fully comfortable in its grip, it was one of his specialties. He knew how to handle anything thrown his way. That could have escalated into something unstoppable, but he culled it before it got out of control.
Someone else noticed too.
One of Pat’s friends stepped down from the booth and made her way over. Slater had spoken to her a handful of times throughout the evening. At one point, Pat had discreetly let slip that she was the reason he’d approached Slater at the Koreatown bar in the first place. She’d been interested from the get-go. And as he watched her approach, he couldn’t help but admit he was interested back. She was only a couple of inches shorter than him, tall and long-legged with a model’s graceful physique. She had rich eyes and an alluring smile, and speaking to her in the booth he’d been struck by the giddy sensation that there was nothing else going on in the world — just their conversation. She was one of the most interesting women he’d met in quite some time. She was Pat’s risk analyst, and had been working for him for three years. Outside of work, she was a gym junkie. She trained Crossfit every morning and ran five miles every evening.
Once again, Slater found it always came back to the mutual penchant for suffering.
You had to find balance.
You had to hurt in solitude so you could fully enjoy the hedonistic moments like this. Otherwise you wound up in a place like Palantir fat and sweaty and out of shape, with a turbulent mind. Wherever Slater went, he was at peace. He could tell she was the same.
Her name was Serena, and now she waltzed right up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
She brought her lips up to his ear and said, ‘Did I just see what I think I saw?’
‘Depends what you think you saw.’
‘Are you in trouble?’
Slater flashed a glance at Rico’s booth. It was still packed to the rafters, but the kid himself was nowhere to be found. Probably seated up the back
