Sharks Read online

  Sharks

  The King & Slater Series Book Six

  Matt Rogers

  Copyright © 2020 by Matt Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Onur Aksoy.

  www.onegraphica.com

  Contents

  Reader’s Group

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  Books by Matt Rogers

  Preface

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Afterword

  Afterword

  Books by Matt Rogers

  Reader’s Group

  About the Author

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  Sign up for a free copy of ‘BLOOD MONEY’.

  Meet Ruby Nazarian, a government operative for a clandestine initiative known only as Lynx. She’s in Monaco to infiltrate the entourage of Aaron Wayne, a real estate tycoon on the precipice of dipping his hands into blood money. She charms her way aboard the magnate’s superyacht, but everyone seems suspicious of her, and as the party ebbs onward she prepares for war…

  Maybe she’s paranoid.

  Maybe not.

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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)

  Outlaws (Book 4)

  Ghosts (Book 5)

  Sharks (Book 6)

  LYNX SHORTS

  Blood Money (Book 1)

  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)

  “The gambling known as business looks with austere disfavor upon the business known as gambling.”

  Ambrose Bierce

  Prologue

  Freeport

  The Bahamas

  Teddy Barrow loved his job.

  Loved the simplicity of it.

  A timeless cliché, sure, but there’s a reason clichés exist. Something about the responsibility tickled his fancy. Here he was the right-hand-man to the owner, more than just a server. He mattered. If he didn’t dutifully wait the tables, spray and scrub all surfaces after each customer departed, keep tabs on the change going into the register, converse with regulars and tourists alike, listen to any and all complaints, then word-of-mouth would cease and the place would fall into decline.

  The establishment itself was a large hut, Polynesian in design, with tiki décor to complement the white sand all around. It doubled as both an eatery and a bar. There was good coffee, good food, and good cocktails — the Holy Trinity to vacationers looking for escapism. There were views of Coral Beach and the pristine waters beyond, always sparkling turquoise under the sun.

  There was always sun.

  Teddy was British — he figured the novelty of the accent had helped him land the job in the first place — but the never-ending golden rays had bronzed his previously pale skin long ago. The wrinkles that came with old age had deepened after incessant sun exposure, but that was a price he was willing to pay.

  He loved the Bahamas. He’d met his wife here, considered it home for years, and he didn’t think he’d ever leave. Looking out at the waves lapping the shore as he scrubbed down a tabletop overlooking the beach, he realised his mind was empty. He was fully present.

  Thinking nothing, feeling nothing.

  It was bliss.

  Bliss had been absent in Grand Bahama for quite some time. Last September, Hurricane Dorian covered three-quarters of the island in floodwaters, with winds topping a hundred and eighty-five miles per hour. Freeport, home to most of the tourism infrastructure, was spared the catastrophic destruction that ravaged the east and north, but the airport took significant damage, and access to fresh water and electricity had been temporarily disrupted. Since the start of the year, the city had taken huge leaps forward. Critical business reopened, the airport came back to life, and Teddy had watched as fellow locals accepted the personal and economic toll with the Bahamian spirit that made them the tough and independent people they were. He himself had gone back to work at the tiki hut as the cruise ships and international flights returned to an island rapidly rebuilding out of the rubble.

&n
bsp; Beaches were populated once more, customers were aplenty, and for a brief period he was happy.

  He knew his happiness wouldn’t last. He loved most of the Bahamas, but not all of it.

  A small hidden nook of the archipelago threatened to ruin his life.

  The customer on the next table beckoned. Teddy nodded his understanding and finished his clean with a sweep of the cloth. He’d mastered the art of the wipe down. He took great pride in the small details, most of which no one even noticed. But he did, and that’s what mattered. There’s nothing like the satisfaction of a task completed to the best of your abilities. A long and full life had taught him that.

  He approached. The customer was practically a caricature of a sixty-something Brit travelling abroad. Everything from the bespectacled eyes, the pencil moustache, the pasty skin, the rotund belly. It had thrilled him when he was served by a fellow countryman, which Teddy found odd, considering the man could get that experience anywhere back home.

  The guy said, ‘You take good care of this place.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Ah,’ the guy scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Leave it, mate. Loosen up a little. Look where we are. You can talk to me like a friend.’

  Teddy smiled. ‘Just doing my part to make your meal as pleasant as possible. Anything else I can do for you?’

  There were nearly a dozen small plates of food between the man and his wife, riddled with the remnants of shellfish, lobster, crab, tropical fruits, potatoes and rice. Between them they’d shared two espressos and four rum-based cocktails in tiki jars, lending them a pleasant buzz for the rest of the afternoon they’d spend basking in the sun. Teddy didn’t imagine they’d be ordering anything else.

  The man said, ‘You can take this.’

  He pinched two fingers together, dove into his Armani wallet, and came out with a crisp fifty-pound note.

  Teddy kept his hands behind his back. ‘To go towards the bill?’

  ‘I’ll put the bill on my card,’ the guy said. ‘This is your tip.’

  Teddy stiffened.

  Shot a nervous glance at the hut’s corner table, where an Italian man sat watching.

  The guy said, ‘Don’t worry about him. What is he — your boss? Take it.’

  Teddy said, ‘Sir, it’s too much.’

  ‘I appreciate the hospitality. You showed an attention to detail that’s hard to come by these days. Lord knows I don’t see enough of it back home. Can’t hire an honest hard-working millennial to save my life. And I’m in a good mood. I’m on holiday.’

  Silence.

  The guy said, ‘Right, darling?’

  His wife nodded passively. Like she’d already endured thousands of similar tirades on the state of the world’s collective work ethic.

  Teddy said, ‘If you’d like me to get the owner for you…’

  The guy jerked a subtle thumb at the man in the corner. ‘He’s not the owner?’

  ‘No.’

  The guy shook the bill between two fingers. ’This isn’t for the owner. This is for you.’

  Teddy shrugged. The guy wasn’t backing down. Continuing to refuse would only exacerbate the scene. He took the cash. ‘Thank you, sir. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Not a worry,’ the guy said. ‘Where do I fix up the bill?’

  ‘Just up at the counter here…’

  The guy paid, and he and his wife toddled out on tipsy legs riddled with varicose veins. Another hour passed — Teddy cleaned their table, took the empty dishes to the back, and attended to the other patrons’ every need. The whole time he felt the note burning a hole in his back pocket.

  Indecision rippled through him.

  He knew what he was supposed to do, but there was something emasculating about it. He’d earned this money through dutiful devotion to his job. And now…

  There was a lull as the last members of the early afternoon rush departed. Late lunch was over, and another customer was unlikely until a handful trickled in for an early dinner. That was the trick to the hut’s success. There was never a constant stream of guests, but those who came often spent lavishly. Teddy did all he could to facilitate the generosity. The diners seemed to appreciate it.

  Teddy kept his focus on adjusting the chairs. He tucked two into a table in the centre of the hut, and pretended to ignore his surroundings. The chef was squared away in the back, and the bartender had found someplace else to be.

  The Italian in the corner was the only one left.

  The man shot to his feet and crossed the room, pulling up a foot from Teddy. Teddy didn’t look up. He took out his cloth and his spray bottle and set to work scrubbing the surface.

  The Italian said, ‘You got something for me?’

  ‘Come on, Vince,’ Teddy said, refusing to make eye contact. ‘Please. You know I have until the end of the—’

  Vince slapped him across the cheek, hard enough to blind him. Teddy let out a little cry as he stumbled, dropping the cloth and the spray bottle. With blurry vision he reached down for them, intent on finishing his job, interfering circumstances be damned. Vince grabbed him by the collar and shoved him into the table, knocking it over, spilling the chairs back.

  Ruining everything.

  Teddy screwed up his face as he came to rest in the pile of furniture. A whimper escaped his lips, and he scolded himself for it. He didn’t like to show weakness, but, God, he was scared…

  Vince rolled him over, ignoring his protests, and shoved a hand into his back pocket. He came out with the note.

  ‘These British pounds?’ Vince scoffed.

  ‘Yes,’ Teddy mumbled into the floor.

  Another scoff. ‘I’m counting it as half. So that’s twenty-five Bahamian dollars taken off the vig.’

  Bahamian dollars were pegged to the U.S. dollar. Teddy spluttered, ‘It’s pounds. It’s closer to seventy dollars.’

  ‘That’s not my problem,’ Vince said. ‘Should have given it to me as soon as you got it.’

  ‘Why are you here, Vince?’ Teddy said, his voice meek. ‘I have until the end of the week.’

  ‘We keep giving you more time,’ Vince said. ‘So now I follow you around until you pay. But I have enough for today. I’ll see you tomorrow, Teddy.’

  He walked out, but he went the long way around, taking a loop across the hut’s floorspace. On the way he overturned four tables and kicked five chairs across the room. Then he stepped down to the sand and set off along the beach. He didn’t look back.

  There was no one around to hear Teddy’s sobs.

  The chef and the bartender were nowhere to be found, busying themselves with tasks out back. The owner wasn’t here, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he was. He would have found something that needed doing out back, too.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Teddy worked his way tentatively to his feet. His hip ached, and he thought maybe he’d pulled a hamstring. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes, but he wiped them away before they could run down his face. He didn’t have time to cry.

  He started straightening the room, lifting tables back into place, righting chairs. Each heave hurt his back, and his hamstring groaned in protest. He couldn’t take bumps and bruises anymore. He was getting old, getting frail. But the pain was nothing in comparison to the humiliation.

  The third table wobbled and fell when he tried to lift it, and for some reason that set him off.

  He cried the rest of the way through the process.

  He didn’t care anymore.

  He could remain stoic, he could sob, he could scream … it’d fall on deaf ears all the same.

  Four hours later…

  East of Grand Bahama International Airport, buried in the dead zone north of Freeport, Vince Ricci drove his old Ford Crown Victoria along the largely empty highway.

  The sun melted into the horizon, drenching the island in gold. He pictured the tourists down south, their waistlines bulging as they lounged on Lucaya Beach or Taino Beach or Silver Point Beac
h or any stretch of fine white sand you could slap a label on. He wished he could treat life with the same carelessness they did. It’d be nice to get away at some point, detach himself from all this shit.

  Not anytime soon, he told himself. Not after the gig you took.

  He didn’t like it, but a man doesn’t have to like his lot in life. A man must provide, and sometimes that means doing things you really don’t want to do. So instead of ripping a U-turn in the dark blue sedan and heading for home — a small condo in West End — he continued east, then took the exit at Rock Plant Road. He drove through fields — mostly green, a little brown — devoid of tourist infrastructure or sparkling attractions or towering casinos.