Rogues: A King & Slater Thriller Read online

  Rogues

  The King & Slater Series Book Twelve

  Matt Rogers

  Copyright © 2021 by Matt Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Onur Aksoy.

  www.onegraphica.com

  Contents

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  Books by Matt Rogers

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part I

  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

  Part II

  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

  Part III

  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

  Afterword

  Afterword

  Books by Matt Rogers

  Reader’s Group

  About the Author

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  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)

  Messiahs (Book 7)

  Hunters (Book 8)

  Fathers (Book 9)

  Tyrants (Book 10)

  Monsters (Book 11)

  Rogues (Book 12)

  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)

  Prologue

  1

  Korangal Valley, Afghanistan

  2007

  Rocks on the riverbed split the water into a dozen trickling streams.

  Ronan crouched on the bank, black khakis and dark grey Kevlar vest absorbing the heat of the late afternoon sun. The thin layer of perspiration coating him day and night no longer bothered him.

  There was little that bothered him anymore, the forthcoming evening notwithstanding.

  Brad came up behind him and crouched to his left. Not even the shrinking effect of the water’s reflection could minimise his profile. He was a mountain of a man, six-eight and closing in on three hundred pounds, very little of it fat. Like Ronan, he wore dark gear to distance himself from the Company troops currently stationed at Korangal Outpost, clad in standard-issue camouflage fatigues every time they left the relative safety of KOP’s perimeter. Once they were out here, in the wild, it was often pure chaos.

  Korangal was known as “The Valley of Death” for a reason.

  Brad used a black-gloved hand to scoop soft dirt from the slope of the riverbank and let it sift through his fingers, a meditative exercise before the evening’s activities. His span was enormous, capable of encompassing a human skull.

  Ronan spoke at a mutter. It was all that was needed at the bottom of this noiseless valley, the narrow stretch of river soundproofed by thick rows of pines. ‘Not sure if we should do it.’

  Brad waited before responding to highlight his wordless disappointment. ‘Cold feet?’

  ‘It’s not like I’m queasy or anything. It’s just … we’re fucked if it circles back to us.’

  ‘Throw a few AKs down when we’re done and they’ll convict the Taliban on sight. No judge, no jury … only executioners. You can’t tell me something like this wouldn’t be the Taliban’s MO. One whiff of the villagers siding with us invaders and they’d do worse than this.’

  ‘Korangalies would never side with us.’

  ‘Ronan.’ Brad waited until the man glanced over at him, squinting against the setting sun. ‘No one’s going to look closely.’

  Ronan nodded.

  Brad said, ‘No one’s going to care.’

  Ronan recited the specifics unnecessarily, just for peace of mind. ‘No Company troops in the vicinity. Dominic, Zach, and Troy will place us over near Ali Abad, doing the recon
we’re supposed to be doing. Only people we gotta convince are the ones who know we’re here, and that’s a short list of higher-ups who don’t keep tabs on us as much as they’d like us to think they do.’

  Brad nodded slowly back.

  Ronan continued. ‘We empty a couple of AKs into the bodies afterwards. They find the scene, they blame insurgents. No questions.’

  ‘You done?’

  Ronan sucked in a lungful of dry air. ‘Yeah. I’m done.’

  A third man took shape from the shadows beneath the nearest pines, stepping into the sunlight. Oily skin, a high hairline receding from a widow’s peak, beady eyes. Against Ronan’s six-three and Brad’s six-eight, he seemed miniscule, but he was average height. Five-ten at best. And wiry, not packed with slabs of muscle like the other two.

  Otis stood beside them, refusing to crouch and therefore participate in the unspoken ritual. Maybe savouring a rare moment in which he could look over the tops of their heads. He faced the lapping water. ‘I heard something about cold feet.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Brad said. ‘He’s still in.’

  Otis glanced at Ronan. ‘He better be. I ain’t going down for this ’cause one of us ain’t got steady hands.’

  Ronan raised both hands, palms facing the dirt and rocks beneath his feet, fingers outstretched.

  Not a sliver of movement, nor the slightest tremor.

  Otis said, ‘Good, because this was your idea.’

  ‘And you were happy to participate.’

  ‘Yeah. But not for your bullshit philosophical reasons.’ He tapped the side of his head, rolling his eyes in their sockets like some twisted circus clown. ‘I just like it.’

  Brad said, ‘We’ll catch up.’

  Otis registered the tone, snorted a derisive reply, and receded back into the trees, letting the forest swallow him.

  They were alone again.

  Ronan lowered his voice close to a whisper. ‘It’s a risk bringing him along.’

  ‘Too late. He knows now. I’m not risking shutting him out at the last minute. Who knows what he’ll do?’

  ‘The whole thing’s a risk.’

  ‘Gotta be. All good tests are.’

  It brought Ronan back around, charged him with determination. He picked up the Kalashnikov AK-47 resting on the riverbank beside them, gripped it tight. Brad, in turn, picked up his. They’d lifted the weapons off the bodies of Taliban insurgents they’d gunned down in a firefight no one had known they’d taken part in. It was part and parcel of black operations — they were, by nature, deniable, key details usually held back from superiors, specifics murky. Higher-ups wanted unofficial results for an edge in the larger-scale war, and to do that they agreed to dispense with rules of engagement and paperwork and after-action reports.

  It allowed some wiggle room for those with their boots on the ground.

  The sun started to melt into the rocky mountains bordering the valley, elongating shadows.

  Go time.

  Ronan got to his feet, heart in his throat.

  Brad rose too, dwarfing him.

  They started for the tree line, ready for a short hike up to the rural village. Ronan’s brain started making excuses for what was to come. Really, they were helping the campaign. Battle Company was deployed at KOP to fight the insurgency and win over the local tribes. By blaming what was to follow on the Taliban, they’d probably gain favour with some of the Korangalies and ostracise the insurgents. But that wasn’t why they were doing it. Like Brad said, it was a test.

  As they began the climb up the Valley of Death, Ronan voiced this. ‘If we can force ourselves not to care about this, are we superhuman?’

  The pines enveloped Brad’s hulking form, casting shadow over his half-smile. ‘Let’s find out.’

  2

  Four hours later…

  The air was thin at Korangal Outpost.

  Ten thousand feet of elevation make for cold nights and bitter winds that cut to the core of your being, make you dread being so far from home in a remote and hostile land, make you curse the politicians back home for shipping you out like you’re expendable.

  Three silhouettes came round the barricades of hard-packed sand.

  There was nothing to identify them as allies, but no one shot at them. They’d radioed ahead to the sergeant. The LRAS — long range advance scout surveillance system — had spotted them coming long ago, but the guard on shift pretended nothing had entered his infrared field of view. When the trio arrived, the handful of B Company soldiers who saw them looked the other way.

  Best to pretend the black ops don’t exist.

  See no evil, hear no evil.

  From the glances the soldiers managed, they saw blood. Crimson coated vests and pants. Mostly flecks, spray, but a couple of broad stains, too. One man’s face bled.

  The outpost bristled in the dead of night, cloaked in silence.

  If clandestine troops needed looking after, they went to the medic in private. They didn’t need anyone scrutinising their wounds, holding their hands. It was pointless, anyway. If any of the soldiers went to help, they’d be turned away.

  Deniability concerns.

  Ronan, Brad, and Otis hustled into one of the sandstone-coloured huts up the back of the outpost and gently closed the door behind them. They were alone in a cramped windowless space, surrounded by metal bunk frames, draped in a soft yellow glow from the lightbulb dangling on a wire above their heads.

  The poor lighting made Ronan’s facial wound look even worse.

  Which was saying something.

  Brad sank at the knees to put himself at eye level, got a good look at Ronan’s face, and winced. ‘Fuck me…’

  Ronan, to his credit, stayed remarkably composed. Adrenaline is a wonderful thing. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Surely you can’t see out of it.’

  ‘Nah. Doesn’t hurt too bad, though.’

  ‘You’re wired. You took too much of Otis’s angel dust.’

  Otis grinned from ear to ear, his vest flecked with blood. He slapped his palms against the frame of the closest bunk. The metal rattled. ‘He asked for it. Don’t put this on me. We all need a pick-me-up every now and then.’

  Ronan’s aura started to constrict, to shrink. It was the only way Brad could describe it. He’d seen it hundreds of times before — men returned from the frontlines and came down from their high, lost their wild edge. As the adrenaline dissipated the pain began to set in, steadily building to a fever pitch until soldiers were reduced to writhing in their beds in the base hospital, moaning and hissing through gritted teeth until the painkillers kicked in. No one feels the injuries until they’re out of the line of fire, only able to process what happened once out of danger.

  In a soft voice Ronan said, ‘Should I look?’

  ‘You’re gonna have to,’ Brad said. ‘No point putting it off.’

  When Ronan picked up a smudged shaving mirror from atop the chest-of-drawers that housed their kit, he wobbled at the knees a little. His Adam’s apple spasmed. Brad knew the signs. He was in horrendous pain, and it was only going to get worse.

  Otis realised, too. He extracted a tiny ziplock plastic bag from the breast pocket of his vest, half-filled with crushed white powder. His “angel dust,” known chemically as phencyclidine, or PCP for short. One of the most potent and dangerous drugs that existed. In small doses they’d found it to be a battlefield miracle. For them it wiped traumatic memories and amplified sensation, making anything enjoyable.

  Even an unprovoked massacre.

  Otis used his pinky nail to ration out a tiny hit of the dust and pushed it, without consent, up Ronan’s left nostril.

  Ronan didn’t need any encouragement. He pinched his other nostril shut and snorted. Jerked his head back like a mule, clenched and unclenched his jaw, then lifted the shaving mirror parallel with his face and stared out his only functioning eye.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he whispered.

  The blade had slashed a thin red line up his cheek, partin
g the skin so the sides hung like miniature flaps, but if that was all it had done there’d be no reason to worry. It’d leave a gruesome scar, but Ronan had many of those. However, instead of finishing at the top of his cheekbone, the knife had travelled further upwards, splitting his lower eyelid and then taking a chunk out of the eyeball itself.

  The pupil and iris were destroyed.