Daggers: A King & Slater Thriller (The King & Slater Series Book 15) Read online

  DAGGERS

  THE KING & SLATER SERIES BOOK FIFTEEN

  MATT ROGERS

  Copyright © 2021 by Matt Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Onur Aksoy.

  www.onegraphica.com

  CONTENTS

  Reader’s Group

  Facebook Page

  Books by Matt Rogers

  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

  Epilogue

  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)

  Legends (Book 13)

  Smugglers (Book 14)

  Daggers (Book 15)

  THE DANTE JACOBY SERIES

  Be Somebody (Book 1)

  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)

  1

  As far as drinking holes were concerned, it was the obscurest in Millinocket, a town which in itself embodied obscurity.

  The bar catered to old blue-collar labourers and aimless retirees who’d long ago abandoned social conventions. These folk scoffed at the notion of taking their time with alcohol. To savour what they were drinking would be considered a monumental waste of time, reserved exclusively for people with their shit together, people who still had to cling to the veil of civility before the world wore them down and deposited them in a flustered heap at a dive such as this.

  Bill Dunfield didn’t belong.

  He parked his white Audi Q5 on the other side of the street, giving the bar’s small parking lot a wide berth. Both the low building and its surrounding pavement bordered an empty block of land, the long grass strewn with overturned shopping carts and wet cardboard. He didn’t exactly feel confident leaving his vehicle unattended, but the call of the beer tap was overwhelming.

  At this point, he’d probably give up the luxury SUV if someone offered a keg for it.

  And it wasn’t like he was made of money…

  His hands shook as he got out and crossed the street. He wished he could blame it on the cold, but he’d been trembling since he left Boston. A plastic bag fluttered in a nearby bush. Its tattered ends interlaced as the wind thrashed them all around, and Bill stopped to watch for a moment.

  Deep down, he didn’t want to go in, but he knew he didn’t have a choice anymore.

  He needed numbing like he needed air to breathe.

  When he stepped into the dive, the smell hit him before the warmth did, that insipid stench of booze. Next the heat rolled over him, cosying up to him, making it a little easier to stomach when he realised everyone in the place was staring. He cast an eye over the half-dozen patrons, noting long beards, faintly bloodshot eyes, and what seemed to be a general air of hostility. No one wanted him here, not with his fresh haircut and clean clothes and trim mid-section. He’d finished a half-Ironman triathlon annually for each of the last five years, which was likely more recreational exercise than the customers here had collectively done in their lives.

  He didn’t care that they judged him.

  He was past that.

  He drifted to the small bar on the other side of the dim room, pulled out a wooden stool, and dumped himself down. An old man behind the bar, skin reddened by chronic drinking, raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  Bill said, ‘Beer.’

  ‘Which kind? We got all kinds now.’

  ‘A
pint of your strongest.’

  ‘You not gonna do a runner?’ A cautious pause. ‘I dunno, you seem agitated.’

  Bill pulled out a twenty, tossed it over the counter, and placed his elbows on its wooden surface so he could put his head in his hands. The bartender absorbed all this wordlessly, and set about pulling a clean pint glass from a dishwasher rack.

  Bill closed his eyes so he didn’t have to think about anything, didn’t have to dwell on why he was here or what he might do next.

  He hadn’t seen Jason King in over a year now.

  When he opened them, he found a new vantage point from lowering his head, offering an upside-down view of a row of booths in a warmly lit corner. A seventh patron he hadn’t noticed sat there on her own, cradling a highball glass, watching him with only a flicker of interest.

  He sat up, glanced over his shoulder, and looked at her properly.

  She didn’t belong either.

  She was his age, mid-thirties, and plain-looking. A stocky build, with wide shoulders and hips; genetics aided by some sort of blue-collar lifestyle. She wore her blonde hair in a tight ponytail, exposing a masculine jawline and colourful eyes. Either blue or green; he couldn’t tell in the lowlight. There was something in her irises, a playful curiosity that didn’t gel with her imposing physique. Like she’d accepted her lot in life but had resolved to stay eternally interested in the world. You wouldn’t look twice at her on the street, but she was far too put-together for a place like this. He hadn’t expected a presence like that. It made him self-conscious, probably in the same way he made the other patrons feel, stirring resentment.

  He looked away.

  Turned back and stared into his pint glass.

  Old tunes meandered from a jukebox in the corner. No one had bothered to make their own selections, so a pre-selected playlist looped. Big Bad John by Jimmy Dean morphed into Hit the Road Jack.

  It was just loud enough to muffle conversation across tables, so when the woman in the booth came up behind him and said, ‘Thanks for taking the heat off me,’ no one else in the bar heard.

  Bill looked at her, noted the mischievous glint in her expression. ‘What heat?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m out of place, you’re out of place. Only you’re newer.’

  He offered his glass as a toast. ‘Here’s to that.’

  They clinked them together.

  Her tight black jeans hugged muscular legs. She placed one black Doc Marten in front of the other, pushing her hips out as she leaned weight back and forth. ‘So?’

  He said, ‘So?’

  ‘You sit here any longer and they’ll bore holes in your back staring.’

  ‘Let them stare.’

  She noted the indifference in his voice and seemed to realise she’d have to do all the heavy lifting. ‘Space in my booth.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m good.’

  ‘Come on,’ she said, swaying back a few steps. ‘You look like you gotta get some stuff off your chest. I’m a good listener.’

  She sauntered back to the booth before he could reply.

  He stared into his glass for another beat, his mind elsewhere. Then, like a punch to the chest, it struck him that he desperately needed to talk to someone, anyone, and although he wouldn’t dream of giving up the full story, he could at least vent a little.

  To the amusement of the six regulars, he swung off the stool and took his pint to the woman’s booth. He sat down opposite her. She wore the smallest smirk.

  She said, ‘Amy.’

  ‘Bill.’

  ‘What’s going on, Bill?’

  He blew air out, shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t even know where to start.’

  2

  ‘From the beginning,’ she said. ‘If you want. Or we can just sit here.’

  He swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Oh, yeah? Just sit here?’

  She raised her hands in a shrug; calloused palms, thick fingers. ‘If it suits.’

  ‘You invited me over here to sit in silence?’

  ‘Sometimes that’s best. Depends what’s going on. Sometimes I can’t think of anything worse than talking.’

  ‘This doesn’t seem to be one of those times.’

  She flashed those eyes at him, which up close he now identified as green. ‘What can I say? Sometimes I’m compelled to be brave.’

  ‘Compelled by…?’

  ‘I think you’re cute, for one.’

  Despite it all, he felt heat flush his cheeks. He looked down into his glass. ‘I’m married.’

  ‘Doesn’t usually mean much.’

  ‘You’re married?’

  ‘No.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Sometimes I see someone and think maybe I might like to change that.’

  Something about her boldness, her playfulness, eased the knot of tension in his stomach. Not by much, but just enough to say, ‘I’m fucked, Amy.’

  ‘Oh?’

  He couldn’t be certain, but she seemed to like that. She sipped from her tall glass, half-filled with amber liquid, and raised an eyebrow, enticing him to continue.

  He jerked a thumb at her drink. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Straight Jack.’ She touched a finger to her lips, mouthing, Shhh.

  He smiled.

  She asked, ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘Where in Boston?’

  ‘Winthrop.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she mumbled as she sucked a sip of Jack between her teeth, nodding in recognition until she swallowed. ‘I know that name. On the news, what, a year ago? All that organised crime shit that went down across Boston? Weren’t those two brothers found in Winthrop?’

  ‘Tommy and Luca Esposito,’ Bill said, sipping lager between sentences. ‘They worked for Anthony Bonacci. He was killed, too.’

  She shook her head, flummoxed. ‘Why do I remember that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She snapped her fingers, buoyed by the confidence of a buzz. ‘One of them was hot. Really hot. Dreamy. Tommy, I think. I remember they showed his old mugshot on the news.’

  Her simple-mindedness lowered his guard, a huge relief. He’d kept his walls up since he left Boston.

  She studied the turmoil wracking his face. ‘You involved in all that?’

  He snorted. ‘The mob? No.’

  She gazed around the room.

  He said, ‘I had a friend who was.’

  Her ears perked up. She turned back to him. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Maybe still is.’

  ‘You’re not friends anymore?’

  ‘There was no falling out. He just … had to go away.’

  ‘Where’d he go?’

  He ground his teeth together.

  She said, ‘What?’

  He sighed. ‘He came here.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You came to Millinocket to track down a mobster?’ A low smile played on her lips. ‘This is good gossip. God, this is not what I was expecting when I invited you over.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  She frowned. ‘Not a mobster? You said he’s involved. So he’s, what, exactly?’

  He could see what she thought, that prying details from him was like getting blood out of a stone. He didn’t particularly want to elaborate, but no one ever does what’s best for them. ‘He’s a vigilante, I guess. He’s not one of them: he’s their enemy.’

  She seemed to do all she could not to roll her eyes at the vagueness. She switched gears. ‘Right. He’s Batman. How’d you become friends?’

  ‘Our wives met at the park. We’ve both got young boys.’ He swirled what was left of his pint round and round, somewhat meditatively. ‘We got to know each other. He was using a cover story for a while, claiming to be some tech entrepreneur from Silicon Valley, and that was an act, but our friendship wasn’t. I guess I could always tell something was off, but I didn’t bring it up. I didn’t want to ruin whatever it was we had. I got the sense I was on thin ice, that talking to civilians like me wasn’t some
thing he ever did. I sensed I was an exception. And eventually he told me everything, proved me right.’

  ‘Told you what?’

  Bill waved a hand. ‘He kept it vague, so I will too. I won’t assume. He’s that guy you watch in action movies, that horrendous cliché, but he’s real. You know: six-three, two hundred and twenty pounds, made of metal, with that haunted look in his eyes, like he’d been at war his whole life. And a good man to boot. Still had his humanity there.’

  He had her attention. ‘Sounds dreamy.’

  ‘I remember being so curious. I own a landscaping supply company. Thirteen employees. A wife and baby at home. Everything was slotted into neat little boxes, and I thought there was nothing more to life. Then I met him, and realised there was a whole world I hadn’t so much as glimpsed. He taught me a couple of things, planted a few seeds. Gave me private boxing lessons in the mornings, taught me how to throw a punch, all the little intricacies they won’t bother running you through unless you’re paying thousands for the best coaches in the world. I think, in a way, I was a little side-project of his. To see what he could teach a disciplined civilian. It was just that … a bit of martial arts, a few lessons on mindset…’