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 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 Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Chapter 76 Chapter 77 Chapter 78 Chapter 79 Chapter 80 Chapter 81 Announcement Afterword Books by Matt Rogers Reader’s Group About the Author Join the Reader’s Group and get a free 200-page book by Matt Rogers! 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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
