The Black Hornet (The James Ryker Series) by Rob Sinclair

Author:Rob Sinclair [Sinclair, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books
Published: 2024-05-26T00:00:00+00:00

33

Powell kept to his word. He got Ryker away from the PF, but not without the help of his entourage who suddenly sprang onto the scene. There were three of them: two men, one woman. All Mexican, all plain-clothed and unassuming, all with good English. Neither they nor Powell gave Ryker any details of who they were or who they worked for, but the task of Ryker running was already significantly harder.

Though not impossible.

Ryker hadn’t given up on the idea of splitting from Powell, despite the odds. Powell surely knew that too though, and Ryker sensed that as being one of the motivating factors behind Powell having brought up Lisa in the first place. (Other than the fact that Ryker had been about to choke him to death, of course.) Ryker was equally angered and intrigued by that. How could Powell possibly know anything about Lisa? But for now at least, he decided, it was worth the risk to wait and find out.

Soon after escaping the PF, Powell took Ryker back to the hotel that he’d earlier run from. This time he complied and went inside. Hotel was quite a loose term for the establishment; it was more like a safe house, Ryker reckoned. There was something about the guy on reception, and the faces of the people he saw inside. Not tourists. Not business people. These were all spooks, or at the least people that Powell was paying off.

When Ryker got to his room, two men, each armed with handguns, set up shop outside. Ryker wouldn’t call it being imprisoned exactly, but it wasn’t far off. Ryker believed he could take them on, if he had to, but for now he decided to comply and remain inside.

Ryker certainly wouldn’t call the room they gave him luxury, but compared to what he’d become used to at Santa Martha it could well have been the Ritz. There was an actual bed with an actual mattress, covers and a pillow. There was an en-suite bathroom with fresh running water and soap and shampoo. Ryker spent nearly an hour in the bath that evening, just enjoying the feeling of the warm water soothing his muscles that were tired and stiff, even though they’d gone largely unused recently – save for the odd brawl and motorcycle chase here and there.

The knife wounds Ryker had taken to the arm and back were sealed up, the stitches dissolved, though the area around the wounds remained swollen and tender and the scars were fresh and stark against the dulled look of Ryker’s many older blemishes. His body was still covered in remnants of bruises – blacks, purples, yellows – plus scrapes and grazes to his knees and elbows from falling off the moped. His face didn’t look too bad now though. The cut above his eye – stitches just about gone – was the only obvious defect remaining. Altogether, his body was something of a patchwork quilt of injuries and scars, but he’d heal.

After bathing, Ryker dressed in the clothes Powell had provided at the prison and he moved over to the window.

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