Betrayed: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 4)

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the driver said. His English accent was close to perfect. At the rate Walcott paid him, he expected the man to be nothing less than multi-lingual.

  ‘Airport.’

  The Rolls peeled away into the breezy French morning. Walcott rested his head against the supple leather headrest and breathed a deep sigh, laced with contentment.

  Destination: Egypt.

  Reward: close to another billion.

  He dialled a number on the phone installed in the rear tray of the Rolls and it was answered on the second ring. ‘It’s Andy,’ he said.

  A man responded in crisp and succinct English. ‘You will be here shortly?’

  Walcott checked his Omega. ‘Should be. If I make this flight. Stayed a while at the bar…’

  ‘You sound drunk.’

  Something inside Walcott trembled. A nerve, a reflex. He was not a man who could be disrespected anymore. ‘What concern is that of yours?’

  ‘None. See you shortly.’

  ‘You’re damn right, none. We’re ready to go, right?’

  ‘Just waiting on a few particulars.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We’ll discuss that when you get here.’

  ‘But we’re set?’

  ‘We’re set.’

  ‘Good,’ Walcott said, running a hand along the plush interior of the Maybach. He grinned. ‘Let’s make some fucking money.’

  CHAPTER 3

  Newark Liberty International Airport

  New Jersey, USA

  Rain lashed against the well-lit runway as the Boeing 787 touched down. It was a rough landing. The cabin shook violently as the plane hit the tarmac and the pilot fought for control. The brakes kicked in, screaming all around the passengers. Babies burst out crying. Somewhere in economy class, a young woman let out a shriek, unable to help herself.

  In first-class, Jason King slept peacefully.

  He knew the chances of the plane crashing upon landing. They were low. Airplane technology had advanced significantly, to the point where a malfunction was a freak occurrence. He didn’t let it bother him. He couldn’t. There wasn’t much that bothered him nowadays.

  Sure enough, the plane coasted to a crawl and the surrounding passengers quickly calmed. He opened his eyes and stretched, taking a glance out the large window to his right. The night would be freezing. He knew that much. It was a world apart from the tropical paradise in which he’d spent the last few months of his life.

  Retirement…

  Now, he scoffed at the idea. He had tried to quit. Tried to escape the chaos, the violence, the death, the carnage.

  He’d stepped away from the organisation that had turned him into a one-man army and sent him out to carve a destructive path through the darkest corners of the globe. Black Force had done him good — most prominently in the financial department — but every man has a breaking point.

  King had reached his months ago.

  Turned out, he would never be able to find peace.

  At least, not yet…

  He’d tried three times. Three times he’d failed. Dead bodies had stacked behind him like dominoes.

  Then, an incident in the Mediterranean paradise of Corsica had resulted in a lack of manpower in Black Force’s operational department. Their next-best operative — Will Slater — had disappeared off the face of the planet. He had opted to take a much-needed retirement, just like King.

  King wondered where the man was now…

  No matter the case, he was here.

  An unknown female voice had instructed him in no uncertain terms to get the first flight to New York City and await further instructions. The abrupt command had done little to faze him. He carried no possessions. He had no fixed abode. An attempt at such a lifestyle in Corsica had proved disastrous. This life — the life of a wanderer — was all he’d ever known. It had been a quick decision to return to Black Force and he’d embraced every facet of what that would require.

  The Boeing pulled into the terminal and the seatbelt lights flickered off. Families and couples and tourists scrambled to be the first out of their seats, snatching their carry-on luggage out of the overhead compartments with nonsensical haste. King had no luggage. He stayed put. Maybe this would be his last taste of freedom for a very long time. Who knew how long it would take to find suitable replacements for himself and Slater.

  Until then, he would act as a placeholder.

  A highly dangerous, relentlessly vicious placeholder.

  He departed the plane as soon as there was space, moving straight past the baggage carousel and through passport control. A groggy official took one look at him before stamping his passport and sending him on his way. He strode past rugged-up civilians holding signs for their loved ones and bought a refrigerated bottle of water from one of the vending machines. The temperature was close to arctic outside, but King didn’t drink coffee. Water was what he was accustomed to, so it was all he bought. He wore a thick black Ralph Lauren overcoat that had cost him a few thousand, and that was enough to keep him warm.

  In his retirement, his materialistic side had not wasted any time surfacing from the depths of his subconscious.

  Before stepping away from black-ops, the spartan lifestyle was all he had ever known. He knew it would be effortless to transition back to those ways. He didn’t mind enjoying every luxury while he had the opportunity to.

  He stepped outside the terminal and was instantly greeted by the biting wind. The overcoat did its job, protecting him from the chill that often accompanied such icy conditions. The roads were slick with sleet. A faint dusting of snow coated the parking lot opposite the terminal. King hailed a taxi waiting patiently in a queue of similar vehicles and dropped into the rear seat.

  ‘Where to?’ the driver asked from behind a glass partition.

  King hesitated. Good question.

  ‘You hear me?’ the guy said.

  ‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘I heard you.’

  ‘So where to?’

  ‘Four Seasons.’

  ‘On 57th?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ King said. ‘I just heard it was good.’

  The driver scoffed and shook his head at the strange interaction. He shifted the taxi into drive and they began the twenty-minute journey into New York City’s glowing metropolis. Before they reached the city, they passed great swathes of industrial zones. King stared out at the dark surroundings. Trucks loaded to the brim with goods and supplies rested outside gargantuan warehouses. He wondered what kinds of illicit operations lay in the shadows. It seemed everywhere he turned in his retirement, he found something unsavoury.

  He assumed that would never change.

  But why did he always have to be the one who ended up dealing with it?

  At nine in the evening, traffic wasn’t as congested as during peak hours. They took the exit ramp off the New Jersey Turnpike and continued through the Lincoln Tunnel. They came out into a glowing extravaganza of city life. King observed the surroundings with a certain sense of wonder. He didn’t come to New York City very often. In fact, he hadn’t stepped foot in the United States of America since he’d stormed out of the Pentagon all those months ago, leaving an astonishing career behind.

  Australia.

  Venezuela.

  Corsica.

  All had resulted in mayhem.

  Now he was home.

  He quickly became re-accustomed to New York traffic. The driver swerved around a car and a pair of pedestrians, swearing viciously at them in the process. Despite everything, King still felt the need to reach up and seize the handhold above his head. It would do him no good to avoid death over two chaotic decades just to end up in a fatal collision due to an idiotic taxi driver.

  Along the way they passed Madison Square Garden, and Penn Station, and the New York Times head office, and the Empire State Building. King no longer saw the landmarks as anything but targets. He couldn’t help himself, relentlessly checking each dark corner and narrow alleyway for signs
of danger. He had dealt with nothing else for so long that it had become a subconscious action, ingrained into him like a nervous tic.

  Where ordinary people saw pleasure, he saw weaknesses.

  The taxi turned onto 57th Street without further incident. King tipped graciously, despite the terse conversation they’d shared at the start, and got out into a bustling hive of activity. He dodged tourists and locals alike inundated with designer shopping bags and luxury fur coats. Consumed by materialism.

  Years prior, he would have considered them insane. Now that he’d had time to dabble in the finer taste of things, dipping his fingers into the pie of off-the-books eight-figure special-operations funds, he had to admit the lifestyle had grown on him.

  He would do good to cut that out.

  The Four Seasons lay directly ahead, sandwiched between a plethora of upmarket art galleries and boutique restaurants. He knew 57th had earned its nickname — Billionaire’s Row — due to its opulence. He didn’t care how expensive everything along the strip would be. He knew it might be his last taste of this lifestyle for a long time…

  Possibly forever.

  Black Force operatives — understandably — had a notoriously short life-expectancy.

  And here you are, he thought. Falling back into their open arms.

  He shrugged the thought of out his mind and strode through the revolving doors and into an ornate marble lobby. A pretty receptionist flashed a smile as he approached the front desk.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the—’

  He had heard the same spiel too many times to count. ‘Thank you,’ he interrupted, as politely as he could. ‘What are the most expensive rooms you have here?’

  ‘Um…’ she hesitated, stunned by his straight-forward nature. ‘Let me see.’

  She scrolled through a list of available rooms, pausing on some, panning straight past others. ‘We have a few…’

  ‘Perfect.’

  She looked up. ‘I haven’t even—’

  ‘Just give me one of them, please.’

  ‘Would you like me to list their features?’

  ‘Which one’s the best?’

  ‘Studio 57 is available. But is it just you, sir?’

  ‘Just me.’

  ‘Okay, well it has panoramic views and—’

  King handed over a credit card with two fingers, cutting her off once again. ‘Sorry. In a bit of a hurry. It sounds nice.’

  She looked at the card, shrugged and conceded. It took a little over three minutes to charge him several thousand for the night. By the time he took the card back and received a room keycard he was ready for a long and undisturbed sleep. There was no real hurry, but he wasn’t in the mood for small talk. His body still ached from the brutal back-and-forth with Slater in Corsica.

  Running a speedboat aground probably didn’t help you.

  He nodded a farewell to the receptionist and made for the bank of elevators set into the far wall. Everything about the Four Seasons was lavish, extravagant, pristine. King soaked it all up while he still had the chance.

  The elevator responded immediately and whisked him up to a plush corridor close to the top floor. He’d stayed in similar luxury back in Venezuela.

  That hadn’t turned out so well.

  He covered the length of the corridor with added caution, making no unnecessary movements. His body needed to heal. It had been beaten and battered just a couple of days prior.

  Nothing he wasn’t used to, but recovery was required all the same.

  The receptionist hadn’t been kidding about the views. He unlocked the enormous oak door to the suite and stepped into a room furnished with impeccable detail. He barely paid attention to the luxurious interior. What amazed him were the vast windows providing unparalleled views over the Manhattan skyline. To the north lay the dark swathe of land that was Central Park. Past it, the Hudson River. To the south, the Empire State Building towered over its surroundings, its tip lit up in the most brilliant shade of green.

  King lost track of the time he spent admiring the city. He treated it as his last taste of freedom, a final departing gift before he was thrust back into the world of espionage and clandestine ops. Then he turned away from the view, sat down on the bed and dialled the same number he’d called back in the quaint seaside town of Calvi, halfway across the globe.

  Once again, the woman on the other end wasted no time in answering. ‘You’re here?’

  ‘Nice to hear from you, too.’

  ‘Cut the shit. You know we need you. Neither of us have time for small talk.’

  ‘You going to tell me anything yet?’

  ‘You’re not with us yet, King. I’m looking at the papers you signed in the Pentagon. You’re still a civilian. I can’t tell you a thing.’

  ‘You want me to sign my life away before explaining what I’m needed for?’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘Good to hear.’

  ‘You’re the one who offered.’

  King shrugged. ‘The alternative wasn’t going so well.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. You’ve been a busy man.’

  ‘Not by my own intentions.’

  ‘I don’t know if I believe that.’

  ‘Believe whatever you want. I’m willing to give you my services on a silver platter. That should be enough. Where do we meet?’

  ‘Just sit tight. We know where you are. We’ll be in touch.’

  King glanced up from the floor and cast his eyes over the room. A nervous twitch ran down his spine. ‘No need for the intimidating bullshit. Just tell me where I’m needed.’

  ‘Sit tight, King.’

  The line went dead. King swore and tucked the phone back into his pocket. Some part of him wanted to head straight back to the airport and disappear into the shadows of the world’s darkest corners. He hadn’t discovered a thing about the woman on the other end of the line — and sure didn’t feel appreciated for offering his services.

  How are you even sure she’s Black Force?

  There were certain intonations in her tone that had convinced him. Her attempt at masking the shock in her voice when he had explained Slater’s disappearance were easily detectable. They both knew that King was needed, even if she hadn’t explicitly vocalised it. There was no skirting around that cold truth.

  He had to fill in until operatives of the same skill level were discovered.

  Who knew how long that would be…

  He stayed on the bed for less than a minute. Sitting tight — with no objective in sight — wasn’t his thing. He shrugged the overcoat back on and made for the elevator.

  CHAPTER 4

  Despite visiting near every country on the planet over his storied career and experiencing all manner of exotic cuisine, there was little to rival a slice of New York pizza.

  King opted to walk to Penn Station instead of taking the subway. The cool night air and sea of luminescent billboards and advertisements were preferable to a cramped and humid train carriage. Taxis beeped, pedestrians gossiped animatedly and street vendors hollered from their smoking carts loaded to the brim with hot dogs and pretzels.

  King spoke to no-one. He enjoyed the solitude. He wouldn’t have got very far in his career if he didn’t. He recalled the days and weeks spent in foreign land, with no help or backup for hundreds of miles in any direction. Alone, armed and ready for war.

  Just the way he liked it.

  The adrenalin that came from a life-or-death encounter couldn’t be rivalled by any civilian activity. There were countless experiences that were supposed to get the blood flowing in ordinary life, and King had done almost all of them. But skydiving and driving supercars and wakeboarding all had one thing in common — they were designed to provide maximum safety to the user. King thrived in the milliseconds where the term ‘survival of the fittest’ reared its raw and primal head. Where the man who lived was the one who reacted first.

  It charged him.

  Invigorated him.

 
; Maybe that’s why he was going back…

  He found a local joint opposite Penn Station and ordered a couple of slices of Sicilian. He found a cheap plastic booth near the back of the place and sat down while the array of chefs bounced back and forth behind the counter, preparing customers’ food with exaggerated motions.

  The pizza was hot and delicious. He ate quickly, savouring the grease. He considered it about time for a cheat meal.

  Underneath the thick winter clothing his musculature was hard as stone. He knew the re-introduction to Black Force would be gruelling both physically and mentally — it would require a certain level of resilience that was rarely found in the general population. He also knew he had the uncanny ability to switch his mind off in the face of immeasurable physical exertion. He found himself grateful for the routine he’d stuck to back in Corsica. He was in peak physical condition.

  That would help with what lay ahead.

  He left the joint with a wave to the staff behind the counter. They smiled back, jovial, glad to provide delicious food to their satisfied customers. King envied the simplicity. He’d tried that life with the purchase of a seaside bar in Calvi.

  It hadn’t exactly gone the way he had intended…

  Across the road, a crowd surged out of Madison Square Garden. Knicks fans whooped and hollered as they exited the arena, celebrating a much-needed win this late in the regular season. King merged effortlessly into their ranks and began the slow stroll back to the Four Seasons.

  Halfway there, two large hands planted on his left shoulder and shoved him, hard.

  King sprawled sideways, taken off-guard by the sudden move. He hadn’t been anticipating it — and the push had been placed in such a way to send him stumbling off-balance, directly into a dark alley between two towering residential buildings.

  He righted himself in the lip of the alley and stepped out of a decent-sized puddle that had formed in the lee of an overflowing gutter. Long shadows sprawled across the man who had pushed him. He’d followed King into the alleyway. It had been his intention to cut him off from the bustle of New York foot traffic.