by Matt Rogers
Lopez and Price had been sent in to collect intel and lay low, acting only if absolutely necessary. Both men stated that on their recon they came across scenes of utter depravity — the details of which involved gang rape and torture. They both collected video evidence of the scenes as proof before moving in. Isla had not attached these videos to the email; King was glad. He took their word for it. What surprised him about the report was the resulting conflict. It left eighteen local men dead and all four hostages completely unharmed in the crossfire.
King thought back to a mission of his own in the Amazon Rainforest, six long years ago. It hadn’t gone so swimmingly…
Now he understood why Isla wanted these two back. They were a devastating two-man unit, surgical and precise. They were the protégés intended to fill the footsteps of himself and Slater. The new blood…
And now they were gone.
He had become so engrossed in the case reports that he barely noticed the plane had made its descent. He looked up from his phone as the wheels touched the tarmac of Cairo International Airport.
They had arrived.
Across the aisle, a middle-aged Caucasian guy peeled his eyes away from the large window to his left. He looked across and King made eye contact with him.
‘Ever been to Egypt?’ the guy asked, his American accent thick.
King shook his head. ‘First time.’
‘Same here. Andy Walcott.’
‘Jason King.’
They both extended their arms and shook hands across the passage, almost knocking over a flight attendant in the process. King apologised and turned to the man. ‘Here for business?’
The man nodded. ‘Unfortunately. Gotta pay the bills.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Business for yourself?’
The seatbelt light flicked off once again and everyone scrambled out of their seats.
‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘Bit of business. Shouldn’t take long.’
Walcott collected his small carry-on suitcase and made for the exit, where another smiling flight attendant waited to wish everyone a safe holiday. ‘Take care of yourself.’
‘You too.’
Small talk. Nothing more, nothing less. He followed the well-dressed American through the corridor and out into the terminal, where the guy promptly faded into the crowds of arriving tourists.
Looking back the next day — after twenty-four hours of relentless carnage — King would wish that he had choked Andrew Walcott to death then and there.
CHAPTER 11
The first noticeable aspect of Egypt was the intense heat.
King felt it the second he stepped out of the terminal. It punched him like an invisible fist. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun beat down like a furnace against the yellowed surroundings. He hailed a beat-up white taxi from a rank of similar vehicles and the driver pulled up next to him.
As soon as he took a step toward the cab, a hand seized his shoulder.
He wheeled in an arc, heart pounding, ears thrumming. He half-expected to stare into the barrel of a fully-loaded weapon, to get just a brief glimpse of the gunmetal before a bullet tore the soft tissue inside his head to pulp.
In the end, he need not have worried.
A fifty-something Egyptian man with oily skin and thin greasy hair shook him by the arm, shouting animatedly in broken English. King couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying, but it was something about the new taxis stealing business from the old black-and-white taxis. He offered him a discount eight separate times before King shrugged him off and ducked into the original cab.
‘I am very sorry for that,’ the driver said as King slammed the door shut. His English was several times more refined, and King relished the air-conditioning blasting into the back seat. ‘They extort. Very desperate for money.’
‘I think I can handle it,’ King said with a smile. ‘I’ve got thick skin.’
‘Where to, my friend?’
King looked at his phone, scrolling back up to the text from Isla. He had a room at the Marriott waiting for him — but what use would that be? He wouldn’t find answers to anything by waiting, cooped up in a luxurious suite which Black Force had no doubt arranged.
There was work to be done.
Instead, he re-opened the files she had sent through and pulled up the last-known location of Lopez and Price — directly outside one of the many residential buildings on Al Narges. There would be a truckload more progress by jumping straight into things. Besides, the longer he waited around, the more his nerves intensified.
Time to get the ball rolling.
He relayed the address to the driver, who King saw raise an eyebrow through the rear-view mirror.
‘Zamalek,’ the man noted. ‘Very nice, sir.’
‘Thank you,’ King said.
‘How long are you here for?’
King checked his watch. ‘Not long, hopefully.’
The taxi slogged through the condensed traffic looking to leave Cairo International. When they made it off Airport Road and settled into a steady pace on a wide street called El-Orouba, King took his time to soak in the Egyptian atmosphere. Above everything else, he got the feeling that everyone was in a perpetual hurry, not afraid to take risks in order to get to their destination faster. The traffic drew striking parallels to the reckless nature of New York drivers. However, here it was a little more wild.
Dusty vans and second-hand sedans shot past through tight gaps, many of them sporting a cluster of locals on the rear bumper and hanging off the sides. King marvelled at the sheer chaos of it all. Horns blared and the sun beat down through the taxi’s tinted windows. King started perspiring — even with the air conditioning going full blast. He took out the thick wad of Egyptian Pounds he’d withdrawn at currency exchange back in the terminal, ready to pay the driver as soon as they arrived at their destination.
The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene.
They plunged into the heart of Cairo itself. The taxi passed grand mosques and graffitied corner stores and bustling marketplaces and thousands of pedestrians hurrying from destination to destination. It had a similar atmosphere to Maiquetía, during the brief period of his life that he’d spent in Venezuela. He shivered as he recalled the details of that particular trip. He would likely never return in his life.
Their prison system was a particular hell he had no intention of revisiting.
‘This is real Cairo,’ the driver explained. ‘Zamalek is fake.’
‘Fake?’
‘Everything is for rich people. Too expensive. Too false. Not the truth.’
King nodded at the observation. He guessed as much. Dump a district full of wealthy types into an underdeveloped city with a barebones economy and tensions were bound to rise. He saw many instances of poverty on their journey through Cairo. On a dusty sidewalk, a blind beggar in ragged clothes clawed at the air, shouting inaudible phrases. King caught a brief flash of the gaping holes where his eyes used to be before the taxi passed him by.
Before long, they left the city behind and crossed what was labelled the “6th of October Bridge” over the Nile. King stared down at the wide expanse of water, flowing north, lit up by the stark afternoon sun. This section of the river was a radiant blue, in direct contrast to the photos he’d seen of the Nile’s usual muddied olive tone. Then the taxi finished its journey across the bridge and they continued onward, into Zamalek.
‘This is the district?’ King said.
‘It is the whole island,’ the driver said. ‘They cut themselves off from the rest of the city. They do not want to see how the rest are doing.’
‘You sound like you’re not a fan.’
‘No, sir,’ the driver said. ‘Definitely not a fan.’
King checked his watch. It had been over half an hour since they’d left the airport. ‘Good for your meter though.’
The driver nodded and smiled. ‘I cannot argue with that.’
The pair chuckled.
As the taxi trawled into the inner workings of Zamalek, King instantly noticed the shift in atmosphere. The traffic melted away and the streets opened out. An air of calm and tranquility washed over everything.
There was certainly a stark contrast.
Most of Cairo was hot, dusty, claustrophobic, rundown. The infrastructure of this district was miles ahead, with brand-new apartment buildings arcing into the sky and luscious palm trees casting shadows across the clean sidewalks. It was much less populated.
That was what struck King the most. The absolute lack of noise.
For some reason, he grew nervous. This was not the type of place to cause an uproar. He would have much preferred investigating two missing operatives back in the real Cairo, where chaos and confusion were a daily part of life. Here, he felt that if he were to step into a restricted area, alarm bells would scream across the island.
The taxi pulled up to the destination he’d given the driver. The street was indistinguishable from any of the others across the district, open and spacious and inviting. King glanced at the meter and slipped a few large bills across to the driver, providing him a decent tip for his services.
The man accepted the money with a nod of gratitude. ‘Thank you very much. Enjoy your stay.’
‘I’ll try,’ King muttered, and slipped out of the vehicle.
The taxi peeled away, leaving him alone on Al Narges. He was the sole pedestrian on the sidewalk at this time of day. The palm fronds overhead only covered certain areas, and as a result the heat crept back across his skin. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and set off at a leisurely pace toward the end of the street, doing his absolute best to avoid attention.
It was hard. At six-foot-three and two-hundred-and-twenty pounds he would likely tower over any of the locals that passed him by. The solution to that was to get the job done as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t wait around in the shadows hoping for a lead, trying desperately to avoid confrontation. He would continue to move forward until answers presented themselves or he died in the process. It was how he had behaved his entire career.
To this day, it hadn’t let him down.
The destination in question was a quaint hotel on the corner of the street, ten storeys high and sporting a few hundred luxury rooms for visiting businessmen and wealthy expats alike. As he drew closer to the sprawling entrance to the hotel, foot traffic increased. He welcomed the pedestrians. Being alone on the sidewalk had caused him to break out in sweat. It could easily be attributed to the heat, but it was difficult to mask the sheer vulnerability that came with the isolation.
It would only take the slightest level of suspicion from whoever was lurking in the shadows to blow his brains out before he could step foot in the hotel.
Lopez and Price had been sure that Nasser was staying in the hotel, which King noted was named “River Resort”, according to an enormous logo above the entrance. Given that they hadn’t been heard from since, he felt the need to follow up their lead. He took one glance inside the lobby — noting the young receptionists and lack of obvious security — and made a decision on the spot. He continued past the entrance, acting like a curious tourist off for a stroll through the streets.
He spotted what he was looking for across the street and strode over, waiting for a pair of luxury supercars to idle past before crossing the asphalt. A department store catering to the wealthiest on the island was open for business on the other side. He entered and found a prop within minutes.
A bulky mahogany Louis Vuitton briefcase — price tag 75,000 Egyptian Pounds.
Four thousand USD, King figured. He whistled softly and shrugged it off. Black Force had a limitless budget for a reason.
Wondering what Isla would make of the obscene purchase, he took the case to the counter and paid on card. The sales assistant offered him a range of other items that might suit his exquisite taste, each of which he politely turned down. The case was merely there to impress. It would do adequately enough. Nothing else was necessary.
He walked back across the street, four thousand USD poorer, carrying the Louis Vuitton briefcase like it was the most important thing on earth. With the logo emblazoned across the leather, it was noticeably expensive even to the untrained eye. He hoped it would do its job.
He stuck his chest out as he strode into the lobby, noticing for the first time a security guard in a cheap suit loitering by the entrance. He exchanged a curt nod with the man, increasing his pace as if he were in a hurry. He made it to the ornate wooden reception desk with its non-existent queue and placed the briefcase delicately on its surface.
The pretty young receptionist — the youngest, and therefore hopefully the most easily convinced — glanced at the case, noting its make. She looked up at King. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Afternoon,’ King said. ‘I have an appointment with Mr. Khalil Nasser.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.’
King gave a condescending scowl, like hearing this news was a personal travesty. ‘I was explicitly instructed to meet him in his room. I don’t think I need to stress that this is a matter of great importance. I’ve flown from Virginia to get here and — frankly — if Mr. Nasser would like to acquire my services he will need to be a little more hospitable than this. Would you like to let him know this?’
He spoke in the most pompous, arrogant tone that he could sufficiently pass off. It did its job. The receptionist — horrified at the thought of the mysterious Mr. Nasser berating her for losing a client of considerable wealth and prosperity — made a hasty apology and scrambled to check the computer in front of her. King glanced quickly around the area, checking that no managers or official-looking staff were anywhere nearby.
Experienced staff would quickly wisen up to his act. The woman in front of him couldn’t be much older than twenty. His imposing stature and hurried demands had created an air of pressure that she’d folded to. She wanted to keep her job, after all.
It took less than a minute.
‘Khalil Nasser?’ she said, staring at the screen.
King nodded and said nothing.
‘He’s in Room 405,’ she said. ‘I apologise for the confusion. Would you like me to let him know that you’re on your way up?’
King shook his head and scowled again. ‘No, thank you. I think I need to give Mr. Nasser a lesson in courtesy. I will speak to him when I get up there. Have a pleasant day.’
He spun away from the desk and made for the bank of elevators on the far wall, leaving the receptionist to ponder her violation of the privacy of the hotel’s guests. In the moment, she definitely hadn’t been thinking as such. King knew he could be convincing when he tried his best.
He intercepted a Western couple waiting for one of the elevators to chime open and fell in behind them, just in case navigating to certain floors was only possible with a room key. It proved a good plan. The doors slid open a few seconds later and the fifty-something balding man slid a white rectangular keycard out of his pocket. He tapped it against an electronic panel and thumbed one of the floor numbers. King flicked his eyes over to the floor plan of the hotel plastered to the elevator wall and quickly ascertained which floor housed room number 405.
The fourth.
He patted his pockets, smiled apologetically at the couple and scuffled into the corner, changing his demeanour in an instant. Where before he’d exuded confidence and impatience, now he transformed into a shy, polite businessman. ‘Floor 4 for me, please.’
The couple thought nothing of it. They smiled, nodded back and the man scanned his card again and thumbed the number “4”.
Like clockwork, King thought.
The elevator rattled and shook as it ascended into the building. Clearly, the upmarket style of the hotel was simply a facade covering decades-old architecture. The elevators had yet to be upgraded. The older couple got off on a lower floor with a smile and a farewell nod. The doors slid shut behind them and King was left alone in the el
evator.
He threw the briefcase onto the floor and left it there. It had no further purpose. He rolled the cuffs of his sleeves up to his forearms and cracked his knuckles. He didn’t know what would await him in the apartment, but he would be walking in unarmed. He assumed Isla would be scrambling to organise arms to be delivered to his hotel room — but he hadn’t made it this far through his career from waiting. His intuition said that this was what needed to be done to catch Nasser off-guard.
He never failed to listen to his intuition.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and the doors slid silently open. King took a deep breath and ducked out into a deserted corridor. The carpet was overly soft — it seemed that with each footfall he sunk a little deeper into the plush material — and the walls were old-school vertical wooden planks, polished until they shone. It was dead quiet. He grimaced as he made his way down the hallway’s length, wondering just how much commotion a no-holds-barred fistfight would cause.
He would soon find out.
He reached a small rickety door with the numerals “405” stencilled into the wood. King tried the handle, hoping for the best, but the room was locked. He hesitated outside the door, waiting patiently for some kind of opportunity.
Then he heard it. A deep thrumming from somewhere outside the hotel, clearly audible through the thin walls. It emanated from street level, so loud that King could hear it clearly on the fourth floor. He recognised the particular pitch of a V10 engine and narrowed it down to a handful of supercars — most likely an Audi R8 or a Lamborghini Huracan. Whatever the case, the sound was deafening — some rich Zamalek resident showing off their latest extravagant purchase.
King knew he could put the distraction to good use.
He waited until the supercar roared closer to the hotel. The whine reached a crescendo as the supercar tore past the road out the front of the property. At its apex, King threw a shoulder into the door of Room 405 so hard that the hinges snapped free. The door fell into the corridor within, accompanied by an almighty crash. It was loud, but the driver with a V10 engine at his disposal masked the majority of the racket. If King had made the same move ten seconds ago, every resident on the floor would have noticed something awry.