Corrupted: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 5)

by Matt Rogers

  He had moved fast for as long as he could remember.

  The orange glow of dusk filtered over the treetops as he came to rest in front of the square’s centrepiece — a large statue of the Viking god Thor. He lifted his wrist and concluded the evening run at twelve miles.

  He felt his lungs burning in his chest and the veins in his neck throbbing as they sent blood where it was necessary. It was uncomfortable, but discomfort had become so common in his life that he felt strange if he wasn’t experiencing it.

  Besides, he had learnt to balance that discipline with enjoyment of life.

  A short-lived retirement had assisted with that endeavour.

  It had been tough to take a sabbatical. Every fibre of his being had begged to head straight back into action. He had entrenched the habit of constant motion so firmly in his psyche that it took great effort to refuse the lure of operations.

  But his handler — Isla — had offered him a short vacation to recuperate from the damage he’d sustained in Cairo, and there had been someone he needed to see…

  He found the building he was looking for — a residential apartment complex facing out over the Mariatorget — and strode into its lobby. He exchanged a nod with a tired-looking receptionist at the end of his shift who had seen King leave over an hour earlier. The daily run had become something of a staple in the brief period of time that King had spent at the complex.

  Even though it went against the urges ingrained into him, he almost dreaded returning to active duty.

  He took the stairs two at a time. The hooded sweatshirt draped over his muscular frame was plastered to his skin, damp with sweat. As he reached the fifth floor and made for the quaint wooden door at the end of the hallway, he peeled the shirt off and scrunched it into a ball.

  On an average day, he churned through enough laundry to keep a full-time maid busy.

  Maintaining this level of physical fitness had its requirements.

  The door was locked. He slipped a silver key out of his back pocket and let himself in quietly.

  The apartment was art nouveau, sporting a vast, sweeping main room complete with a high ceiling and a predominantly white colour palette. A marble kitchen bench swept along one wall, behind a dining area and adjacent to spacious living quarters. A four-poster bed lay against the opposite wall.

  He shuffled silently across the oak parquet flooring and ducked into a connecting bathroom. He took an ice-cold shower to wash away the sweat exerted on the run and crept back into the main room, calmed by the serotonin flooding his brain after the exercise.

  ‘I’m awake,’ a soft voice said, chuckling. ‘You don’t need to sneak around like a mouse.’

  Klara was stretched out across the four-poster bed by the window, half her lithe frame covered by the stark white duvet. Her skin was paler than usual, weeks removed from the Corsican sun that King had first met her under. There was little opportunity to tan in the freezing Swedish winter.

  King preferred the lighter skin tone. Every day, he still found himself taken aback by her beauty.

  He smiled. ‘This is new. Usually I don’t hear from you for hours.’

  ‘What can I say?’ she said, rolling on her side to face him. ‘Afternoon naps are getting shorter. You’re curing my habits.’

  ‘I wish I wasn’t,’ King said, tapping the side of his head. ‘Can’t help myself.’

  ‘You’re missing out,’ she said as King dropped onto his side of the four-poster bed. ‘Naps are one of life’s greatest experiences.’

  ‘I could list a couple of better experiences,’ King said as she threw the duvet off her lingerie-clad body and rolled on top of him.

  An hour later, the final rays of daylight filtered in through the traditional bay windows beside the bed.

  Lying naked side-by-side, they both dozed.

  King stirred as the room darkened and cast his gaze across the apartment’s contents. Klara had done incredibly well for herself. Over the time he’d spent in Sweden, he had come to learn so much more about her than their brief whirlwind romance in Corsica had revealed.

  He had started to fall for her even harder.

  She certainly hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in her mouth. No-one purchased an apartment in one of the most sought after addresses in Sweden without a certain level of wealth. Klara’s had been made through a determination and work ethic that King deeply admired. It turned out her modelling in Corsica had been the last leg of a worldwide campaign covering glamour magazines and international brands.

  That last leg had almost proved disastrous. How close she had come to an unspeakably horrendous fate at the hands of a corrupt politician still sent shivers down King’s spine…

  She came to not long after he did. He watched her piercing blue eyes as she stirred.

  She smiled. ‘This is nice.’

  He couldn’t argue.

  He knew that the closer he got to her, the more devastated she would be if he were to die in the service of Black Force. Even still, he couldn’t help himself. After over ten years of embracing pain and fear as a part of his life, he wasn’t about to refuse a burst of happiness amidst the carnage.

  She noticed his hesitation. ‘You need to go back soon, don’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘I wish I didn’t.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you?’

  He paused.

  It was the most complicated puzzle he had ever attempted to disassemble. He knew where she was coming from. When they had first met, he had been retired. Now he was back working for the very same organisation he had fled from — and he couldn’t deny that it felt right. The time he’d spent away from Black Force had been just as chaotic as his previous career, and it had taken a dire situation within their ranks for him to return.

  It felt like he had never left.

  ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he said.

  ‘I think I get it.’

  ‘I’m not really sure if I understand it myself.’

  ‘You’ve done this your whole adult life,’ Klara said. ‘It’s what you’re best at. You don’t feel like you’re doing the right thing when you sit around and don’t put that talent to use.’

  ‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘But there’s more…’

  ‘The addiction?’

  ‘I guess you could call it that.’

  Klara smirked. ‘Regular life is too boring?’

  He leant over and kissed her slowly, savouring her taste. He didn’t think it was something he would ever grow tired of. ‘It’s not boring. Truth is, there’s nothing I’d rather do than spend the rest of my life here. It’s just…’

  ‘The itch?’

  ‘The itch.’

  She said nothing. He wasn’t sure how she would respond. The silence grew unnerving.

  ‘Do you think I’m insane?’ he said.

  She smiled. ‘That itch — for adrenalin or fighting or whatever the hell it is you do — is probably the most useful one to have.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘You help people.’

  ‘I struggle with that too. It’s hard to do the right thing all the time. My field is so far from black and white…’

  ‘If it wasn’t for you, I don’t even want to think about where I would be right now. That boat in Corsica was hours away from leaving forever.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Think about how many people you’ve assisted that probably feel the same.’

  ‘I try not to think about anything that’s happened in the past,’ he said. ‘Keeps me sane.’

  ‘Yet you keep going back.’

  ‘You’re not angry that I feel I need to?’

  She kissed him again. ‘Just the opposite.’

  ‘If I leave—’ he said. ‘Are we committing to each other?’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘I was willing to do that ever since Corsica.’

  ‘Same here,’ King said. He paused, then shook his head and chuckled. ‘I have no idea how you deal with me.’

  ‘You’
re the one throwing yourself into danger,’ she said. ‘I’ll be worried, but you’ve got it so much worse.’

  ‘Voluntarily,’ King reminded her.

  ‘Voluntarily.’

  He rolled off the bed and slipped on a pair of designer jeans and a thick woollen jumper. ‘I’ll go pick up some stuff for dinner. The pantry’s empty.’

  ‘Don’t kill anyone on the way,’ Klara ribbed.

  He snatched his wallet off the kitchen bench and scoffed. ‘I’ll try my best.’

  Mariatorget had come alive by the time he made it out into the open air. The square — previously devoid of life — was filled with locals hurrying home to their luxury apartments, dressed to the nines in perfectly-tailored corporate attire.

  King knew he stood out amongst the general population. Two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of muscle on a six-foot-three frame stood out almost anywhere. He kept his head bowed as he strode through the square and onto Hornsgatan Street. The sidewalks were lined with maidenhair trees and the roads were congested with hundreds of civilian vehicles resting almost bumper-to-bumper, in the midst of the evening rush.

  He decided to spend a little more time than usual out of the apartment. The cold air felt good against his skin, and he was acutely aware of the time he could spend away from Black Force steadily ticking away.

  Isla had been lenient in letting him take a short vacation. She had no requirement to do so. The contract he had signed back in New York made it clear that his services were available twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-and-sixty-five days a year.

  Every minute he did not spend reporting for duty felt like borrowed time.

  Which it was.

  So he decided to stroll onto Centralbron, a major traffic route that connected Södermalm to the tourist-filled borough of Gamla Stan. He had made the journey across the waters a couple of times now, and he found the architecture of the old town took his mind off whatever troubles were plaguing him.

  He certainly had no shortage of those.

  He entered the town’s jurisdiction and walked along cobblestone streets, passing buildings that had been constructed as far back as the thirteenth century. He turned onto a narrow thoroughfare — mostly empty in comparison to the rest of the town — and began a slow trek through the heart of the town.

  Halfway along the path, he shivered.

  Somehow, it felt like he was being watched…

  He passed a bank of pay phones that seemed like they hadn’t been used in years. Graffiti was scrawled across their dial pads and they were overshadowed by the lip of a neighbouring building, tucked away and abandoned in this quiet corner of Stockholm.

  Then, the phone at the very end of the bank began to ring.

  King froze in his tracks, more than aware that it couldn’t be a coincidence. He stood and watched the phone without moving, weighing up his options, knowing the call was for him but unwilling to answer it.

  Finally, unsure as to why Black Force couldn’t have got in touch with him in an easier fashion, he lifted the cheap plastic receiver off its cradle and pressed it to his ear.

  ‘Enjoying the stroll?’ a deep male voice said.

  King recognised it.

  Because it’s not Black Force, he thought. It’s a friend.

  ‘Hey, Slater,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’

  3

  Will Slater was perhaps the only man on the planet as dangerous as King — if not more. Black Force had tasked him to eliminate King back in Corsica, a request that had proved futile after the two had teamed up to take down a corrupt politician in brutal fashion.

  King never would have imagined that Slater had shared his sentiments about the organisation that they had both devoted their lives to.

  He hadn’t spoken to Slater since the man had commandeered a chopper atop a billionaire’s superyacht and gone AWOL. It was one of the reasons King had resolved to come out of retirement.

  Because Black Force needed him.

  Slater had left a gaping hole in their ranks.

  ‘I hear you’re back at work,’ Slater said. ‘I hope that wasn’t all for me.’

  ‘If it was simply to replace you, I wouldn’t have done it,’ King said. ‘You know that. I had personal reasons.’

  ‘So I don’t need to thank you?’

  ‘I think you do,’ King said, smirking. ‘I’m probably going to be the one to talk Black Force out of killing you when they find you.’

  ‘They won’t find me.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m taking it a little more seriously than you were.’

  ‘Hiding was never my goal. I told them I was leaving, remember?’

  ‘Touché,’ Slater said. ‘How are you holding up?’

  King thought about the last week and how truly happy he was with Klara. ‘Could be worse, brother.’

  ‘Recovered from Egypt?’

  King paused. ‘How do you know that was me?’

  ‘Over thirty dead. Half the Giza Pyramid Complex blown to shreds. Who else would it have been?’

  ‘I’ve been keeping busy.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘How are you finding retirement?’ King said. ‘Hopefully yours isn’t as eventful as mine was.’

  ‘I’m enjoying life,’ Slater said. ‘Had to spend a couple of weeks making sure my tracks were covered. After all, I didn’t want Black Force sending you after me…’

  King scoffed. From Slater’s end, he thought he heard the sounds of splashing water and the faint laughter of children.

  ‘You in the sun?’ King said, leaning one shoulder against the pay phone stand.

  ‘Antigua,’ Slater said. ‘Thought I’d spend a few days in St. John’s.’ He hesitated, contemplating something. ‘I have your word not to share that with Isla?’

  ‘Share what?’ King said.

  Slater laughed. ‘Thank you.’

  King picked at a nail, wondering whether to prod. ‘Have you got the itch yet?’

  Slater paused. ‘Not yet. I’m hoping I don’t.’

  ‘Combat was your life,’ King said. ‘Like it was mine. Don’t be surprised if you feel the urge to come back.’

  ‘I’m never coming back.’

  King heard the weight in Slater’s tone and knew the man was telling the truth. He was done. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Really, I am.’

  ‘You were out,’ Slater said. ‘Why’d you go back?’

  ‘Three times. Three times I tried to start fresh and ran into more trouble than I could imagine. I guess I decided that it was inevitable.’

  ‘I hope you get out before it’s too late.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Good to talk to you, King.’

  ‘How the hell did you know where to call?’

  ‘CCTV’s a wonderful thing,’ Slater said. ‘Keep in touch.’

  The line went dead.

  King lost track of the time he kept hold of the phone, long after the call had ended. He stayed immobile by the bank of pay phones. There wasn’t a soul around to watch. He sunk deep into thought, wondering if he really had done the right thing to fill the gap left by Slater’s abrupt departure.

  It hadn’t been his responsibility.

  It hadn’t been expected of him.

  Maybe he should have kept as far away from Black Force as possible. Every day he seemed to grow more conflicted about whether he truly wanted to be there. In the end, it all came back to the simple fact that he had never known anything else, and an attempt to distance himself from that life had failed spectacularly.

  Now, he was in too deep.

  He set off back the way he had come, suddenly yearning to see Klara. The jarring nature of Slater’s observation had rattled him. He flicked his eyes over every nook and cranny of the archaic laneway as he made for the T-junction at the end.

  He felt like everyone was watching him all at once.

  If tracking him via CCTV had been so effortless, he didn’t want to consider who else might be watching.

&n
bsp; As he strode back out onto the main road and spotted the bridge leading back to the borough of Södermalm, he made up his mind to get back to the apartment as quickly as possible. Although the medieval town had previously felt like a breath of fresh air, now it was plagued by a certain sinister feeling.

  He didn’t like being observed.

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and pressed forward.

  He didn’t make it to the bridge.

  For a split second, King took his eyes off the sidewalk and glanced down at his feet — more an instinctual reaction than anything else. He imagined all manner of security cameras trained on his face and intuitively cast his eyes to the cobblestone underneath his shoes.

  When he looked back up, a man had materialised out of nowhere.

  The guy was taking measured strides in the opposite direction to King, only a few feet from passing him by. He had short brown hair — much like King’s — close-cropped and cut in the atypical military style. He couldn’t have been much taller than six feet, and his thick winter clothing covered gangly limbs. Hard lines were creased into his forehead, signifying years of stress.

  He seemed unassuming.

  King knew better.

  The guy met his gaze and King instantly noticed the recognition. This man was not here for a stroll. He had come for a single purpose and that purpose had something to do with King.

  The man glanced away in an attempt to disguise his intent. He carried on strolling toward King, pretending to scrutinise the architecture of the 17th and 18th century buildings running the length of the lane.

  King zoned in.

  He had no idea what would happen next. He felt a shot of cortisol flood his system like a jolt of fire. He made sure not to reveal the fact that he was on edge.

  The fact that he was onto the man heading straight for him.

  Then the guy stopped a foot away, as if he knew that it would be dangerous to try and close the distance.

  ‘Jason King,’ he said softly. ‘My name is Carter.’

  King ground to a halt. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Carter raised a hand slowly, fingers splayed, indicating that he was unarmed and meant no harm by the action. King watched carefully, anticipating a sudden lunge at any moment.