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

by Matt Rogers

  The third woman leant forward into the sliver of light arcing in through one of the grimy windows. Oily hair fell in strands on either side of her face. Her features were pale and terrified.

  Carmen, Sarah thought.

  The third female member of their party.

  ‘Are you hurt, Carmen?’ Sarah said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Confused silence. Carmen stared at her dirty clothing with wide eyes, searching for an injury. ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘You’re in shock,’ Sarah said. ‘But I don’t think any of us are hurt.’

  ‘We were drugged,’ Jessica muttered.

  Sarah nodded. ‘What happened to you all? Léo picked me up at the end of the shift. We got back… it was like we walked into a war zone.’

  Jessica grimaced. ‘I … can’t really remember. Everything was fine. Then the lights went out all at once. Someone got up to check it out, and all these men flooded in…’

  Carmen gulped back apprehension. ‘There was fighting. Screaming.’

  ‘My memory is awful,’ Jessica said. ‘I can only remember fragments.’

  ‘Do you remember a building?’ Sarah said.

  The other women gazed at her blankly.

  ‘Not this one,’ she said. ‘A massive warehouse. Like a … I think it was a mine.’

  The mental image of a vast cage covering some kind of elevator came back to her. Descending into the depths of the earth.

  She shivered involuntarily.

  Carmen’s eyes went wider still. ‘Is that where we are? Are we underground?’

  Sarah heard her breaths quicken. She sensed the panic and the claustrophobia in her tone. Carmen thought that if they were miles underground, there would be no hope of escape.

  She was probably right…

  Sarah bucked and rocked on the cold floor until she built up enough momentum to leap to her feet. She got the soles of her all-weather boots underneath her and sprung up in one fluid motion.

  High-school gymnastics paid off, she thought.

  From here, she could get a better look out the windows. She crossed to the nearest pane by hopping on both feet, taking care not to tumble off-balance in the process. At any moment she expected one of the men who had abducted them to thunder into the storage shed and strike her down.

  With a racing heart, she made it to the window. The entire pane of reinforced glass had fogged up from the body heat within the storage shed. She raised both hands — still tied together — and swiped downwards with her sleeves, carving a vertical line through the condensation.

  She gasped.

  ‘What is it?’ Jessica said.

  Sarah stayed silent for a long moment, taking in the view. ‘We’re not underground. We’re nowhere near a mine, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Where the fuck are we?’ Carmen muttered.

  ‘I … don’t know.’

  Sarah stared out at a view that stretched for dozens of miles in every direction. The storage shed was on the outer limit of some kind of remote outpost, built into the side of a mountain. The ground sloped away almost immediately, descending at least half a mile to a forest far below. A narrow road wound treacherously down the side of the mountain, barely wide enough to fit a car.

  ‘I don’t think we’re getting out of here easily,’ she muttered.

  Carmen and Jessica struggled to their feet and hopped over to her position. They both stared silently out at the terrain, mouths agape.

  ‘Are you sure you saw some kind of mine?’ Jessica said. ‘The last thing I remember is being attacked in the hall…’

  ‘Me too,’ Carmen said.

  Sarah nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. The three of us have been moved.’

  ‘That means…’

  ‘All the men were taken underground,’ Sarah said, connecting the dots. ‘I have an awful feeling that I know what we’re up here for.’

  Their eyes turned to the door fixed into the wall nearby. It was made of the same tin as the walls, only discernible from the surrounding area by a thin line running the length of its perimeter. There was no handle on the inside.

  On a whim, Sarah threw her frame against it, adding strength pent up from the terror of being held against her will.

  It didn’t budge an inch.

  She tried again. Twice more. Just in case.

  Nothing.

  Just rattling — which probably alerted their abductors to the fact that they were awake.

  Defeated, she slumped against the back of the door and squeezed her eyes shut, riding out a vicious wave of nausea. A single drop of sweat fell from her eyebrow, splattering on the concrete between her legs.

  ‘Wait—!’ Jessica yelped. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Fuck! I saw it too,’ Carmen said.

  Sarah leapt to her feet, renewed with a newfound vigour. There was a semblance of excitement in both women’s voices. She shuffled to the same window and peered into the valley below.

  ‘Something flashed,’ Jessica muttered. ‘Down there.’

  Then Sarah saw it. A flicker of artificial light, at least a mile below them. Some kind of beam passing between trees, slicing through the forest. A vehicle, perhaps…

  She scoffed. ‘It’s probably more of them. There’s no-one else around here.’

  She pressed her back against the wall and slid back to a sitting position, just as a monstrous headache sprouted to life behind her eyeballs.

  Out of hope.

  Out of energy.

  She closed her eyes again and waited for them to come for her.

  17

  A little over a mile away, Jason King clenched his teeth as he navigated a dangerous path through the forest.

  The pass between the mountains had been nothing short of terrifying. All kinds of hidden drops and crevasses had only presented themselves as he passed them by, unnervingly close. It had taken him most of the journey to get used to the snowmobile, and just as he had mastered it the terrain had turned perilous.

  The land beyond the pair of mountains was home to this forest, with trunks thicker than cars pressing in on all sides. He travelled as fast as he could without losing control. The sole headlight on the front of his snowmobile cut a thin white line through the forest ahead.

  It only served to accentuate the shadows.

  They pressed in from everywhere. In the early years of his career, the situation would have sent chills down his spine. Steering a borrowed snowmobile through dark, uninhabited forests in the most isolated section of Russia.

  Now, it felt like another day at the office.

  Not that he wasn’t scared.

  By this point, being scared was nothing short of a regular occurrence.

  He kept on the lookout for something, anything, that signified manmade structures. It was a wild goose chase. After three full minutes of nothingness, he touched a finger to his ear and slowed the snowmobile in between two towering deciduous trees.

  ‘Isla,’ he said, keeping his voice low out of instinct.

  She responded instantaneously. ‘We thought you were dead for a moment. You didn’t make contact, then suddenly you’re speeding into the peninsula.’

  ‘You thought they were carting my body back to their headquarters?’

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I know as much as you do,’ King said. ‘All I know is that they’re well-equipped.’

  ‘Not equipped enough, obviously. What happened in the village?’

  ‘Three crooked cops and an armoured tanker full of armed hostiles in tactical gear.’

  ‘All dead?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘This is serious shit,’ Isla said. ‘I’m sure you know that. An outfitted mercenary force? We all know the ramifications if this makes it public.’

  ‘I’ll make sure it doesn’t go public.’

  ‘Find them. Get them back. And don’t let anyone except the health workers see your face.’

  ‘Got it. I’ll check in when I find something
.’

  He heard an audible click in his ear canal and switched the earpiece off. The typical background noise of forest life was non-existent. All kinds of animal cries and bird calls and rustling leaves were drowned out by the relentless wind, cutting through the trees and bombarding King’s cold-weather gear.

  Out of habit, he switched the snowmobile’s sole headlight off, plunging his surroundings into darkness.

  Observing.

  Instantly, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

  It was just a fleeting flash of light, but amidst the sheer isolation it was immediately visible. He peered up through a gap in the canopy of branches above his head. The nearest mountain rose away in the distance, a slope so large in magnitude that the peak was shrouded in storm clouds.

  Halfway up the hill, he saw it.

  There was a cluster of buildings scattered across a flat alcove in the mountainside. From this distance he couldn’t make out all the features, but there seemed to be four buildings total. Some kind of multi-storey watchtower, a long low hall likely to be living quarters, a large garage with roller doors — and at the edge of the complex, a tiny tin shed shrouded in darkness.

  Maybe an old military installation.

  Maybe a pit stop for industrial workers contracted to stints this far out from civilisation.

  Whatever the case, it was clearly inhabited. A dull lightbulb shone on the exterior of the low building, providing the slightest artificial glow that had attracted King’s attention in the first place. Probably nothing. But there was no harm in checking it out.

  No stone unturned, he thought.

  He recalled Isla’s voice in his head. Don’t let anyone see your face.

  Begrudgingly, he clambered off the snowmobile and dropped into the snow. His combat boots sunk fully into the forest floor, icy powder reaching up to his ankles. He tied the duffel to the handlebars and fished two spare magazines out of the top of the bag.

  Thirty rounds each.

  5.56mm NATO rounds.

  Capable of decimating anyone in front of him.

  Which was exactly what he intended to do if anyone pulled a gun on him.

  No mercy out here.

  He set off toward the base of the mountain, leaving the snowmobile in the forest. He kept one hand around the grip, index finger resting against the trigger guard. With the other he clenched the additional tactical grip on the front of the weapon. It would take him a second to line up his aim and fire if confronted with hostiles.

  The gale-force wind iced his face as he reached the foot of the mountain and began his steady ascent. He followed a narrow trail intended for vehicles, which he assumed led up to the outpost’s front door. He kept to the side of the road at all times, entirely shrouded in darkness. Each footfall turned cautious. The last thing he wanted was to turn over on his ankle halfway up the mountain and find himself stranded.

  Conditioning wasn’t an issue. His resting heart rate barely changed throughout the climb. Thousands and thousands of hours of cardio and weights and hardcore training paid off in situations like these, where his physical fitness barely crossed his mind. He welcomed it. It freed up his mind to concentrate on what really mattered.

  Remaining undetected.

  He didn’t make contact with a living soul throughout the entire journey. Halfway to the outpost, he paused a beat to look out over the Kamchatka Peninsula. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

  Thunder boomed far in the distance. On the horizon, he thought he saw a crack of lightning, arcing briefly through the black sky. His eyes had become accustomed to the night, and he made out the shadowy outlines of mountains and volcanoes stretching as far as the eye could see. Below, the forest sprawled out for a couple of miles before seemingly ending all at once.

  From this viewpoint, he could see why.

  The plains below dropped sharply away in a rigid line, at the edge of unimaginably-high cliff-faces. King couldn’t make out the valley below that. It was too dark. Yet it created a tiered appearance to the landscape. The enormous valley cast in shadow, then a stretch of forest higher up, then the gargantuan mountain he was currently perched on.

  Unfathomable scenery.

  He couldn’t imagine the sight during the day.

  He pressed on. By the time he sensed the glow of artificial light becoming a little more apparent, his face had turned entirely numb from cold. He guessed he had been walking for a little over twenty minutes. Now the conditions were beginning to affect him. His lungs constricted in uncomfortable fashion, his chest tightening as he searched for breath amongst the altitude.

  He crouched in the lee of a rock formation and took a moment to compose himself.

  From what he could tell, the outpost lay directly above him. The mountain road curved around a bend just ahead, which he predicted would open out onto the land in front of the complex.

  Time to get a better look.

  He crept silently along the trail, buffeted by winds at least twice as strong as before. The U-bend came up faster than he anticipated. He stuck to the scrub, to the darkest corners of the uneven trail.

  Silent.

  Measured.

  Ready.

  Gripping the carbine rifle double-handed, he rounded the bend. Now was not the time for rapid movement. Charging like a living battering ram had its advantages, and had paid off well for King in the past.

  Here, there were too many variables.

  This outpost could be full of civilians with no knowledge of a group of missing health workers. Or — worse still — it could be populated by hostiles with live hostages at their disposal. He recognised the benefits of stealth in a situation like this.

  He saw the complex ahead.

  He slowed.

  The long low building in the centre of the outpost resembled a ski-lodge up close. Warm light emanated from the wood-framed windows running the length of the property. The communications tower situated against the side of the building was dark, devoid of all life. Everyone was indoors at this time of the evening. The enormous garage off to one side of the complex was similarly unmanned. Its roller doors were shut.

  No-one was watching. No-one kept lookout.

  The whole outpost had a lackadaisical air about it, like it was home to shift workers protecting themselves from the extreme weather. There was no-one patrolling the perimeter, no-one keeping a lookout for intruders.

  King relaxed his grip on the M4A1. He got the feeling it would not be needed. Whoever populated the outpost seemed to have no concern with the surrounding area.

  Or they’ve grown lazy, he thought. Their isolation has made them careless.

  On cue, the lodge’s door burst open. King shrank into the dead vegetation on the outskirts of the complex, separated from the building by a vast snowy lot and a potholed mountain trail.

  The man who stepped out of the lodge was dressed identically to the outfitted combatants back in the village. Heavy combat boots, pressed khakis, an expensive buffer jacket, a bandanna tied across the lower half of his face to protect his skin from the cold.

  He looked to be a little over six foot tall — roughly King’s height. The man filled out his clothing substantially. Likely packed with muscle.

  Instantly, King’s reflexes sharpened. He felt cortisol flood his veins.

  This isn’t a worker.

  Then he spotted the faded MP-443 Grach pistol in the man’s hand, confirming his suspicions all at once.

  The guy didn’t look once in King’s direction. His gaze locked onto the small storage shed on the left-hand side of the property, directly ahead. He made straight for it, keeping the handgun at the ready.

  King watched the man cross the complex. He stayed still as a statue, thinking twice about using the carbine so soon. He was entirely uninformed about the layout of the outpost. He didn’t know how many hostiles were here, and what kind of firepower they had.

  Besides, suppressor or not, any kind of automatic gunfire attracted attention. King knew one wron
g move could leave him horrendously outnumbered.

  So he stepped silently out of the shadows as soon as the man passed him by. He noticed a flash of movement in one of the shed’s foggy windows, like a body passing briefly across the dead space behind.

  He paused.

  What’s going on here?

  The man strode up to the shed’s rickety door and unlocked a thick steel padlock attached to the handle. It sent alarm bells ringing in King’s head. The guy slid the bolt out of its latch and swung the thin door inwards. He raised the Grach and advanced into the shed.

  King dropped low — crouching below the window level — and hustled across the open space. He pressed his back against the shed wall, only half a foot from the open doorway. He listened intently.

  ‘Fuck off,’ an angry female voice spat. ‘Don’t touch me.’

  King heard a scurry of movement, then the unmistakeable strike of hand against flesh. A woman whimpered and the frantic movement stopped. The man who had entered the room scoffed loudly. King heard the rustle of clothing.

  Then he had heard enough.

  He spun on his heel and charged into the shed. What his imagination had conjured up was confirmed a half-second later. He saw three women — each sporting a variety of bloodstains and bruises, all bound at the limbs. They were spread across the claustrophobic confines of the shed’s interior, helpless.

  The man in the tactical gear was perched over one of the women, in the process of trying to remove her clothing. She was bucking and squirming with everything she had, one cheek reddened by the slap King had heard a second ago.

  The guy had his back to the entrance.

  Big mistake.

  King kicked out with a heavy combat boot, aiming for the hand wrapped around the Grach. He connected hard enough to shatter a few fingers. The crunch of splintering bone resounded throughout the shed, drowning out all other noises. The guy shot up like he’d been struck by lightning, temporarily paralysed by the immense pain. The pistol dropped out of his shattered hand.

  As soon as he knew the guy was disarmed, King dropped his rifle and lunged. In one motion he snatched a handful of the guy’s jacket and hurled him to the side. Adrenalin and raw power lent him all kinds of abilities. The guy lost his footing and began to fall.