The Jason King Series: Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  Sometimes King wished his own life had been so straightforward.

  Droplets of blood covered the windscreen. He fished a box of tissues out of the back seat and cleared away a portion of it. He slammed the door shut and drove off quickly. Waiting any longer in the middle of the road would only increase the risk of being seen.

  He spun the vehicle around and lifted a Navman GPS out of the driver’s footwell. He switched it on. A robotic female voice greeted him in a monotonous tone. He entered the rough co-ordinates of where he expected the metal work factory to lie, knowing that there had to be some kind of vehicular access to the site. It highlighted a track leading down from the main road. A pop-up message warned him that the road was unsurfaced. He dropped the GPS back to the muddy floor of the cabin and drove off.

  As he took the truck round the steep mountainous bends, he weighed his options a final time. Going to the police would be the most noble course of action, but there was no way to explain what had happened without getting dragged into a lengthy legal battle. With no witnesses and four brutalised corpses, he didn’t like the odds of defending his innocence.

  Two workers were dead. King didn’t know why. Maybe they were in debt. Maybe not. The men who had killed them were also dead. They’d tried to shoot him, so he’d fought back. He’d succeeded. In the grand scheme of things, that was fair. There was nothing else to consider, nothing to mull over. Best to remove the evidence and forget all about it. Everything about the past hour had brought back memories of a darker, violent past. A past he was desperately trying to forget.

  The pickup handled the unsurfaced road easily, its thick tires eating up the gravel. King heard the three corpses bouncing around the rear tray. An unsettling sound. He grimaced. The headlights illuminated the track ahead, casting long shadows across the ground. The cold breeze sent a chill down his spine and he shivered involuntarily. He hadn’t bothered to roll the windows up.

  The trees melted away as he pulled out into the clearing. The abandoned factory lay ahead. The twin beams of light emanating from the pickup gave King a better idea of the structure’s form. A multi-level building, built with no symmetry or pattern, like several warehouses had been stacked on top of each other. Metal tubes and walkways ran along the exterior walls. Most of its features had long since rusted away. The factory looked forlorn and ready to collapse. No-one had touched it in years.

  King swung the wheel around and drove through the large entrance on the ground floor. The headlights revealed the enormous space, proving to be almost exactly how he’d pictured it in the darkness. Largely empty, save for a few dilapidated tanks and broken machines scattered across the floor. Near the centre of the floorspace, lying limp next to a dirty puddle of water, was Buzzcut. Unquestionably dead.

  King got out and eyed the nearest machines, rundown from years of lying dormant. Each had a slightly different design. One looked something like an oversized inverted cone, with a rusted dial on one side. It would serve the purpose King needed it for.

  He dragged the bodies out of the rear tray one by one, piling them beside Buzzcut until the four dead men were positioned side-by-side. He moved quickly. It was unpleasant work. First, he searched the pockets of the construction workers, and came up with a pair of leather wallets and a couple of cigarettes. The wallets had nothing more than loose change, identification and workers permits in them. King tossed them over the lip of the cone, then did the same with each of the bodies. Due to excess weight, David Lee proved a little more cumbersome to manhandle than Miles Price, but King got the job done.

  Next, the hitmen. He knew they wouldn’t be stupid enough to carry identification on them, and he was proved correct after a quick search of the bodies. But deep in one of Buzzcut’s pants pockets, King came up with something.

  A keyring. It held a single silver key and a tag labeled ‘Jameson Post’.

  He knew he should throw it away, just as he had done to the two construction workers and their wallets. It would be foolish to keep anything that could link him back to what had happened. But an irresistible urge overcame him. He slipped it into his pocket. It couldn’t hurt to poke around.

  Buzzcut and his partner followed David Lee and Miles Price into the cone. When his work was done King took a moment to rest against the side of the pickup. He mopped a bead of sweat off his forehead. Despite the cold night, lifting deadweight proved tiresome. But the corpses were out of sight and it would take an inquisitive soul to discover them. He couldn’t have imagined anyone setting foot in this place for years, let alone searching for bodies.

  He retrieved a heavy set of pliers from the rear tray of the pickup truck and set to work destroying the vehicle. It only took a light blow to shatter each window in turn. Then he swung hard and fast at the chassis, gouging huge dents in the metal until it matched its surroundings. Nothing but broken junk. Lastly, he used the pliers to lever off the plates. He tossed them in with the bodies. The pliers themselves followed suit.

  A twist of the keys in the ignition and the engine died. The headlights flickered out, plunging the factory back into darkness. He threw the keys in the general direction of the cone and was rewarded with a resounding clang as they struck home.

  Then he turned and headed out of the factory, determined to forget that the ordeal had ever happened.

  CHAPTER 5

  It took thirty-eight minutes to reach Jameson. By the time King strode into the town’s outer limits it was close to two in the morning. He came up the road into the main street. Murky halogen streetlights lit the way. There was a big brand supermarket on the left, vast and physically imposing in comparison to the rest of the stores. He eyed a convenience store, a chemist, two restaurants, a cafe, a pair of motels, a tourist information centre, a hardware store, a petrol station and finally, at the very end of the road, a post office. The sign above the door read 'Jameson Post'. He retrieved the key from his pocket and stared at its tag long and hard. After a moment of thought, he put it away. He would decide tomorrow if it was worth chasing up.

  The two motels faced each other off on either side of the road, clearly in direct competition. One was devoid of lights, completely enshrouded in darkness. The other had a small front light glowing above the entrance to its office. That was enough for him to make up his mind.

  He trudged across to the motel that was lit and rang the bell to the office twice. Then he stood in silence and waited. He was used to waiting. His whole life had revolved around the art of patience. Long stretches of waiting, with occasional bursts of massive instantaneous action.

  Finally the door swung open, revealing an elderly European lady in her night-gown. Her hair was dishevelled and thick bags sat under her eyes.

  'I’m sorry to disturb you ma’am,' King said. 'I was wondering if you had a room available. Just for one night.’

  Despite the hour, her face lit up at the sight of a customer. He wondered if she struggled to stay afloat in such a remote region.

  'Of course we do. Come on in.'

  He stepped through into a small room with white plasterboard walls and a desk piled high with loose sheets of paper. The woman scurried around behind the counter and fished a document out of the mess. She placed it in front of him along with a pen.

  'Name and signature here, please. Usually we charge eighty-nine a night, but since you’re only spending half a night I’ll give it to you for fifty.'

  'No problem. Thank you.'

  'Why so late, may I ask?'

  'I misjudged my timing. The walk took longer than I expected.'

  'Where did you walk from, dear?’

  'Queensbridge.'

  'You walked from Queensbridge? That’s more than fifteen kilometres.'

  'Yes it is.’

  She fell silent. King knew he was being uncooperative, but there was nothing he could say. He scrawled out a signature and slid the paper back across the counter, along with a fifty-dollar note. She took it and handed over a key. As he reached for it, she let out a gasp.
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br />   'Oh my god!' she cried. 'You’re cut real bad.’

  King looked down and swore internally. The blood had caked dry on his exposed arm. A thin, jagged gash ran the length of his tricep. Adrenalin had forced his mind off the wound in the heat of combat. Now that he was paying attention to it a dull ache appeared in his upper arm. Funny how the brain worked.

  'The trees along the road are deadly,' he said. 'Caught my arm on one of the branches and it ripped all my skin off. Terrible luck.’

  'My goodness. Do you need me to ring Jonas? He can open up the medical centre for you.'

  'No need for that. If you have some bandages and antiseptic that should do me until the morning.'

  She gave him a strange look before opening a drawer and taking out a bottle of Dettol and a thin roll of gauze.

  'You remind me of some of the farm boys around here,’ she said. ‘They all play the tough guy until it’s too late. Last year Terrence dropped dead of a fever. Doctors said it was a bad batch of pneumonia and he’d have been just fine if he hadn’t tried to tough it out at home. I don’t want that happening to a strapping young man like yourself.'

  King smiled. 'I’ll be okay.'

  ‘You sure won’t be in that T-shirt. Aren’t you freezing?’

  King recalled throwing his leather jacket away before he’d chased Buzzcut into the forest. He had never bothered to retrieve it. ‘I guess I didn’t prepare for this weather.’

  ‘Well, we can’t have that…’ she trailed off. Hesitated for a moment. Then made up her mind and retrieved a large grey windbreaker from underneath the desk.

  ‘Take this,’ she said, holding it out.

  King paused. ‘I can’t do that. It looks expensive. I’m just a stranger.’

  ‘It was my husband’s.’

  ‘Is he around?’

  ‘Not since a month ago,’ she said, bowing her head.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry to hear that.’

  ‘So you have it,’ she said, composing herself and looking back up with a warm smile. ‘I’d rather it be put to use.’

  He took the windbreaker and looped it over his arm. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Now, you be careful. Go to the doctor’s tomorrow. Double checking that cut can’t hurt.'

  'Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice night. Sorry to disturb you.'

  'Not a problem, Mr…'

  'King.'

  ‘I’m Yvonne. Goodnight, Mr. King.'

  He left the office and checked the tag on the keyring. There was a small '4' scrawled into the plastic in permanent marker. He headed up a flimsy set of wooden stairs and unlocked the door to room 4.

  A simplistically designed room, as almost all motel rooms were. Nothing out of the ordinary. King had seen a hundred just like this. A thin double bed in the corner, a small television opposite a set of plush chairs and a kitchenette. The door set in the far wall led to an adjoining bathroom and toilet.

  King dropped his only possessions — his wallet and the ‘Jameson Post’ key — on the bed and made his way through to the bathroom. He removed his shirt and studied the graze in the small mirror above the sink. The bullet had barely touched him, but it had drawn a large amount of blood. There was nothing to worry about. The skin would heal in a few days. He had been lucky.

  He took a shower to wash his arm clean. As usual, the nozzle barely reached past his shoulders. The water stung as it crept into the damaged skin. He grit his teeth and squashed the pain back down. After turning the water off he dried himself and trickled a stream of the antiseptic down his arm. It dripped into the wound, flaring his nerve endings. He let out a soft grunt to manage the burning sensation.

  He wrapped the gauze Yvonne had provided around his arm, barely managing two loops. She hadn’t given him much, and he was a big guy. The bandage would stop the bleeding for now. He could stitch it up later, if need be. He walked naked to the bed and slid under the covers.

  It didn’t cross his mind that he had killed two men earlier in the evening. He had overcome that feeling years ago. He didn’t kill recklessly, but if someone aimed a gun at his head, he couldn’t stop himself from reacting. Two hitmen were dead, and the world was no worse off.

  He closed his eyes and was asleep in seconds.

  CHAPTER 6

  The sun woke him at seven in the morning after a undisturbed night’s sleep. He had left the curtains open specifically for that purpose. When it was daylight outside, there was no use sleeping. Five hours was more than enough to refill the tank.

  He rolled out of bed and went through an exhausting hour of calisthenics. A gruelling routine, but King had long ago mastered his mind. When there was no gym available this was what he did to stay fit. He no longer saw it as an option, or a chore, or enjoyable. It was simply nothing. It just happened, and there was no disrupting the routine.

  Agility was important, so he finished off the workout with a set of vinyasas. It didn’t matter how strong he was. If he wasn’t fluid with his movements, all the raw power in his frame would be useless.

  Dripping with sweat, he took a second shower in the cramped tub, dressed in the same clothes from the night before, then tugged the windbreaker over his massive frame. Surprisingly, it fit well enough. Yvonne’s late husband must have been a big guy too.

  He headed out of the room and down to the main street. By now the early risers were up and moving, drinking coffee outside the cafe and preparing themselves for a hard day’s work. Scanning the community, he noted that the majority of the town’s occupants appeared to be farmers.

  Jameson Post was open. King had nothing better to do, so he crossed the road and walked in. There was nowhere he needed to be. He could spend as long as he liked in Jameson. It was worth checking if Buzzcut’s key led to anything suspicious.

  The door jangled as he opened it, but none of the customers turned to look. They were concerned with their own matters, busy sealing envelopes and scrawling letters in freehand. The man behind the counter was in the process of serving a long queue. Too preoccupied to notice King. He had a few moments to himself.

  He made for the row of PO boxes on the far wall. Two thirds of the wall was taken up by the small rectangular slots. King tried the key in one, but it was too large. That eliminated the majority of the work. He eyed the last third of the boxes, each larger and more thickset, designed for a greater amount of storage. Definitely more expensive. He slotted the key into the first one.

  It didn’t turn, but it fit.

  It only took King five more attempts to find the right one. He moved fast, trying to prevent unwanted attention. On the sixth and final box, the key twisted and the small metal door sprang open.

  It was empty.

  King had to make a decision now. He could leave the key here, move onto the next town and forget any of this ever happened. Or he could continue prodding. He pondered for a moment.

  There was no reason to hang around. A pair of construction workers were dead. It meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. There were four roads leading far away from this little town and it didn’t matter which one he took.

  A croaky voice from behind said, 'Morning.'

  King spun on his heel. Standing behind him was an elderly woman, dressed in an olive green blouse and white slacks. A white sunhat rested atop her head. She looked to be in her seventies. Her face was wrinkled with age, but her expression was jovial. As if she was simply happy to be alive.

  'Good morning,' King said.

  'Are you from around here?'

  'No, I’m from out of town. Just passing through.’

  'Oh, well, that’s nice. Don’t see many of your type around here, dear.'

  'My type?'

  She made a long, sweeping gesture, bringing her hand from the floor to the ceiling. Indicating King’s height. 'You know. The tall, handsome type.'

  King chuckled. 'I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. How long have you been here?'

  'All my life, dear. Most folks who live out here grew up in th
ese parts.’

  'I’m Jason, by the way.'

  'Pleasure to meet you, Jason. Suzanne.'

  There was a pause.

  'Well the reason I bothered you, young man, is because my box is just under yours. I hope I’m not rushing you.'

  'Not at all,' King said, swinging the small door closed. 'I was just leaving.'

  He motioned to move past Suzanne.

  'Your key, dear,' she said.

  King turned round and looked at the key he had left on top of the postal box. It still bore the same 'Jameson Post' tag. He’d hoped Suzanne wouldn’t notice, so he could move on with his life. It seemed fate had another idea.

  'Ah, thank you,' he said, feigning foolishness. He reached up and snatched it back.

  Suzanne let out a gasp.

  King looked down and saw the hem of his shirt had risen over his belt as he’d reached for the key, exposing a thin line of bare skin at his waist. There was a tattoo visible, inked into his pelvic area. A steel triangle, half of which resembled a lightning bolt, with a serrated knife slicing through the centre.

  ‘I know that symbol,’ Suzanne said.

  King knew he should have walked out of that post office right there and then. This wasn’t something to talk about with a complete stranger. But he relented.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Delta Force.’

  King couldn’t help but admit he was surprised. To be fair, it only took a Google search to find the unit’s insignia. Yet the last thing he had assumed was that the old lady in front of him would have knowledge of such a fact.

  'It is,' he said. 'I spent some time in the Force. Not long though.' There was no need to share the complete truth.