by Matt Rogers
It took just over a minute to happen. The plane continued to descend with no-one in the pilot’s seat. It bucked and swayed in the wind as it fell. Then it dove into the valley and crashed into the other side, taking down a couple of trees in the process. The violent sound of tearing metal echoed up from the forest, reaching his ears a couple of seconds after the crash. No flames. No fireball. Just a crumpled wreck with a destroyed chassis. The wings were torn off by the impact.
He knew that the anthrax spores would not pose a problem. He’d seen the crates Lars had kept them in. Military-grade, reinforced, designed to withstand the most brutal conditions imaginable. Necessary for such a volatile substance. They wouldn’t have torn apart in the crash. Especially with the chassis of the plane protecting them from a direct hit. On the off-chance they had, they would pose no significant risk. They had yet to be weaponised into aerosol form.
He made sure to memorise the location of the crash zone for future reference. The authorities would need to secure the location as soon as they were made aware of the situation. He used the toggles to spin the parachute one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, keeping the movement slow. Staring at the ground in all directions. Getting his bearings.
The runway they’d taken off from lay to the west. He wouldn’t make it there. Ahead he spotted the mountain roads ascending up to Jameson, nothing but thin lines from such an elevated position. He estimated he would come down somewhere close to the metal work factory where he’d hid the bodies of eight men. Six of them guilty, two innocent.
It didn’t take long for the canopy of branches to rush up at his feet. He guided the parachute into a patch of forest where the trees were widely interspersed. It gave him more than enough room to land. He dipped between a pair of tall pine trees and tugged both toggles down. Flaring the chute. Slowing his descent. It put him at just the right speed to touch down smoothly on the wet grass. Two bounding steps to get his momentum under control and then he was on flat ground.
Perfectly safe.
He stayed upright. Listened to the sudden quiet of the forest, compared to the screaming wind and constant gunfire of the last ten minutes. Then he fell back onto the forest floor, staring up at the clear blue sky above. He sucked in breaths of fresh air. Happy to be alive. Happy that the madness had finally come to an end.
He’d lost count of the number of people he’d seen die over the last three days. Whether it was by his hand, or simply witnessing murder. To anyone else, the sheer volume of horror would be too much to bear. To King, it felt like just another day.
Which was perhaps the worst part.
He had grown so accustomed to violence and death and destruction that the events that had transpired didn’t even seem out of the ordinary. It felt like he was back in Black Force, at the tail end of another mission, ready to go for the next one.
This was not a healthy way to live.
He promised himself there would be no next time. He would travel somewhere away from all this shit, somewhere where he could finally stop and take in an ordinary civilian life. He wasn’t sure where.
But first there were other matters to attend to.
After what felt like a century of rest he clambered to his feet and got out of the parachute harness. He left it there in the forest, its canopy wrapped around a cluster of branches, flapping gently in the breeze. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to cart it back to town.
He moved on. Starting the slow trek through the woods, searching for a main road which would lead him back to the town of Jameson.
Hopefully for the very last time.
CHAPTER 44
It took a little over two hours to reach the town’s outskirts. By then, the sun had melted into the horizon. An amber glow permeated through the forest. It created something close to serenity.
King had powered through dense woodland for close to an hour before happening upon a twisting mountain road. He recognised it as part of the connection between Queensbridge and Jameson, and quickly figured out which direction to head. Then it came down to putting one foot in front of the other. Focusing on trying not to faint. If a car passed by he wouldn’t bother attempting to wave it down. No-one in their right mind would pick up a bloodied, battered, two-hundred-and-twenty pound stranger, especially in these parts where witnesses were thin.
He knew he looked bad. His swollen cheek had puffed one side of his face beyond all recognition. The other was caked in dried blood that he didn’t have the energy to bother removing. His foot had turned numb from the massive dose of adrenalin but as he settled into the trek and the rush subsided he began to feel the mind-numbing pain in every step. His ribs hurt with each breath. He hoped nothing was broken.
And the nearest hospital had to be dozens of miles away.
He passed Yvonne’s motel first. At this hour the repair crew were packing up for the day. He noticed they had almost completed their task. Dozens of brand new window panes sat in the sills. The shattered glass had been almost entirely swept up.
He hobbled into the main road and began a short journey past the main shops. Most of the townspeople had returned to their homes. They would be preparing dinner for their families. Without a hint of knowledge as to what had occurred in their town.
Perhaps it would all come out later down the line, after a federal investigation. He doubted it. But it might.
He hoped he would find who he was looking for. With nothing left to accomplish at the airfield, it seemed obvious that Kate and Dirk would return to the town where it had all begun. As he closed in on Jameson Post, he saw two people up ahead. Standing on the footpath in front of a high-powered Ducati motorcycle. Deep in conversation.
They saw him.
Kate closed the distance between them at a lightning pace and they embraced. He held her waist and buried his face into her shoulder. He hoped she didn’t mind the blood. It seemed she was too preoccupied to notice.
‘You look awful,’ she whispered, her voice shaky.
‘I’ve been better. But I’ll live.’
They parted. For a long moment they stood there, looking at each other, in mutual disbelief at what they had gone through.
‘ASIO’s on their way,’ Dirk said, approaching them. ‘I called a guy as soon as I saw the plane go down. He’s bringing a whole team of federal investigators. Word of this has already reached the very top. I imagine they’re going to want to interview you for weeks.’
King looked out at the deserted main strip. ’I won’t be around to humour them.’
Dirk cocked his head. ‘You won’t?’
‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘Lars is dead. All his men are dead. The threat’s eliminated. I could spend months detailing everything I saw, but it’s all corporate bullshit. Besides…’
Dirk knew where he was going. ‘I’m guessing you overstepped the boundaries of the law just a couple of times.’
‘Let’s leave it at that.’
‘So what do I tell them?’
King shrugged. ‘You don’t know. You simply happened upon all this shit. The dropzone. The metal work factory out east. The police station. You don’t know what to make of it.’
‘Where will you go?’
‘Haven’t figured that out yet.’ He paused. ‘Somewhere quiet.’
‘That’s what this place was supposed to be.’
‘Exactly. So I’ll try again.’
Dirk nodded. King noticed Kate standing off to the side, staring at the both of them, dumbfounded.
‘Aren’t you in the military?’ she said to Dirk.
‘Yes, ma’am. On vacation. If you can call it that.’
‘And you’re just going to let him walk away from all this?’
He exchanged a knowing smile with King. ‘I see you two haven’t known each other long enough. Kate, when Jason King tells you he’s going to do something, there’s really not much you can do to stop it.’
‘I wish I had the friends you do,’ she said to King.
King smiled again. ‘No you don�
��t. Because you need to go to hell and back to get the type of friends I have.’
The soft jangle of a mobile phone sounded from Dirk’s pocket. He withdrew a slim smartphone. He made a shrugging gesture, as if to say I have to take this. King nodded and the man stepped away, speaking in a hushed whisper to whoever was on the other end of the line.
Probably his employers, wanting him back from Australia.
Kate stood across from King. Now the two of them were alone. They let the silence hang for a moment longer.
‘So, what now?’ Kate said.
‘You said you didn’t want to up and leave.’
She nodded. ‘Haven’t changed my mind on that. But doesn’t this feel a little … off?’
He rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re a great girl, Kate. Truly. But you don’t want to spend any more time with me than this. I quit the Force to be alone for a while. I don’t know … I guess I wanted time to digest everything I’ve done in my career. I haven’t had a chance to yet. In fact, this has probably added to the baggage. But it’s going to take its time to resolve. Honestly, I’m not sure if it ever will.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I ever thought something permanent would come of it. But we helped each other get through everything.’
‘We did.’
She leant on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. He felt the soft touch and pulled her in, savouring their last moments together. When they parted she had a smile on her face.
‘Well, you know where to find me,’ she said. ‘If you ever happen to be passing through again.’
‘Let’s hope when that time comes it turns out less eventful than the first.’
‘Goodbye, Jason. Thank you for everything.’
They hugged a final time. He felt her warmth and held onto that feeling, knowing it might be a long time before he found another girl like her.
Then he turned and approached Dirk, who was finishing up his phone call. The man slid his phone back into his pocket and faced him.
‘Just explained what went down to the boss,’ Dirk said. ‘He wants me to stay. See the whole investigation process out.’
‘They’ll be flying out their best.’
‘I don’t doubt it. The conspirator is one of our own. That means the whole process will be messy.’
‘And lengthy.’
Dirk nodded.
‘I hope you don’t blame me for not sticking around,’ King said.
‘Not at all. It was good to see you again, brother. Even if the reunion was short.’
‘You understand why I need to leave, right?’
Dirk nodded. ‘When they whisked you out of the Delta Force for some secret project, I knew you’d end up either dead or scarred. I can’t imagine the shit you’ve been through.’
‘I came here to heal. Didn’t do much of that.’
‘Go find some secluded corner of the globe and bury your head in the sand. Can’t be too hard, can it?’
‘Knowing my luck … it will be.’ He shot a glance at the Ducati motorcycle, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. ‘Yours?’
Dirk nodded. ‘I shipped it over here a couple of weeks ago. Planned to road trip around the country. Guess that’s not happening anymore. Great bike, she is.’
‘I think I might buy one. Down the line.’
‘How are you getting out of here?’
‘I’m yet to work that out,’ King said. ‘Probably hitch a ride. Someone lent their car to me but I trashed it.’
‘Sounds like you.’
Then Dirk did something that King did not anticipate. He reached into his leather jacket and came out with a small set of keys. He tossed them. King caught the bunch one-handed and shot his friend a quizzical glance. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You need wheels.’ Dirk gestured to the Ducati. ‘There they are.’
‘I appreciate it, but I’ll manage,’ King said. ‘I only need to get to the airport.’
‘First you need to get to a hospital, as fast as possible.’
‘How much do you want for it?’
Dirk shook his head. ‘Remember Mogadishu?’
King flashed back to an earlier time, filled with sand and firefights. He remembered pulling a man from a burning wreckage, seconds away from being burnt alive. He looked across at the same man.
‘I remember.’
‘So you know I don’t want a cent.’
King nodded and held a hand outstretched. ‘Thank you, brother.’
Dirk shook it. ‘I really hope you find your peace, King. Give me a call when you’ve settled down.’
‘To be honest,’ he said. ‘I’m finding it hard to believe that will ever happen.’
King threw one leg over the leather seat of the motorcycle and fired it up. He knew how to ride. Before the military, before the special operations, before any of the chaos of the last ten years, he’d spent an uneventful childhood in the small town of Green Bay, Wisconsin. A beat-up Suzuki dirt-bike had been his only method of transportation.
Those were simpler days.
He looked back at Dirk and Kate one last time. Two people he would always remember. He waved. They waved back. Then he rolled onto the asphalt and gunned the Ducati past stores that had just closed and motels that would stay open all night and through to endless rows of forest, thick with vegetation and undergrowth and dark spaces. He left the madness far behind, pressing on through the countryside, passing the low sprawling bar where he’d first had a drink three days before. He recalled what the bartender had said.
Sometimes you need to put all the shit behind you.
He accelerated past the building without giving it a second glance.
Moving.
Always moving.
The only thing he’d ever known.
BOOK 2
IMPRISONED
A JASON KING THRILLER
MATT ROGERS
“It is these very dangers, this alternation of hope and fear, the continual agitation kept alive by these sensations in his heart, which excite the huntsman…”
— Horace-Bénédict de Saussure
PROLOGUE
The shipyard had been abandoned by port control officials years ago.
Now it held dozens of vessels that had been decommissioned by the Bolivarian Navy of Venezuela over the years. They were nothing more than rusting carcasses, dumped in this vast expanse of concrete and forgotten. No-one came here anymore.
Which meant it perfectly suited the man striding along the dusty land inside its walled perimeter.
He was tall. Around six foot two and dreadlocked, with olive skin. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He had the lean, wiry build of someone raised on the streets. Someone who’d lived a life full of hardship.
But that past was a distant memory. Now he relished the success and prosperity that his operation had provided him with.
It didn’t mean he slowed down. In fact, he found that the richer he became, the harder he worked. It was necessary in his line of work. Brutality and ruthlessness were keys to survival.
He passed in between derelict ships, walking fast, knowing exactly where he needed to go. Despite the lack of sun, he wore a tattered singlet and khaki shorts. The clothing exposed sinewed muscles carved from years of living on the streets. It was the same outfit he’d worn for years. He wasn’t cold. Venezuela’s temperature barely fluctuated year-round. It was always warm. Always humid. Nothing changed.
At least, temperature-wise.
Today, his whole world had changed. The operation he’d spent years constructing had been thrown into jeopardy by an unfortunate chain of events. He would do everything in his power to ensure that it continued to prosper. It was his life’s work.
He would not lose it, under any circumstances.
He made for the port facing the Caribbean Sea. The water stretched as far as the eye could see. The shipyard was situated in the state of Vargas, which was partly why he was there. In 1999, devastating floods and mudslid
es had killed tens of thousands and decimated the state’s infrastructure.
They’d called it a tragedy.
He’d called it a tantalising business opportunity.
When his men seized the shipyard a year later, no-one cared. No-one batted an eyelid. The state officials were as corrupt as they came. Those who showed even a shred of interest had been quickly paid off.
The man made for the most prominent feature in the shipyard — an enormous cruise ship, resting in the shallows of a massive inlet that had been carved into the concrete port. It had docked there years ago and never left. It contained the majority of his assets, spread across hundreds of dilapidated rooms.
He passed two men loitering by the port, resting on a rusting car wreck and smoking cheap cigarettes. Assault rifles — Kalashnikov AK103s, purchased in bulk — lay by their side. They didn’t make eye contact as he strode by. Normally they would, but they knew he was in a rage. The man was not known for having a level-headed temperament.
He crossed a narrow makeshift bridge that had been erected after their arrival, connecting the ground floor of the cruise ship to the dock. The floating behemoth had long ago lost its sense of awe. Years of neglect had taken their toll. He walked through corridors with paint flaking off the walls and passed rooms that smelled of fetid dampness. The ship was gargantuan. It wouldn’t take much for a stranger to become lost in its bowels. But the man had walked its halls too many times to count. He knew the structure inside and out.
He headed up three floors, ascending a staircase that felt as if it would collapse at any moment. He walked down another corridor, indistinguishable from the rest, and turned into a large room. Along the far wall, sliding glass doors led to a balcony facing out over the shipyard. He’d converted it from a deluxe bedroom into a makeshift office.
Two men sat in front of a sweeping oak desk resting in the centre of the room. Both nervously shifted in the tattered chairs. They were anxious to share the recent developments with their boss.