by Matt Rogers
The man crossed the room and came to a halt behind the desk. Facing them.
‘News?’ he said in Spanish. ‘Good?’
They paused for a second too long. By the time the bald guy on the left shook his head, indicating that the situation had gone south, the man had turned and thundered a fist into the wall. It was made of plaster, and weak. It caved under his rage-induced blow. He let the sound reverberate through the sparsely furnished room, then turned back.
‘Negotiations broke down,’ the bald guy said. ‘They’re furious. They’re threatening to cut off our supply.’
‘You realise what this means?’ he said.
‘There’s more,’ the bald guy said. ‘It seems it was an American who ruined us.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Has he been seen before?’
The bald guy shook his head again. ‘Never. He’s new. Big guy. Taller than you. Short brown hair. Seems well-built. That’s about all we know.’
‘So someone’s hiring tourists to fuck with us.’
‘I don’t think he’s a tourist. Not after what he did.’
‘A mercenary?’
‘I can’t be sure.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘We’re still trying to figure that out. Once we do, we’ll kill him.’
The man behind the desk held up a finger. ‘No. Too messy, especially if he’s as dangerous as you say he is. We don’t want to cause a scene. Especially not in that district. And I want answers.’
‘So we take him alive?’
‘You think we can?’
The bald guy shrugged. ‘I can’t be certain. We rounded up a few witnesses and they say he’s the real deal. I wouldn’t risk it.’
The man in charge grinned. ‘I have a better idea.’
He lifted a satellite phone off the desk and switched it on. He punched in a number that he knew by memory. Requests like these were often necessary, and incredibly useful. His call was answered before the second ring.
‘Tomás,’ the voice on the other end said, answering the call with his name. ‘CICPC.’
Which stood for “Cuerpo de Investigaciones Científicas, Penales y Criminalísticas”. A name that was far too long and as such had been abbreviated. They were one of many police agencies in Venezuela. It helped that the country’s law enforcement consisted of a multitude of separate entities. It meant certain divisions could be targeted.
Paid off.
It was not necessary for the man in the singlet to respond with his own name. ‘It’s me.’
‘What do you need?’ Tomás said.
‘There’s an American who has caused us a great deal of trouble. I will send my men to provide you with a description. Find him and arrest him.’
‘Murder?’ The standard false charge.
‘Murder.’
‘Where do you want him?’
‘Which prison is your worst?’
‘All of them.’
‘Any in particular?’
‘I imagine El Infierno is the harshest on newcomers.’
Hell. Aptly named.
‘Then throw him in there.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see what he’s capable of — before I kill him. Test him against the inmates. Maybe get some answers.’
‘Consider it done.’
They ended the call without saying goodbye. There was no need for formalities following such a discussion. The officer on the other end of the line knew what was necessary. He would deliver, as he always did. And he would receive another duffel bag of laundered bolivars at the end of the year for his assistance.
‘Who else knows the American’s description?’ the man said to the two men before him.
They looked at each other. Shrugged.
‘Almost everyone,’ the bald guy said. ‘Rumours spread quickly.’
‘So this information is not exclusive to the two of you?’
‘No.’
‘Perfect.’
The man in charge wrenched one of the desk drawers open and pulled out a loaded Taurus 24/7. A reliable handgun, smuggled across the border from Brazil a couple of years ago. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d used it. He always kept the safety off. For situations just like these.
Barely suppressing blinding rage, he shot the bald guy three times in the head. Each impact created a fresh geyser of blood. The 9mm rounds killed him instantly. He turned to the guy on the right, who now sat rigid in his chair, bolt upright. Pale with shock. He squeezed the trigger another couple of times and wiped the expression off the man’s face.
The bodies keeled backwards off their chairs, thudding into the carpeted floor.
Another pair of bloodstains to add to the ever-growing collection.
There’d been no particular reason for what he’d done. These men were not at fault for the destabilisation of his operation. But killing calmed him. He did it because he could. Nothing more.
Breathing out the fury inside his chest, he left their corpses on the floor and went to find more men. He would send them to assist the police with their enquiries, then watch as El Infierno Prison tore the American scum apart.
CHAPTER 1
Six hours earlier…
Jason King surfaced from an undisturbed sleep, which was something of a rarity these days. He took note of his surroundings. A lavish hotel room, booked the night before on a whim. A sixty-inch television hung on the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced out over the Caribbean Sea. The curtains were drawn halfway, shrouding the room in a lowlight that added to the coziness. He lay prone in the middle of a four-poster bed, one of the largest he’d ever slept in.
Beside him, someone stirred. He glanced across and saw a bare shoulder and long brown locks spilling across one of the oversized satin pillows.
Ah, yes. That’s right.
A bartender from the night before. He imagined she hadn’t come across many foreigners of his stature. She’d been overly forward with her flirting. He’d noted the miniskirt and the long legs toned from years in the gym and couldn’t help but respond accordingly.
He threw the covers away and crossed the length of the room, still naked. It took some time. The penthouse suite covered much of Diamanté Resort’s top floor. He couldn’t quite remember how much he’d paid. Whatever the case, it would leave no sizeable dent in his bank account.
Not much could.
He gazed out across the city of Maiquetía — a popular tourist destination in Vargas state — and let the calm of the morning wash over him. The silence was absolute. He guessed the walls were strongly insulated. He admired the view for a moment longer, then dressed quickly in a pair of workout shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. He shoved a change of clothes into a sports bag and left the room. The woman did not stir.
The corridors in this section of the hotel were just as luxurious as his room. Booking a suite like that was an all-inclusive experience. It came with high ceilings and quality bedding and plush carpets and dozens of unnecessary expensive amenities. All things he’d spent countless years without.
His life had not been one of luxury.
He took a private elevator down to the marble lobby. Now mid-morning, the enormous reception area was alive with activity. Peak hour. He didn’t often wake up so late. Tourists bustled to and fro, some relaxed, some stressed. Most pasty and soft and innocent. He watched them as he passed by, holding a strange fascination.
He overheard a middle-aged British woman lecturing her husband for making them late to some kind of tourist attraction. King pondered her distress. It all seemed so fickle. Then again — when juxtaposed with the things he’d seen in the past — not much of ordinary civilian life warranted any kind of negative reaction whatsoever.
He found himself taking pleasure in every moment he wasn’t being shot at.
The man behind the broad reception desk greeted him with an overly fake smile. “Diamanté Resort” was plastered
in huge bold lettering across the wall behind him. ‘Morning, sir. How did you enjoy your stay in the Deluxe Ocean-View Suite?’
He rattled off the name like it meant something.
‘It was great,’ King said.
‘Did you want to reserve it for another day or two? You only booked the one night.’
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Ah. Heading home?’
King shook his head. ‘Got nowhere to be.’
That changed things. It meant he was hanging around in Maiquetía. Which meant he would likely go to the competition for tonight’s stay.
It added a slight air of hostility to the receptionist’s demeanour. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said curtly.
King smiled, recognising the shift in tone. ‘Don’t be too offended. I rarely spend two nights in the same place. Nothing personal.’
The man nodded, settling a little. ’May I assist you with anything else? Check out is at two in the afternoon, so—’ he glanced at his watch, ‘—four hours from now.’
‘Is there a gymnasium in this hotel?’
‘Of course, sir. Eighth floor. Your room key will give you access.’
‘Thank you.’
King headed back to the same plush elevator and slapped the number “8”. Just before the metal doors slid closed a skinny man in a bucket hat darted through. He wore brown sandals and corduroy shorts and a cheap short-sleeved shirt.
‘Morning,’ he said, nodding in greeting.
King nodded back.
‘On holiday?’ the guy said.
Small talk, King thought. Nothing he enjoyed better.
He shook his head. ‘Recently retired.’
‘Nice!’ the guy said. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘You can ask me whatever you want.’
Doesn’t mean I have to answer.
‘Well, I was behind you in line,’ the guy said, ‘and I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re staying in the penthouse suite.’
‘I am.’
‘What’s it like? I was looking into staying there with my family but it was just too expensive.’
‘It’s very nice. I’d recommend it.’
‘How can you afford it?’
‘That’s very intrusive.’
‘Sorry! Was just wondering. You’re young, that’s all. Thought you might have some secrets to success.’ He scoffed, as if indicating that he was joking. King didn’t respond. He stared straight ahead, unsmiling. The atmosphere quickly turned awkward.
The elevator ground to a halt on the eighth floor and its doors opened. At the other end of the hallway, a glass door led through to a vast exercise room. King stepped out and looked back.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ he said. ‘But you really don’t want to know.’
‘I don’t?’
‘Stick to whatever it is you do,’ King said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be happier.’
He left the man to ponder such a statement as the doors clicked close once again. Now alone in the hallway, he walked across its carpeted floors and went into the gym, revealing a large space packed with heavy iron plates and a few powerlifting platforms running along the far wall. Exactly what he was looking for. None of the psuedo-bullshit of commercial gyms. He didn’t need rows upon rows of treadmills.
He crossed to the deadlift platform and settled into his regular routine. Three warm-up sets with escalating weights, all ten repetitions each. He kept his back straight, his head aligned with his torso. He made sure to activate his glutes as he ripped the barbell off the floor.
The actions always calmed him. He’d been powerlifting his entire career. Even when the world had seemingly fallen apart around him, the weights were still there. When every ounce of effort in your body is primed and focused on heaving hundreds of pounds off the floor, there’s not much room to mull over past memories.
It helped keep his mind in the present.
A task he’d been trying to accomplish more and more with each passing day.
He loaded another plate on each side and stared at the weight before him.
Six hundred pounds.
It had taken him years of training to reach this point. He dusted his hands with chalk, settled into position, took a deep breath and tapped into something primal. Something animalistic. He grit his teeth and wrenched at the bar, activating each muscle simultaneously. It rose. He locked out his legs, then lowered it, then raised it one more time.
Two reps. Face crimson, veins pumping.
He let the weight crash back down and took some time to recover.
The rest of the workout passed quickly. He followed the deadlifts with a range of accessory movements, then thirty minutes of steady-state cardio. All the power in the world was useless if he couldn’t keep aerobically fit at the same time.
Sweating from seemingly every pore at once, he crossed the room and spent a short gruelling stint in the sauna, flushing out his body. It was therapeutic. He let droplets of sweat cover the floor below. Hunched low. Head bowed. Exercise was just that.
Temporary discomfort for long-term benefit.
A cold shower cooled him down and closed up his pores. He dried himself and dressed in the spare clothes he’d brought. A casual T-shirt with a cut in the neckline and jeans. The sports bag went into one of the empty lockers and he took the elevator back to the ground floor.
An hour of gruelling exercise. Yet now he was refreshed and invigorated for the day ahead.
He had no particular destination. No pressing matters of concern. It had taken some time to become accustomed to such a lifestyle. Years upon years of following orders had taken their toll. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice told him there were responsibilities he was avoiding.
You should be at war.
He shrugged it off, and stepped out into the humid glow of a late morning in Venezuela.
Diamanté Resort stood out against its surroundings, shiny and vast against the dusty, dilapidated buildings around it. It was situated right near the beach, making it a prime tourist destination. King figured he would get away from its lure. See Maiquetía for what it really was. That meant no tourists. No fake luxury. He needed a break from the unrelenting niceties of such an expensive hotel.
He crossed the busy street, weaving between traffic. He passed tourists weighed down by bags and seaside convenience stores complete with roller security shutters. It seemed in this area there were CCTV cameras on every corner. Food trucks lined the promenade facing the Caribbean Sea, all painted in an array of bright colours to attract the eye of potential customers.
A local man at the bar the night before had told King of a bazaar just a ten-minute walk from the hotel. He’d spoken of steaming native food and ice-cold drinks. The recommendation had come with a demand that King try something called tequeños. He wasn’t one to turn down a good meal.
Besides, he had nowhere else to be.
Overhead, clouds formed on the horizon, threatening to roll in later in the day. For now it was sunny. The humidity hung thick in the air, drawing sweat from his pores again. It was seemingly impossible to avoid such a dilemma in this country. He didn’t care. The conditions were pleasant when he contrasted them with a previous life.
A few local pedestrians shot him quizzical glances as he headed further away from the main tourist district, wondering what a foreigner was doing moving away from relative safety. Many ignored him. They probably figured that — given his stature — he could handle his own.
They were right.
He found the bazaar easily enough. A chaotic babbling rose from one of the streets branching off the main road. He turned down it and found himself in between two long rows of rickety wooden stalls, all covered in various forms of fabric. Most had been faded by the sun long ago. Enthusiastic vendors spruiked their deals to the crowd, comprised mostly of locals. The customers haggled back. It resulted in a cacophony of shouting and gesticulating that would have scared away many tourists unfamiliar to the sights and sounds.
> King had seen enough of the world. He was unperturbed. He started wandering along the street, glancing at stalls on either side.
Then he saw three men heading for him.
No, not for him. Past him. They strode purposefully, coming from the other direction. There was something important on their minds, that was for sure. They moved with the confidence and the wide gait of a trio that exerted control. Customers in the bazaar hurried out of their way. A few nearby civilians made sure not to come into contact with them.
The men weren’t used to taking shit from anyone.
One was short and fat. He wore an open singlet and a faded tracksuit. His rosy cheeks had reddened under the morning sun. He walked in front, striding with an exaggerated swagger, chin up, beady eyes flicking over the crowd, searching for anyone who might have the gall to initiate a confrontation. The other two were a few inches taller. Similar dress. Similar demeanour.
From where he stood, King realised he was in their path.
Without giving it a second thought, he decided not to move.Something about them already irritated him.
He pretended to browse one of the stalls, keeping himself firmly rooted in place. The stocky guy in front came within range. He went to brush past, expecting King to scurry out of the way.
King did not.
The stocky guy sensed this a second before they touched and took the effort to drop his shoulder down and drive it into King’s torso, adding power to the shove. Sending a message. Don’t get in my way, asshole.
It didn’t work.
The thug simply bounced off King’s frame, unable to shift him even an inch out of place. The guy had to take an awkward step to the side in order to correct his footing and save himself from toppling off-balance. He hadn’t expected to run into a brick wall.
Which made him look like an idiot.
Something he certainly didn’t appreciate.
CHAPTER 2
He squared up to King, eyes wide, temper flaring. ‘Got a fuckin’ problem, extranjero?’
King peered down at the little man. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘American!’ the guy said, cackling. ‘Ey, boys, we got ourselves an American! Do you know where you are, gringo?’