by Matt Rogers
‘I do.’
‘You clearly don’t. Otherwise you would have got the fuck out of my way.’
‘I’m in a market,’ King said.
The guy paused for a second. Confused. The smile disappeared. ‘What?’
‘See? I know where I am.’
‘You think you’re clever?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘Not clever enough. You didn’t recognise me. You’re loco.’
‘Am I supposed to be scared of a circus midget?’
‘You cut that shit, gringo. You don’t know who I work for.’
‘I really don’t care.’
The guy glared at him. King could tell he would shortly resort to blows. A ball of anger had been building over the course of the conversation — and now it would finally culminate in a swing, or a shove, or something along those lines. He kept himself primed, ready to react to any sort of explosive movement. The thug was an angry little ball of rage.
Napoleon complex in full effect, he thought.
‘You want us to hurt you?’ the fat guy said.
‘Not really. I don’t like getting hurt.’
‘Then apologise.’
‘Apologise for what?’
‘For bumping me. And calling me a midget.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because we’ll fuck you up otherwise.’
King raised two eyebrows and smiled like he’d been told the funniest joke in the world. ‘And how are you going to do that?’
The guy let out a loud, sardonic laugh. ‘You just wait and see.’
King was done with conversation. The trio could attempt to intimidate him as much as they desired, but it wasn’t going to work. So they would either try something — or they would move on. He was prepared for either option.
The fat guy decided on the former.
He swung a balled fist in a wide uppercut, charged with the fury of a man who had been provoked. A big looping haymaker. King saw it coming from a mile away. He simply leant back on his heel and moved his chin back a few inches. Even if he’d stayed put, the impact would have been nothing more than a glancing blow. It went swinging past, almost in slow-motion. Barely any effort was involved in the evasive manoeuvre. King knew he had the speed and dexterity to avoid pinpoint-accurate shots from trained martial artists. The man in front of him was nothing of the sort.
The fat guy in question went stumbling past, dropping his head low. He’d overcompensated. Thrown himself off balance for the second time in a minute. King wrapped two hands around the guy’s singlet and used brute strength to heave him along, adding an abundance of forward momentum to the stumble. The guy’s feet scuffled against the dusty ground and he tripped and slammed head-first into the brick wall between two of the stalls. Vendors on either side watched in quiet bemusement as he slumped to the ground and sat there, staring up at King.
Dazed and disoriented and confused all at once.
King turned around, expecting adrenalin-fuelled confrontation from the other two. He found none. They stared at him, hesitant to make a move. Their feet remained firmly planted on the baked asphalt. He registered the look in their eyes and knew he would face no further issues. They were angry, sure. Furious, even. But behind that mask of fake aggression there was shock and awe.
Not many people reacted to violence the way King did.
‘We’re done here?’ he said simply.
They did not respond.
‘We’re done,’ King said.
He turned his back on them and set off down the bazaar — the way he’d been heading in the first place. Little had changed. The incessant drone of chatter had not dimmed during the confrontation. Clearly the locals couldn’t care less about a minor scuffle. They’d seen worse.
As he strolled he took a final glance behind him and saw the fat guy still on the ground, arms on his knees, staring at King. His face sported an expression somewhere between disbelief and embarrassment.
Not a good combination, King thought.
He figured they would come for him. For a few reasons. When confronted, the fat guy had instantly highlighted his own importance. Meaning the trio were probably part of some kind of gang. And several passersby had witnessed the altercation. These men could not be made laughing stocks. They prided themselves on their reputation. Which meant they would need to make an example out of the man who had just made them look like fools.
King figured if further action was necessary, it would do good to get it out of the way quickly.
So he turned left at the end of the bazaar and made for the quieter streets of Maiquetía.
He spotted an alleyway running between two high-rise apartment buildings, both shoddily constructed, seemingly on the verge of collapse. He paused at the entrance and assessed its contents. The narrow lane reeked of urine and garbage. He saw dried puddles of vomit on the ground and overflowing dumpsters lining the walls. It was uninhabited.
Perfect.
He strode into the alley, and there he waited.
It didn’t take long.
The three of them rounded the corner less than a minute later. This time, they were armed. King spotted the shiny glint of knife blades and he felt his body react accordingly.
Instantly his adrenal glands released the hormone cortisol. He experienced this sensation through the usual symptoms — a churning gut, a dry mouth and cold hands. He knew that the sole purpose of cortisol was to tap into the body’s energy reserves. Recognising a life-or-death situation was imminent, he felt an unnatural vigour. He knew things were drastically more serious given the emergence of weapons. The instinctual fight-or-flight mechanism kicked in.
Usually he gave leeway to thugs and common criminals who wanted nothing more than a fight. He showed mercy, because most of them were too dumb to know any better.
But not when weapons capable of fatal wounds were thrown into the mix.
Now he would respond with everything he had.
The two taller men brandished traditional box cutters, probably extracted from their pockets. The fat guy had something a little heftier. His porky fingers were clasped around the handle of a sizeable machete, more than likely picked up from one of the stalls on the way to the alley. It looked devastating. Sharpened to perfection. Probably on sale for an exorbitant price.
The three of them advanced simultaneously. Smart, King thought. They could certainly overwhelm him if they attacked all at once. He had to break their formation.
For the first time in months, he felt true fear. It didn’t happen often. Usually the odd confrontation he found himself in — like the altercation in the bazaar — quickly resolved itself without any sort of real threat to his wellbeing. A long and violent career had conditioned him to embrace physical incidents as nothing more than an ordinary part of life. He thought nothing of them. He’d moved on from the scuffle in the market seconds after he walked away.
But now the atmosphere had shifted. His pulse increased. His hands were clammy. The natural physiological response to fear reared its ugly head. He welcomed the sensation. It provided a sort of tunnel vision as he responded cognitively to the threat. He zoned in, ignoring the behavioural instinct to escape. It was human nature to run away from a threat when faced with one as dire as this.
King’s life experiences had allowed him to almost completely eliminate that sort of natural reaction.
He grit his teeth and forced himself to fight.
The response came as if it were second nature.
Back-pedalling down the alley, he snatched one of the fat garbage bags off the top of a dumpster and hurled it like a fastball at the fat guy. It hit him in the torso, which caused absolutely no damage. But that wasn’t the point. Upon impact the bag squelched and its material slit open. The contents erupted from the gash. Garbage juices splashed across the man’s singlet, covering his bare arms. Droplets sprayed over his mouth.
One of two things would now happen.
Either the fat guy would fall back, r
ecoiling away from the disgusting occurrence. Or he would be blinded by rage and charge forward. He didn’t possess the discipline or experience to ignore the provocation and concentrate solely on the task at hand. King knew enough about human nature to be aware of that.
The guy sprinted at him.
Perfect.
He ducked under the first machete swing, a maximum-energy horizontal slash aimed at his throat. As he dropped and felt the blade whisk through the air above the back of his neck, he couldn’t help but feel relief. The first shot was always the most dangerous. Once again the man had put all his effort into a single action. Perhaps he would never learn. Perhaps he would continue to suffer the consequences of such behaviour for the rest of his life.
Whatever the case, he wouldn’t forget what happened next anytime soon.
Now well in range, King thundered an uppercut into the guy’s mid-section, targeting the soft tissue on the side of his torso. Searching for the liver. If he placed it perfectly, he knew the guy would be incapacitated for hours.
At least.
The liver was a solid organ coated in a tough fibrous membrane. This membrane did not like to be stretched in any way. King’s balled-up fist landed with all the upper body strength he had. And he had plenty. His knuckles crunched into soft pudgy skin, shooting a vicious amount of power into the guy’s liver, resulting in one of the most painful sensations the human body could experience.
The guy dropped his hands and his legs buckled and he collapsed to the dirty alley floor, moaning and crying. His body reacted without his brain’s approval. An instinctive response. He curled into a fetal position and let out a sob, paralysed by the pain.
By then King had already stepped over him. His eyes darted left and right, scouring the expressions of the two remaining men. Both were shocked by the sudden turn of events, yet the man on the left seemed to have his focus still locked on King. The man on the right stared past him, observing the fat guy’s agony in disbelief. Distracted.
King had a split second to deal with the more focused man.
The guy swung the box cutter, fast. King shot out a hand and wrapped it around his slight wrist, halting the momentum of the swing. Now the strength advantage came into play. He pushed off one leg and drove the guy back-first into the alley wall. The action was accompanied by a brutal thud, knocking the wind out of the man’s lungs. King kept a vice-like grip on the guy’s wrist, preventing any more opportunities to stab out with the knife. With the right he swung an elbow. He twisted his body into it. It crashed against his adversary’s chin, breaking bone. Elbows were short and sharp. It didn’t take long to throw one. He wound back and hit the guy with another pair, each knocking teeth loose. Three total, rapid fire. Bam-bam-bam.
When he let go, the guy dropped like a rag doll.
King spun. Eyes wide, veins pumping. Searching for the last guy.
Just in time.
The man had come to his senses and charged head-long, his knife hand outstretched, looking to drive the blade into him. King used the length of his legs to his advantage. He lashed out in a front kick. Two fluid motions. Bring the knee up, leg bent. Then extend it, pushing off the other leg, driving power through the hips. The heel of his foot met the guy’s chest with enough force to stop a bull. The man had been sprinting full-pelt, so the change in momentum sent him skittering away. He let out a surprised wheeze, suddenly clawing for breath.
King rushed in and wrapped two beefy arms around the guy’s mid-section. He pinned his arms to his side, preventing any further attempts with the knife. Then he threw him like a child discarding an unwanted plaything.
The man smashed head-first into one of the dumpsters.
The skull-against-metal contact made a clang which King associated with a concussion. Just to make sure, he soccer-kicked the man in the face, whipping his head back before he even had time to fall to the ground.
Three men down. The whole thing had taken a little under ten seconds.
King adjusted his shirt and assessed the damage. The fat guy had taken one of the more powerful liver shots he’d ever landed, sunk with the power created from a threat on one’s life. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. One of the tall skinny guys had a broken jaw. The other probably had a sternal fracture from the front kick. Both were severely concussed.
Job done.
King left the alley a minute after entering it, receiving several bewildered stares from passing pedestrians. Three armed members of what seemed to be a terrifying local gang had followed him in, and he’d emerged unscathed with no sign of the assailants.
He assumed they were not used to witnessing such a sight.
He avoided their gazes and headed back the way he’d come.
CHAPTER 3
By the time he made it back to the hotel and took the elevator up sixty stories, it was approaching midday in Maiquetía. He pulled the keycard from his jeans and unlocked the door to the penthouse suite. He entered to find it empty.
No sign of the girl from the night before.
He shrugged. Neither of them had assumed that the encounter was anything more than a fling. Besides, at this stage in his life he was far from ready for anything more. He’d spent his career alone; he would heal from it alone.
He crossed the room and picked up the landline phone beside his bed. The number he dialled had been ingrained in his memory for years. He hadn’t forgotten it since he’d retired, and he knew he would not forget it anytime soon. Not after what the man on the other end had done for him.
The phone was answered quickly. ‘Dirk Wiggins.’
He smiled. ‘Hey, old friend. It’s King.’
‘Jason! Thought you were dead for a while.’
‘Because I didn’t call?’
‘Nah, I knew you were out there somewhere. Didn’t blame you for falling off the grid after Australia. It’s what I told you to do. How are you doing?’
King thought back to that turbulent period. The never-ending woods of the Victorian countryside. Mysterious enemies. Attempts on his life. Savage violence. His body had taken several weeks to heal from the trauma it had been put through.
‘Much better than when you saw me last,’ he said. ‘How did the investigation go?’
‘As they all do. Slow as shit. You caused quite the stir. It took an insane amount of manpower to keep the journalists from sniffing around.’
‘I hope you were compensated for helping out.’
‘Ah … you know me. Never get rewarded for my troubles.’
‘You’re back in Delta now?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of anything else.’
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘You could put it that way. It’s just what I do. Always have, always will. Where’d you end up?’
‘I’m currently in Venezuela.’
A sigh. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stay out of trouble?’
‘How do you know I’m in trouble?’
‘You’re in Venezuela,’ Dirk said matter-of-factly. ‘Of course you’re in trouble.’
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’
‘Let me guess; you’re staying in the slums, picking fights with cartels?’
King looked around the lavish penthouse. ‘Far from it. Haven’t had to deal with anything more than a few local thugs.’
‘You dealt with local thugs in Australia,’ Dirk said. ‘Look what that caused.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘No you won’t.’
They both laughed.
‘I can handle myself,’ King said. ‘You know that. Good to hear you’re doing well, Dirk.’
‘You too, brother. Take care.’
King dropped the phone onto its cradle and sat back against the bed frame. He felt the expensive linen sheets and listened to the total silence of the suite. He stared out the windows at a gorgeous view of the Vargas coastline.
All foreign sensations.
He was used to the coarse brittleness of sand and the sound of enemy gunfire an
d the feeling of warm blood gushing from bullet wounds. These feelings still came to him, late at night. He feared he would never shake them. A man couldn’t live the life he had and emerge unscathed.
No-one could.
He drifted into an afternoon nap. Outside, clouds rolled in, obscuring the sun, plunging the room into lowlight. But King didn’t witness it. He slept soundly for the first time in weeks. He dreamt nothing. When he came to a couple of hours later, he baulked at the fact that he had napped undisturbed. It meant that something had changed in his life. Some kind of order had been restored.
And it seemed clear what that something was.
Violence.
He hoped that was not the case. He dreaded that he might have become so accustomed to combat over his career that it was now impossible to feel at ease without confrontation. He mulled over the predicament. Clearly, ten years as a combat operative had a profound effect on his life. He wondered just how far its reach would stretch into his retirement.
Then the silence broke.
He heard sudden rapid footsteps in the corridor outside. His senses heightened. At least four men, probably more.
You fucking idiot, King.
He’d simply assumed that Diamanté Resort would be immune to the thugs from the alley. Surely preventative measures were in place to limit the infiltration of a luxury hotel by local gangsters…
But it seemed they had rallied some friends and come back for thirds. This time, they probably had guns. King wondered if the next few moments would be his last.
He sprung off the bed and crossed the room. Searching for some kind of weapon. Anything he could use to defend himself. For the last two months he had travelled unarmed, following certain principles to try and acclimatise to a peaceful existence.
Leave everything behind. Don’t invite trouble.
That had come back to bite him in the ass.
He eyed a heavy paperweight resting on the desk by the door, holding down a stack of brochures and informational pamphlets about the resort’s features. It would have to do. He snatched the weight off the wooden surface and crept quietly to the door.