by Matt Rogers
Reaction speed could only fend off so much carnage.
There would come a time when he knew his reflexes would kick in a millisecond too slow. Then a bullet would tear his vital organs to shreds and that would be that.
It wouldn’t happen.
He wouldn’t let it.
He felt wet sand underneath his feet and clambered ashore. His swim trunks clung to his legs. They were a size too small. He’d bought them nigh on twenty days ago — but it seemed such a drastic change of lifestyle had enabled him to focus all his intensity on the gym. With no-one to shoot at and nothing to worry about, he’d needed somewhere to take out the primal urges that often coursed through him.
Already at an unimaginably high level of fitness, it seemed his body had reacted to the concentrated training by tightening and hardening. Regular beach-runs in the summer heat every morning kept his pores open and his body fat percentage in the high single digits.
It sure drew attention. He stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the hordes of soft-bodied middle-aged tourists that flocked to these parts in the summertime. But he didn’t mind.
Sometimes, that sort of attention created hedonistic advantages.
Women noticed.
He crossed the sand, heading for the towel he’d laid down a few minutes prior. He’d just finished a quick five-mile run and the wash-off in the bay had closed his pores. He dried himself, meeting the eyes of several nearby beachgoers who couldn’t seem to keep their eyes off his physique.
He smiled at them — something he’d found himself doing more and more lately.
Happiness was a sensation that he hadn’t had much time to experience over the last ten years. In this place, he was beginning to grow accustomed to the feeling.
After all — what was there to possibly be unhappy about?
He gathered his belongings — a small rucksack containing a change of clothes, a mobile phone, a wallet and a set of keys — and made for the town. He slung the bag over one shoulder and drank in the sun as he walked. Changing attire could wait. There was no rush.
He passed between buildings painted pale shades of orange and yellow. Most were multi-storey. The seaside town had an air of relaxation about it. King had been to many places on this planet. Not many induced anything close to comfort.
Most were plagued by a distinct sense of aggressive hostility.
He found the same narrow stairway made of cobblestone that he’d ascended a hundred times already, carving between two tightly-grouped buildings near the water. He took the steps two at a time, his bare feet finding relief on the cool surface. The shade cast by the neighbouring roofs meant that the stairway formed one of the only reprieves from the Corsican heat.
As he walked, he couldn’t help but smile again. It had been strange to transition into retirement, especially given what he’d been through. Despite the risks that had come with being thrown into a corrupt third-world prison in South America and facing an army of mercenaries in the backwoods of Australia, it pained him to admit that he’d felt more at home during those times than the periods in between of travel and rest. He’d decided to give an uneventful life one last shot. That was what this was.
It seemed to be working. He hadn’t felt this way since his childhood.
He stepped out into a small courtyard atop a hill. A low brick and mortar fence curved around the edge of the courtyard, facing out over the Bay of Calvi. The ground was loose gravel and the view was picturesque. King had taken a shortcut, but the main road leading to the courtyard lay empty. A single car was parked in front of a low one-storey building with large fold-out windows and a cozy but spacious atmosphere.
Previously a residential building, the place had been converted into a bar long ago. The interior walls had been knocked down to create a sprawling single room, complete with a dozen tables and an enormous oak countertop at one end. Hundreds of bottles of alcohol lined the walls behind the bar, each at varying levels of completion.
It was a nice place.
More importantly, it was his.
CHAPTER 2
King passed the car — a Mercedes-AMG C63 S Coupe — and double-checked that it was locked. He’d purchased the vehicle on a whim upon landing in Corsica, finally deciding to dip into his considerable savings.
In certain situations, violence paid.
Two men loitered outside the bar’s front entrance, waiting patiently on cheap stools dotting the patio. They were both elderly, which meant they’d long ago realised that there was no need to force unnecessary conversation where none was needed. They sat in silence, soaking in the morning sun, thoroughly content. King had grown to know both men over the length of time that he’d owned the bar, and had quickly decided that they were a stellar example for enjoying life in their older years. One day, he strived to be like them.
‘Morning, gents,’ he said as he stepped up onto the deck.
‘What took you so long?’ Benédict demanded. The man was in his sixties, previously a real estate developer in Cairns before retiring to Corsica with enough money to buy the island itself if he wanted. His English was impeccable, with only a slight trace of an accent — a necessity given the high-profile Caucasian clients he’d assisted over the years. He enjoyed the simple things in life — like a drink on a Sunday morning.
King checked the Rolex he’d looped over one wrist on the walk up through Calvi. ‘It’s two minutes past ten.’
‘And you open at ten.’
‘You’re certainly right,’ King said. ‘I’ll do better next time.’
They exchanged grins and King moved to slot a key into the bar’s double doors. He nodded to Franc, a similarly-aged retiree who spoke little English but knew how to order a scotch on the rocks — as proven by his repeated visits. The doors creaked open and King stepped through, striding across the timber flooring.
‘You know,’ Benédict said, ‘I never did ask. How much did you pay for this place?’
King raised an eyebrow as he stepped behind the bar and dropped his rucksack on the floor underneath the counter. ‘There’s a reason you don’t ask those questions, Benédict. That’s very forward.’
‘Ah, nonsense,’ the old man said, dismissing the statement with an exaggerated wave of the hand. ‘We’re big boys. I’m sure you can handle it.’
‘I paid a hell of a lot more than I’m ever going to make back from it,’ King said.
‘Then why on earth did you buy it?’
King pointed out the window. ‘You like the view?’
Benédict nodded. ‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘Exactly. I liked the view. So I bought it.’
‘If you have enough money to afford this place, why would you waste it? You’d have to be business-savvy to get to where you are now. Rumours are you got yourself a cozy place up in Calenzana too.’
‘Rumours are correct,’ King said, fetching a bottle of scotch down from the wall. He slapped two glasses on the table and scooped ice into each. ‘The usual?’
Benédict and Franc nodded in unison.
King spread his arms wide. ‘What can I say, Benédict? I’m enjoying retirement.’
‘Chançard,’ Benédict muttered, shaking his head, clearly perturbed by the fact that a man as young as King could afford such a lavish lifestyle. ‘So you buy the bar because you enjoy the work?’
King nodded. ‘There we go. You’re getting it. Needed to keep myself occupied.’
‘Why this?’
‘I visited a similar set-up in Australia. Liked the place a lot. Felt jealous of the owner. And hey — I could afford it. I break even. Life’s good.’
‘Oui,’ Benédict agreed. ‘Life is good.’
King finished pouring the drinks — making sure to be particularly generous with his servings — and slid them across the countertop. The two men handed over a crumpled five-euro note each. King accepted the exchange with a nod of thanks and dropped the money into a battered till. He fired up the trio of flat-screen televisions spread out across the
room and started to prepare for the mid-afternoon rush that would inevitably come, as it did each Sunday. He swung each windowpane out in turn, allowing the warm morning breeze to flow in through the open panes. Then he ventured into the fridge behind the bar and cracked open an ice-cold beer.
Today will be a good day, he mused.
Something he’d been forcing himself to repeat every morning. A mantra of sorts.
He settled into light conversation with Benédict as the morning’s first customers began to trickle in.
CHAPTER 3
The day passed in the same way that the last thirty had — full of warm greetings to the patrons and a steady flow of alcohol and soft tropical music wafting from a jukebox in the far corner. King alternated between watching the television on the far wall and conversing with tourists and locals alike.
Through his new life he’d discovered something that greatly interested him — simply listening.
As the days passed by he realised he knew very little about ordinary civilian life. He’d spent an enormous chunk of his own being whisked from danger to danger — always fighting, always killing.
It hadn’t afforded him the luxury of living anything close to a normal existence.
As such, he found himself asking open-ended questions to customers and letting them talk. On this particular day, a man from Dallas who wandered in mid-afternoon spent thirty minutes complaining of his soul-sucking 9-to-5 job back home. He sat in a tiny cubicle and managed paycheques for the hundreds of men and women that his firm employed. He said it was draining, and that he felt like nothing more than a mindless drone.
King listened quietly and found himself wondering if his choice of career hadn’t been so bad after all.
‘Hey,’ he chimed in, ‘at least it allowed you to come here.’
The man shrugged. ‘That’s true. Short breaks like this keep me sane.’
‘You been here before?’
The guy shook his head and took a swig of beer. ‘Never. Only been out of the country once. What about you? This your place?’
King nodded. ‘Settled down here only a few months ago.’
‘What’d you do before that?’
He paused. ‘A lot of shit. None of it pleasant.’
‘At least you’re living the life now,’ the guy said, probably assuming King was talking about manual labour or unpaid overtime.
King stared out the bar’s open windows at the afternoon sun glinting off the waves. He shook his head in bemusement. Perhaps it would all work out after all.
By four in the afternoon, King had served dozens of patrons and amassed a fairly respectable total for the day. Of course, it would never be enough to make serious money, but he had no need for that. He could take ten times as much as he was currently earning from the bar and it would leave no sizeable impression on his bank account. That hadn’t been the point when he’d decided to make the purchase. It had been an anchor of sorts, something to keep him in one place.
He knew he had to shake free the travel bug if he hoped for any semblance of a regular life.
Benédict and Franc had left a couple of hours ago, probably returning to their disgruntled wives. On that note, King’s mind wandered to the possibility of settling down.
He had no shortage of options — rumours had spread quickly throughout the island of a young, wealthy, good-looking American who owned a luxurious villa in Calenzana — but the concept of a long-term relationship was still foreign to him. He’d had flings in his time, but the nature of his previous life had barred all ability to develop an attachment to anyone.
As if on cue, a woman stepped into the bar. King — in the middle of washing a set of used glasses — glanced up as he heard the familiar jangle of a new customer and tried his hardest not to stare. Even though Corsica was home to a plethora of beautiful women, he hadn’t seen someone so striking in quite some time. She had Scandinavian roots, evident in her pale blonde hair and blue eyes and softly tanned skin. She wore a loose floral dress that accentuated her curves and carried a small clutch bag.
As King returned his gaze to the glasses, she approached the bar and sat down on one of the stools. She sighed emphatically.
King looked up. ‘Long day?’
She nodded. ‘Very.’
‘Seems that way. What can I get you?’
‘Beer, please.’
‘Any preference?’
‘What do you recommend?’
‘I’ve got a local craft. Called Pietra. It’s good.’
She nodded. ‘Sounds like it’ll hit the spot.’
He cracked one open and passed it across the countertop. ‘Swedish?’
She smiled, flashing pearly white teeth. ‘How’d you know?’
King shrugged. ‘The accent. I’ve been there a couple of times.’
‘On holiday?’
He shook his head. ‘For work. Didn’t have much time to see the sights.’
‘You should go back some time. It’s a beautiful country.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
He met her gaze for a fraction of a second too long, the type of look between two parties that signified mutual attraction. Noting that the feeling was there, he turned back to the glasses. He didn’t want to seem too interested.
Not yet.
‘You are American?’ she said.
‘I am.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
King smiled and shook his head. Seemed everyone had that question on their mind. ‘I retired very young. Made enough money to get out early. Now I’m just enjoying life.’
‘I’ve heard.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
She took a sip of beer and looked at him. ‘You’re the talk of the town, Jason King.’
‘You know my name,’ he noted.
‘I’ve talked to a few friends who’ve said that you’re quite the naughty boy.’ She spoke sardonically, as if jokingly scolding him for his behaviour.
King snatched up his own half-empty beer and took a swig. He thought he might need it. ‘And who are your friends, exactly?’
‘Model friends,’ she said. ‘Well, the ones that live locally. I’m out here on contract. Big magazine shoot along the bay. One week, all expenses paid.’
‘Sounds fancy.’
‘Fancy enough. I went out on the town last night and found out about you.’
‘Your friends seem awfully gossipy.’
‘Just the ones you’ve slept with.’
King shrugged. ‘Am I supposed to say no?’
She shrugged back. ‘Not my business, is it? I’m Klara, by the way.’
‘Pleasure to meet you, Klara.’
‘Is it true about—?’ She lowered her voice, trailing off, as if she were about to discuss private information that could not be overheard.
King hadn’t the slightest idea as to what she was getting at. ‘What?’
‘The villa.’
‘Ah…’ he said. ‘Yes, it is.’
He should have known that information would spread eventually. Benedict had brought it up, and now Klara. The sprawling complex in the hills above Calvi — positioned in the small town of Calenzana — had gouged a serious dent out of his personal fortune, holding a price tag in the high seven-figures. It was three storeys of luxury — complete with a view over half the island, a rooftop Olympic-sized swimming pool, a home cinema, lush well-maintained gardens and an enormous four-car garage which he’d converted into a powerlifting gym.
It was his own private paradise. He felt he deserved it, all things considered. He’d made the purchase intending to never leave the island again, investing in such an extravagant home to set himself up for decades of comfort and peace.
Of course, he had to make sure that the first — and hopefully last — property he’d ever owned was a special one.
He’d travelled enough for ten lifetimes.
Klara sensed his hesitation. ‘You don’t want to talk about it?’
‘I’m not ad
verse to it,’ King said. ‘I just don’t like to come off as bragging.’
‘I’m the one who asked you,’ she said. ‘Of course you’re not bragging. So — what’d you do?’
King paused and looked at her, his eyes wide. ‘What the hell is it with people today?’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘Everyone’s poking around,’ he explained.
She shrugged and leant forward, resting her tanned forearms on the counter. ‘Everyone’s curious. Wealthy foreigner shows up and throws that kind of money around. Maybe I can be the one to wrestle it out of you.’
He drained the beer from his bottle and tossed it in the trash. ‘You want to wrestle?’
She smiled. ‘Not like that. I’m here on business.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because I want to know. And I have the afternoon free, so I thought I’d explore the town.’
He noted her exquisite beauty and imagined she didn’t often come across a man who told her “no”. ‘You usually get what you want, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ she admitted.
‘And you think I’ll tell you where I got all my money because of that?’
‘So it’s a big secret?’
‘Possibly. I don’t know you. You could be anybody.’
‘Were you a bad man?’
King raised his hands in mock surrender and stood up. ‘Can’t tell you. Sorry. Why so inquisitive, might I ask?’
‘Always been that way,’ Klara said. ‘I guess you could call me nosy. Or reckless. It’s how I got into this job. Parents had me on a different course — but what’s the point?’
‘Of life?’
‘Of doing something you’re not passionate about.’
King shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know. I’ve never had that problem.’
Klara did not respond. King had realised long ago what Benédict and Franc had concluded — there was no point forcing conversation. Sometimes, silence was comfortable. They sat on opposite sides of the bar and let the stillness of the late-afternoon wash over them.