The Jason King Series: Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Why, you bastard?’ he cursed. ‘Why?’

  He reached out and slipped a hand into the man’s jacket. There was a flat object in the inside pocket. King withdrew a modern smartphone and tucked it into his own jeans. Then he patted down the rest of his clothing, turning up nothing. With his work complete, he pushed Afshar hard, sending the corpse rolling down the hillside, gaining momentum, slowly disappearing from sight.

  Afshar clattered and bounced into the darkness, and then he was gone.

  As always, it didn’t take long for the pain to settle in. King knew he could shut it out in the heat of the moment, but that was nothing more than delaying the inevitable. He felt his ribs burning, his cuts and gashes stinging, his head pounding. He grimaced and picked himself up. He had all the time in the world to feel sorry for himself later.

  For now, there was plenty to sort out.

  He couldn’t go to the police. As usual. A man of King’s abilities brought an unparalleled level of violence to any confrontation. There were two men riddled with bullets above him, and another beat and choked to death below. He thought back to a pair of hitmen he’d killed in the backwoods of Australia, and felt a wave of deja vu.

  Once again, he begrudgingly accepted that a panel of jurors would be hesitant to believe the argument of self-defence in a situation like this. It meant things would change drastically. His car was a wreck, resting halfway down the hillside. There wasn’t a chance he could move it, or hide it. It had been purchased under his own name — the same name he’d purchased the villa in Calenzana with.

  He swore loudly, unable to help himself. The curse ripped through the valley, echoing as it broke the night’s silence. He got his feet under him and began the painstaking process of climbing back up the hill, heading for the road. As he did so, something very close to an anxiety attack began to form, deep in his chest.

  His breathing quickened. He closed his eyes, and for a moment he felt like crying. He spat another glob of blood into the dirt near his feet and pressed on. The new life he’d forged for himself had always felt too good to be true.

  He’d originally chalked the feelings up to a change in setting. He wasn’t used to peace, and he had to grow accustomed to it, that’s all…

  He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  In a fluid chain of events, his retirement had been torn to shreds. He couldn’t stay in Corsica. There wasn’t a single scenario in which he could imagine that playing out to his advantage. Every avenue led to arrest, and a lengthy trial which he was likely to lose, given his imposing nature and the savagery with which his enemies had been brutalised.

  He passed the crash site. The Mercedes was battered into oblivion, its entire chassis beat to shit, shattered glass dotting the ground all around it. King took one look at it and shook his head in disbelief, surprised he’d survived the crash relatively unscathed. The bodies of Afshar’s goons were sprawled across the dirt. With his senses still reeling, he couldn’t make out much more than the fact that they were both dead.

  It was too dark to discern where exactly his bullets had struck them. He knew the first guy had died from the direct impact of King’s shots. He had no idea where he’d hit the second, but the man must have bled out from his injuries. There was nothing else to see.

  King ducked into the destroyed coupe and retrieved a few personal items he needed for what lay ahead. His phone, wallet, and keys to the villa. The smartphone had been resting loose in the cup holder at the time of the crash, and as a result its screen had been shattered in the carnage.

  He left everything else in the car. None of it mattered.

  He stole a final glance at his car for the last time, and continued towards the main road.

  Calenzana was within walking distance. Maybe not for an unfit tourist, but King had made many a trek in the past. He was hurting in dozens of different places, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. He worked out his priorities as he continued to climb the hill.

  Get back to the villa.

  Pack a bag.

  Disappear.

  Nothing he wasn’t used to. But this time, he felt it would leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He’d been rather enjoying his time on the island.

  The road was deserted this late in the evening. A warm breeze swept up from the ocean, washing over the quiet mountain road. King stood under a weak streetlight, staring out at the landscape stretching out in either direction. On any other occasion — a beautiful sight.

  Now, it was the last thing on his mind.

  He turned and set off up the hill, focused on putting one foot in front of the other. It would be a long walk. But he was marching in the direction of a luxury villa — not a terrorist camp, or a top-secret government compound, or a drug-production facility in the middle of the jungle. Those days were long gone. The appearance of Afshar was an unfortunate experience, but it really shouldn’t have surprised him given the amount of enemies he’d made in the past. It was an isolated event. The violence had been intense, but that would be the last of it.

  He regretted what had happened, but he would move on from it.

  He always did.

  He sighed and listened to the sounds of wildlife slowly return as the killing and chaos settled into the past.

  CHAPTER 11

  In the end, it only took a couple of hours.

  King reached Calenzana as the hour ticked steadily towards midnight. He stuck to the side of the road, not bothering to try and catch a ride from the occasional car that passed by. There was no chance of anyone picking up a man of his stature in the dead of night. He ignored their headlight beams lighting him up until they’d passed him by. He pressed onward.

  The town was deserted as he strolled into its centre. The locals were shut up in their houses, either asleep or close to. He faced no questions or queries from passers-by, because there weren’t any to encounter. As the journey came to an end, the pain had all but subsided. His injuries weren’t serious. The cuts and bruises would heal. As he stepped onto the gravel trail leading up to his property, he took a moment to gather his wits.

  Things could be worse.

  He still had a fortune in the bank. He could move freely about until the attention from the three dead bodies subsided. There was no greater conspiracy to end his life. An old enemy had recognised him and tried to finish the job, and King had retaliated. That was all.

  But isn’t that how it always begins?

  He shook off the feeling that there would be more to it than the fight on the hillside, and trudged towards his walled property. A wave of tiredness crashed over him. The standard come-down from an adrenalin high. He shook it off. He could rest when he was on a plane.

  He scanned the tag on his keys against the electronic panel by the gate and entered the code he knew off by heart. Gears whirred and the gate began to move, shattering the silence. King stepped through as soon as there was space and made quickly for the house.

  Motion-sensor lights flicked on as he crossed the courtyard and headed for the front door. Normally, he would welcome the warm glow, pour himself a drink and settle down for a quiet night in. Just as he had for the past couple of months.

  Not tonight.

  With his heart pounding in his chest and the blood rushing to his head, he slipped through the front door and made a beeline for the bedroom. He retrieved a large black duffel bag from the closet and began sorting through what possessions were truly necessary.

  Not many, he concluded.

  He dropped a few changes of clothes into the bag, followed by a laptop and a few books. Looking around the vast home, he realised that none of it mattered enough to bother worrying about. He’d been plagued by the feeling that nothing in the villa truly belonged to him, probably due to spending so much of his life on the move. Now he was abandoning his home once again, yet it felt perfectly normal.

  He slung the duffel bag over his shoulder. As he stepped back out into the kitchen, he figured that it should probably feel wors
e to be leaving behind a multi-million dollar home. Surely it wasn’t normal that the change of setting barely affected his emotions. He’d been overwhelmed back on the hillside, but now he was unperturbed.

  Darting from place to place was all he’d ever known.

  In a way — even though he was leaving behind everything he’d worked hard to achieve — he was returning to normality.

  He looked down and saw the blood caked over his arms. His singlet had been shredded by either the crash or the tumble down the hill. He couldn’t leave like this. Nothing drew attention more than blood.

  He dumped the duffel on one of the kitchen stools and took a quick shower in the deluxe en-suite bathroom. He scrubbed away the dirt and filth, shampooed his hair, and dried quickly. He walked naked into the enormous walk-in wardrobe — still largely untouched — and took a moment to assess his physical condition before getting dressed.

  Like he’d predicted — just superficial injuries. Nothing was broken. A large gash had dried on his right forearm, but apart from that he’d emerged from the confrontation with little to show for it. He slipped into a pair of designer jeans and a long-sleeved V-neck T-shirt, thin enough to keep him comfortable in the warm Mediterranean climate. He left thousands of dollars worth of clothing on their hangers and slipped back into the kitchen, leaving his bedroom for what would probably be the last time.

  He froze.

  He wasn’t alone.

  A silhouette loomed in the living room, watching him silently.

  There was a second Beretta in one of the drawers built into the kitchen’s marble countertop, but he would never make it to the gun in time without catching a hail of bullets in the process. That was if the assailant wanted him dead, of course.

  Even stranger was that — as the man stepped out of the shadows — King realised he recognised the guy.

  ‘I saw you on television yesterday,’ King noted, his voice ringing through the large open space.

  Yves Moreau.

  The enthusiastic politician folded his arms across his chest and leant back on the edge of the couch, indicating that he had no hostile intentions and wasn’t armed. He was dressed in a casual grey suit and an open-necked shirt. His thick hair was unruly, spilling back behind his ears. ‘Did you? Very nice. I enjoyed delivering that speech.’

  ‘How’d you get in here?’ King said.

  ‘You must be in a hurry.’

  ‘I am. You can tell?’

  ‘Well, you left the gate and the front door wide open. That shows me you’re leaving.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘May I take a moment of your time?’

  ‘I’m very tempted to put a bullet in you for having the nerve to walk in here unannounced.’

  ‘Desperate times call for desperate measures.’

  King hesitated. ‘What do you want? Make it quick.’

  Before Moreau could respond, King crossed the kitchen in one fluid motion and wrenched a certain drawer open. He withdrew the Beretta M9 — already fully loaded — and thumbed the safety off. He placed the handgun on the marble countertop and clasped his hands together behind his back.

  ‘That’s there in case this turns out to be something else,’ he said.

  Moreau stiffened when he saw the weapon, and shook his head. ‘I don’t mean any harm.’

  ‘Don’t be offended if I don’t take your word for it just yet.’

  ‘What I’m about to say might stir a reaction.’

  King raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  Moreau’s hard eyes bored into him from across the room. ’I know you killed three men a couple of hours ago.’

  CHAPTER 12

  King snatched the Beretta off the kitchen countertop and had it aimed at Moreau’s head before the man could utter another word.

  Moreau raised a finger. ‘That’s what I was talking about when I mentioned a reaction.’

  ‘I should kill you now.’

  ‘But you won’t.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘Because I believe you to be a good man.’

  ‘That’s a risky assumption. What if I’m not?’

  ‘Then I’d be dead already.’

  King hesitated, but his aim didn’t falter. He didn’t shake, he didn’t display emotion. He just kept the barrel trained on Moreau with a steady trigger finger fixed into place. But both he and the politician knew that he would not shoot unless he was antagonised. ‘How do you know what happened?’

  Moreau rose off the couch and took a single step towards the kitchen. King tightened his finger just a fraction. Enough to get the man’s attention. He stopped moving.

  ‘Stay right there,’ King said.

  Moreau raised both hands, signifying innocence. ‘I’m not who you think I am. Those men were here to kill me.’

  King paused. ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m the only politician on the island preaching anti-corruption right now,’ Moreau said. ‘That attracts … attention. I’m sure you can imagine why I have a team of people responsible for my safety. They caught wind over the last few days of a few undesirables floating between towns, asking all sorts of questions. We’ve been working with passport control for a couple of days. All signs were pointing to one Afshar Nawabi, and a few of his friends.’

  ‘He’s dead. Two of his friends are too.’

  ‘I know that. We were tracking his phone via GPS. The wonders of government espionage technology. We were about to arrest him on conspiracy to commit murder. Tonight, instead of returning to his hotel room, he drove all the way out into the hills, spent ten minutes on a hillside, and now he’s—’ Moreau withdrew a smartphone from his suit pocket and glanced at the screen, ‘—here.’

  ‘He’s at the bottom of that hill,’ King said. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘So you have his phone?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’d be very interested in seeing it.’

  ‘Why should I care what you want?’

  ‘I thought you might want to help out a good cause,’ Moreau said. ‘I’m close to breaking through to the masses in Corsica. If I can stay alive…’

  ‘None of this concerns me. In fact, it freaks me out. I’d rather be on the other side of the globe.’

  ‘You killed all three of them?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Then you must be a very dangerous man.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I could use you.’

  King rolled his eyes, exaggerating the gesture so that Moreau could see. ‘As what? A hired gun?’

  ‘Afshar had more men,’ Moreau said. ‘They’ve clearly been paid to come out here, and I can only guess what their intentions were before they ran into you.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’ King said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  Moreau shook his head.

  ‘Then it’s a lost cause. Give up and go back to your career.’

  ‘You think it’ll just end there? Who knows what will be thrown at me in the future? I need your help.’

  King was fed up. He skirted round the countertop and picked up his duffel off the nearest stool. He slung it over one shoulder, tucked the Beretta into his waistband and walked across the empty space. He came within a few feet of Moreau and stopped.

  ‘I spent a long time giving people my help,’ he said. ‘I came to your beautiful island to get away from all of that. I have no idea who you are. I’d never spoken to you until you decided to walk in through my front door. I’m very sorry about your problems but they don’t concern me. Right now, I’m concerned with staying out of prison.’

  ‘What if—?’ Moreau began.

  King held up a hand. ‘If what you’re about to say has anything to do with threatening me, or bribing me, or telling me that you can make all my problems go away if I help you — then please don’t say another word. You might think it’s a good idea, but don’t bother.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘You don�
��t know who I am.’

  Moreau shrugged. ‘I would never stoop to such levels anyway. I only came here to see if you could help me get to the bottom of this. I take it your answer is “no”.’

  ‘You’re correct,’ King said.

  ‘Shame.’ The man rested against the back of the couch once more. He stared at the ground, unblinking, and for a moment King saw something very close to tears in his eyes. He wiped an eye to compose himself and straightened up. ‘No matter.’

  King sympathised, but he wouldn’t be swayed. He remembered what a man named José had told him in Venezuela. If he wanted any hope of a normal life, he had to turn and flee at the slightest mention of violence or intrigue. And that was exactly what he would do here. He would not be seduced into old habits. ‘How long have you been facing threats like this?’

  ‘Ah, a while,’ Moreau said, still staring into space. ‘I am not a popular man amongst my peers. They pay off all the right people. I do not.’

  Something deep inside King twitched. A nerve. A reflex. An old calling. This man needs help. He ignored it. ‘How good is your team?’

  A shrug. ‘Good enough, I guess. We’re doing great work here. We’re close to getting rid of certain corrupt officials. I don’t know which ones hired mercenaries, but it just proves that our strategy is working.’

  ‘Well, as much as I hate the fact that you walked in here unannounced,’ King said. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing for the country. And you’ll probably keep facing threats, but you need to persist. I think you’re a good man — from what I’ve seen on television.’

  Moreau’s bushy eyebrows widened and his expression turned hopeful. King brushed him off with a quick shake of the head. ‘Doesn’t mean I’m going to help you. I’ve got my own shit to sort out right now. It explicitly involves avoiding situations like this. I’m sorry. But good luck, Yves.’

  He held out a hand, and the politician shook it. They met each other’s gaze and exchanged a curt nod.