by Matt Rogers
‘I’m going now,’ King said.
Moreau raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re just going to leave me here? In your home?’
King brushed past him and made for the entrance hallway, walking fast, determined to commit to his path before he was deterred. He spoke as he strode. ‘For all I care, it’s your home now. I need to disappear.’
‘Why?’
‘Like I said, there’s things I need to take care of. I can’t get wrapped up in anything else. I need to put distance between myself and violent confrontations.’
‘You’re a troubled man, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ he admitted. ‘And I’d also like to stay a free man.’
King paused at the door, and took the opportunity to survey the villa one last time. It had been good to him, even though his stay had been brief. He’d forged memories within these walls that he would hold onto forever. But he couldn’t stay.
‘This is worth millions,’ Yves called, as if to talk him out of abandoning the place.
‘If you get elected while I’m gone,’ King said, ‘be sure to give it back to me when you’re in office.’
‘Not a chance. You won’t help me.’
‘Touché. Goodbye, Yves.’
He stepped out into a balmy Corsican night, regressing into the days of constant motion. This time, though, he had a plan. He would stick to it to ensure he could return to retirement as quickly as possible. It involved the opposite of what he usually did. It meant hiding, laying low, avoiding danger.
Things he was not accustomed to.
But he’d give it his best shot.
He crossed to the garage and unlocked a matte black Range Rover. He’d purchased the car as an off-road vehicle for when he needed to tow the ATVs into the mountains. He barely used it. But his preferred method of transportation was resting halfway down a hillside, completely destroyed.
The Range would have to do.
He slipped into the driver’s seat, threw his duffel bag across the centre console and accelerated out of the mountaintop property for the last time.
As he got off the gravel path and the tyres bit the asphalt in Calenzana, King gunned the engine and gripped the wheel a little tighter. It was a one-road journey down to Calvi. There was something he needed to collect from the bar before he made for Sainte-Catherine Airport.
CHAPTER 13
Five hundred miles away in Montenegro, an African-American man sat alone at a table in one of the most luxurious casinos on the planet.
He was slightly taller than average, somewhere around six foot. Underneath the obscenely expensive leather jacket and designer jeans, there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his body. He had the lean and wiry physique of a professional athlete. In front of him sat a pile of polished chips, stacked in orderly rows. The man shot a glance at his phone, checking his missed calls, before sliding the device back into his pocket and tossing one of his chips onto the green felt.
The dealer shot him a quizzical glance, but he had been personally cleared by the control room to have a no-limits table opened up for his own use. That’s why he was in Montenegro.
‘Confirming, sir,’ the dealer said, ‘that is one hundred thousand euros.’
‘I am aware of that,’ the man said. ‘Now deal the cards.’
The dealer nodded curtly and began to deal.
The man received a queen. The dealer a five. Then a second queen for the player.
A phenomenal hand in the game of blackjack.
He couldn’t pass up those odds. He slid another hundred-thousand euro chip across the table. ‘Split.’
The dealer visibly blanched at the amount of money in play. He imagined his bosses would not be pleased if the high-roller cleaned him out. He parted the player’s two cards, and wiped sweat from his palm before dealing a fresh card to each queen.
A four, and a five.
Awful for the player, unless the dealer busted.
‘Fuck,’ the high-roller whispered under his breath.
He watched the dealer draw two eights in a row. Coupled with the original five, that gave him twenty-one. The best possible outcome…
The man grit his teeth as he watched two-hundred-thousand euros of his hard-earned cash disappear into the dealer’s till.
‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ he said through a tight jaw, then left before the dealer could respond.
Five steps away from the table, his phone buzzed. He slid it out of his pocket and stared at the incoming number. He didn’t know the caller ID. Which meant only one thing.
He answered with a swipe of one finger and lifted the phone to his ear.
‘Slater?’ a soothing female voice said.
‘Speaking.’
‘Where are you? This is urgent.’
He looked around before replying. ‘Thought we agreed to a week off.’
‘Fuck that. We need you back now.’
‘What is it?’
‘Get yourself to Corsica as fast as you possibly can. You’ll be compensated, as usual.’
‘Corsica? What’s this about?’
‘We need you to take someone out.’
‘What am I — a fucking contract killer now?’
‘That’s what you’ve always been.’
‘I wouldn’t put it so harshly.’
‘I honestly don’t care what you think. I told you, this is serious. You should be sprinting for a cab as we speak.’
‘Give me some detail, at least.’
‘Three dead bodies turned up in a ravine a couple of hours ago. Police are still investigating, but we know who it is. He’s killed dozens in Venezuela and Australia before that. This is the last straw. It’s time for damage control.’
‘Damage control?’
‘He used to be one of ours, Will.’
The penny dropped. ‘Oh.’
‘We let him retire based on the assumption that he’d stay out of trouble. Trouble seems to be the only thing he’s got into since he left. We can’t have a liability like that running around.’
‘Is it King?’
Silence.
‘Is. It. King?’ Slater repeated, slower, more controlled.
‘Yes.’
‘You want me to kill Jason King?’
‘I want you to try. If you can’t, then I don’t know what to do. But he can’t keep doing this. He’s out of fucking control — and you need to intercept him before he leaves the island.’
Slater pressed two fingers against his eyes and sighed. ‘I’ll do my best.’
‘I’ll send you everything we know when you’re en route.’
‘Got it.’
Slater hung up and dropped the phone back into his pocket. He made directly for the exit, passing wealthy socialites and expensive call-girls. The sight reminded him of something. With a grunt of disapproval he made another call, this one to the hotel reception.
A concierge answered in a pleasant tone. ‘Good evening.’
‘Hello. It’s Will Slater.’
‘Mr Slater!’ the voice exclaimed. ‘Are you enjoying your stay?’
‘Very much so. But a bit of business has come up and I’m afraid I have to fly out immediately. Would you be able to cancel my reservation for the next two nights?’
‘Of course, sir. I shall begin the process of refunding the eight thousand you deposited.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Slater said.
‘Sir?’
‘And there’s two women waiting for me in the suite. Please tell them I won’t be able to oblige them. Give them some of the eight thousand if they don’t approve.’
He hung up without elaborating any further. Another ten feet and he was out of the casino, exiting into a lavish shopping mall. He passed stores for Rolex, Armani and Chanel. The suited-up security guard out the front of the Rolex store gave him a slight nod as he passed by. Slater nodded back. He’d purchased a watch the day before. The staff tended to remember customers willing to drop a working man’s yearly salary on a single tim
epiece.
Slater checked the time before ducking out of the building into a cold night in the Balkans. Soft streetlights illuminated a traditional cobbled path that twisted its way round the enormous complex. He hailed a taxi and slipped into the back seat.
‘Airport,’ he said matter-of-factly. The driver nodded and peeled away from the footpath.
Already, the two-hundred-thousand was forgotten. It was a drop in the bucket. Slater knew whatever lay ahead would yield a hundred times that amount. If he could successfully take down the most successful operative in his organisation’s history, the benefits would be extraordinary. He regretted having to step away from the night he had planned with the two call-girls, but sometimes business held top priority.
When Black Force called, he answered.
Every single time.
He took a deep breath as the taxi bounced across the cobblestone, and did his best to relax. If Jason King was truly as dangerous as legend suggested, then he was in for one hell of a trip.
CHAPTER 14
The Range Rover pulled into the courtyard under the cover of darkness. There were no streetlights in this section of Calvi. King always arrived at the bar after the sun was up and left before it went down. He’d found no need to go to the trouble of installing floodlights or anything of the sort.
He didn’t need them now, either.
In the black of night, he slipped out of the vehicle and crossed the gravel to the bar’s deserted patio. He’d almost left without returning to this place.
But there was something here that he couldn’t leave the island without. Something that he’d tucked away in a safe in Belfast immediately upon retiring, and had only returned to retrieve when he’d been certain of settling down in Corsica. Lucky he didn’t have it with him on his previous travels, or it would have almost certainly been stolen or destroyed.
It meant more to him than anything he’d ever owned.
He unlocked the front doors silently, listening out for any kind of odd noise that could signify an enemy nearby. But there was nothing. The bar was well and truly empty. He crossed the room, dodging the faint outlines of tables and chairs in the darkness. He found a particular drawer tucked away in the corner behind the counter and slid it open. The bottom gave out after a slight shimmy and he moved it aside to reveal a tiny hidden compartment. Inside rested a velvet box, just large enough to fit the watch that lay within.
King opened the box and took out the watch. It was decades old, bronze and frail and expensive. The reinforced glass had been nicked and scratched over the years. He’d kept it with him throughout his entire career. Maybe it was a good luck charm. Maybe that’s how he avoided death on such a consistent basis. Whatever the case, he wouldn’t leave the country without it. It had been given to him over twenty years ago. It carried greater meaning than anyone could know.
He slipped the watch into his back pocket and threw the velvet box away. It landed somewhere in the middle of the room and clattered to a halt. King didn’t care where it came to rest. If he wanted to truly bury his head in the sand like José had recommended, it would mean leaving everything behind.
He’d come to terms with that when he choked the life out of Afshar.
He couldn’t stay here and risk arrest, or retaliation from any other mercenaries that happened to be roaming the island. In all likelihood, the three deaths wouldn’t have been tied to him, and he could have carried on living his peaceful existence.
But he didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past.
All the unwanted trouble in his life had come from assuming everything would be okay. This time, he would not assume. He would catch the first flight out of Corsica — abandoning the villa, abandoning the bar, leaving it all behind. He would disappear. It was the only way to ensure that the three dead mercenaries on the hillside would be the last bodies he ever saw.
He chuckled softly in the unlit bar, unable to fool himself. He knew that idea was just a fantasy. Truth was, he wasn’t sure if he would ever escape that life.
But he would try.
He left the bar without a second thought. He had spent his entire life on the move, which made letting go relatively easy. He didn’t get sentimental. In fact, jumping on a random flight seemed to be a return to normality. It certainly hadn’t felt natural having a place to call home in Calenzana. Maybe Afshar’s appearance had been a sign that this life wasn’t for him.
Nonsense.
You’d begun to enjoy yourself, he thought. He couldn’t deny that. He would settle down again.
When he was sure that trouble had become a distant memory.
He climbed back into the Range Rover and fired it up. Before he sat down, he took the watch out of his pocket and lowered it into the centre console. It sent a sharp jolt through his chest, a feeling that he knew he had to act on.
He couldn’t leave the island just yet, for a number of reasons. Sainte-Catherine Airport was tiny — there would be no overnight flights. From what he could remember, flights began at roughly ten in the morning. Which gave him the whole night to kill. He considered burrowing down in the Rover and getting a few hours sleep, but the memories around the watch nagged at him.
There was something he needed to do.
He put the 4WD into gear and crawled out of the courtyard, navigating the narrow streets of Calvi for what would probably be the last time. He soaked in as much of the town as he could. It had been good to him. For a few months he’d managed to taste peace.
Who knew if that feeling would ever return…
He left the seaside behind and ascended into the mountains, knowing exactly where he needed to go but struggling to muster the courage to continue. There was a small village called Aregno buried in the hills — a thirty-minute drive from Calvi. From the centre of the commune there were sweeping views down to the ocean, much like the view from Calenzana. King had driven through Aregno several times. He’d never stopped — even though that had been his intention.
Maybe this time he would stop.
He remained in brooding silence throughout the drive, coasting along the deserted roads. Every time he rounded a corner he expected to find another horde of mercenaries waiting for him, ready to tear his car to shreds at a moment’s notice. Whether he liked to admit it or not, the encounter with Afshar and his men had triggered his combat senses, reviving the sensations of years past. His hands tingled and his chest pounded. It was unclear how long the feeling would last. But he knew he had been primed — switched over to a primal instinct and ready to kill.
As he drove, he thought of Klara. The timing of their fling had been unfortunate, to say the least. He’d truly been looking forward to spending the day with her. He knew he had to throw it all away. He had to discipline himself to forget everything about his life in Corsica. If he stayed here, he would invite trouble. He was sure of it.
Aregno was shrouded in darkness this late at night. The odd window was softly illuminated here and there, but apart from that the commune was silent, save for the warm mountain breeze wafting up from the ocean and whistling over the empty roads. King gently guided the Rover along the main road, slowing and indicating when he spotted a faded street sign branching off down a narrow lane.
He stopped the car in the middle of the asphalt.
He stared at the sign.
He sighed.
In truth, he had never built up the nerve to turn down the street. It was a slim gravel path curving between orderly rows of traditional Corsican houses, but to King it was so much more than that. He mulled over the decision for a long minute, the car’s headlights flickering and wavering as they cut through the night.
Then he spun the wheel and turned down the street.
He followed the trail all the way down, until he reached the house at the end. It was a one-storey nondescript place with a terracotta roof and an air of homeliness. The lawn was immaculately groomed — clearly the work of the devoted home-owner. King cut the headlights as he approached the house an
d depressed the brakes until the Rover halted in the centre of the gravel path.
He killed the engine.
And then something made him stop.
He went to open the door handle but found himself unable to. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the house. All the lights were off. Whoever owned it was asleep.
Ever since he’d first landed on the island he’d been meaning to come here. Now he couldn’t find the courage to approach. He couldn’t knock. That would be too much to handle. He knew it was the right house, but the doubt and uncertainty that had plagued him for the last two months was barring him from getting out of the car.
He entered a trance-like state. He couldn’t tell exactly how long he stared at the house, but eventually fatigue caught up with him. At some point during the night his head fell back against the leather driver’s seat and he drifted into a dreamless sleep. He dozed undisturbed, until something jolted him awake in the early hours of the morning. He shook his head from side to side, rattling away the remnants of slumber, and looked around.
On the horizon, the sky was transitioning from black to blue. The sun would be rising shortly. Already his surroundings were brightening. He must have slept for a few hours, at least. The type of tiredness that occurs in the aftermath of a violent confrontation, when every shred of energy in his body had been expended in a brief period of time. His wrist ached, but apart from that he was unhurt from the hillside battle.
A light flicked on in the window of the terracotta-roofed house.
King’s heart rate spiked as he saw the glow. It was the first actual evidence he’d seen that proved the house was inhabited.
That meant…
He panicked. With short, sharp breaths he slammed the Rover into reverse and spun the car one-hundred-and-eighty degrees across the gravel. The tyres rumbled on the uneven surface, drawing attention. King accelerated back the way he had come and reached the end of the street. He flicked the indicator to the left and turned the wheel. Before he returned to the main road, he glanced in the rear view mirror, catching a final glimpse of the house that had troubled him so much.