by Matt Rogers
The front door was opening.
A figure began to emerge from the doorway.
King spun the wheel and took off, disappearing from sight, refusing to look back.
Another time. When he had time to process it.
Not now.
A few miles out of Aregno, he spotted a small scenic lookout surrounded by a low cobblestone fence, with views stretching for a hundred miles in either direction. At this time of the morning it lay deserted. King turned into the lot and stamped on the brakes. With shaking hands, he hunched low over the wheel and rested his forehead against the leather.
He burst into tears.
It hurt. He couldn’t deny it. He rubbed a sleeve across his damp eyes and let the pain course through him, frustrated and angry and bitter.
Why couldn’t he knock?
Why couldn’t he get out of the car and approach the front door and confront the person on the other side? He could storm into a terrorist stronghold and kill anyone in his path — but what use was that when he struggled with this basic action?
He knew exactly why he couldn’t. He’d built up an internal wall over the years, cutting everything that wasn’t his career away. He had to break through that to move on.
And he couldn’t.
He stayed in the lot for close to an hour. Every now and then, a salty droplet would run down into his mouth. He ignored it. Over his career he’d displayed a distinct lack of emotions, largely due to the uncanny ability to tune out anything that was not centred around the mission. He knew that letting this out was simply a process of healing. It didn’t make it any less raw.
When the sun fully rose, beaming its golden rays over the hills, King sat up and composed himself. He coughed once, hard. He wiped his eyes one last time with his sleeve. Then he continued toward Sainte-Catherine.
He would return to this place one day, when he was a stronger man. He would knock on the door.
Until then, he had to flee.
CHAPTER 15
At dawn, Sainte-Catherine Airport was a ghost town.
Composed of a single terminal, a collection of car rental warehouses and a spacious parking lot, the complex was situated a couple of miles away from the seaside. King pulled into the long-term car park at fifteen minutes past seven, according to the luminescent display on the Rover’s dashboard. He selected one of the hundreds of empty spaces and parked quickly. He was keen to board the soonest possible flight. He wasn’t sure exactly why he had so effortlessly abandoned the life he’d carved out for himself on this Mediterranean island, but he knew he was doing the right thing.
It had something to do with past experience. Only a month after retiring, King had travelled to a small country town in the backwoods of Australia, where he’d witnessed something he wasn’t supposed to. He’d decided to stay then, to seek answers to the questions eating away at his conscience — and it had led to a destructive swathe of violence, death and loss. He feared that Afshar and his friends would only be the start of his troubles if he stayed put and tried to forget the encounter had ever happened. He was already embroiled in the conflict. There was nothing he could do about that.
Except leave it behind.
He got out of the car, tucking the watch back into his pocket and slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder. He left the Rover unlocked and tossed the keys along the concrete. Either someone would be blessed with a free luxury vehicle, or it would be handed over to the police. Whatever the case, King would be a thousand miles away by the time either of those two scenarios played out.
He crossed the asphalt, weaving around the handful of cars parked in the lot, and crossed directly to the terminal. There was no shuttle bus to transport him to the departure gate. Everything was in close proximity. He entered through two glass doors that opened with a whisper as he approached them, and stepped into the high-ceilinged, sparsely populated terminal. Cafés and bookshops and fast food restaurants lined the nearest wall, and on the other side of the enormous room lay a collection of desks — each for a separate airline company.
King paused for a moment, relishing the heavy air-conditioning inside the building, and set off for the other side of the terminal. He decided to simply select a company at random. He hadn’t decided a destination yet. He never did. His entire existence was based on spur-of-the-moment decisions.
Halfway across the room, a set of double doors opened and a stream of tourists began to trickle out into the terminal, mingling with the few dozen people scattered around the various shops. The first arrivals of the day, clearly. King wondered if he’d been wrong. Maybe departing flights were leaving this early…
He saw pasty, unfit Caucasians dressed in cheap sandals and plaid shirts — all of them stressing about nothing in particular. He passed a bossy mother shuffling through her handbag, huffing and panting like her unpreparedness was the end of the world.
‘David!’ she exclaimed sharply. ‘Where the hell is our booking reservation?’
A teenage boy rummaged through his backpack. ‘I don’t know. Ask Dad.’
King passed them by and continued on, shaking his head at the seemingly normal exchange. Civilian life perplexed him. The pettiness and unimportance of most of the world’s problems never failed to surprise him. Booking reservations, lost tickets, cancelled events — it seemed crazy that anyone stressed over anything that didn’t involve getting shot at.
Just before he reached the small queue to the check-in desks, he shuffled past a well-built African-American man with intensely white teeth and a military-style buzzcut. He was dressed immaculately in an expensive leather jacket and designer jeans. King made eye contact with him momentarily, and briefly nodded a greeting before he moved past.
Looks like a wealthy businessman on holiday, he thought.
He couldn’t have been more wrong.
The fist came out of nowhere. King had rarely met his match in hand-to-hand combat, but he never could have anticipated what came next.
A flurry of frantic movement burst across his vision. Before he had time to lift a finger, something crashed into his gut, sending a wave of white-hot agony through his stomach. He opened his mouth to groan, and another fist smashed his jaw, scrambling his brain.
After the two blows in rapid succession, King saw a shin headed directly for his face, barely half a second after the last punch had cracked across his head. He ducked back, ignoring the pain racking his system, but it didn’t faze his attacker. The kick landed square in the centre of his chest, stunning him, slamming the breath from his lungs. It carried such weight behind it that King sprawled off his feet. He lost his balance and toppled to the terminal floor.
He didn’t even have time to see who his attacker was.
Another kick — this one similar to a soccer player taking a penalty — drove into his exposed ribs with enough force to send him sliding across the shiny floor. He gasped and retched and blinked away black spots in his vision. Each strike that landed carried years of training behind it. He felt the raw savagery and power in each brutal shot.
He collapsed and exhaled a long breath of nervous air.
The pain was severe, coursing through his body like nothing he’d felt in months, but that wasn’t what paralysed King. It was sheer surprise. He always saw everything coming. His reflexes were an extreme outlier, which had enabled him such successes as a solo operator in an elite military division. It had kept him alive for years, because he saw blows coming eons before they landed.
But this was something inconceivable.
This was a foe who had beat him down like he was a common street thug.
He looked up to see the man in the expensive jacket standing over him. The guy looked calm and composed, like the savage beatdown was just another day at the office. He adjusted the cuffs of his jacket and smiled, exposing his white teeth again.
Around them, panic broke out. Surprised by the violence, most of the surrounding civilians had scattered. Some were screaming. King blocked the noise out.
>
So did his attacker.
‘Hey, King,’ the man said elatedly. ‘Glad we could finally meet.’
‘What the f—’
‘Don’t move,’ the man said. ‘I’ll just drop you again.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I thought this would be harder,’ the man said, ignoring him. He laughed and shook his head in bemusement. ‘I spent the whole plane ride psyching myself up for this. You should have seen the manhunt I was ready to unleash. Then Jason King himself walks straight past me a couple of minutes after I get off the plane. Unbelievable.’ He glanced at his fists, which had been bruised and bloodied by the hits. ‘You know … I thought you’d be faster than that, too.’
‘Who are you?’ King repeated. ‘Afshar’s pal?’
The guy cocked his head. ‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ King spat blood onto the linoleum beside his head. Already, his cheek had begun to swell.
The man pointed to his face. ‘You’ll feel that tomorrow.’
‘I’m going to keep asking who you are until you tell me.’
‘Will Slater,’ the man said.
King sighed. ‘Thanks. That answered every fucking question I had.’
Slater squatted down so that his face was only a foot away from King’s. ‘You don’t have to know who I am. I was sent here to kill you. And I intend to do so, because it pays well. But I had a plan laid out to acquire a couple of firearms when I arrived here — which clearly I haven’t had the opportunity to carry out yet. And I don’t fancy beating you to death in a packed terminal with airport security on their way. So count yourself lucky.’
‘You seem pretty blasé about all this,’ King said through bloody teeth.
‘I’m used to it.’
‘So am I.’
Slater’s eyes bored into him. ‘You don’t seem insane.’
‘Who said I was insane?’
‘My employers.’
‘And they are?’
A voice cried out from behind, ‘Sirs! Please leave!’
Slater wheeled around. King looked past him to see a panicked secretary fumbling with a landline phone.
Slater turned back to let loose with another quip, but by the time he did so King was on his feet. King grit his teeth and clenched his fists.
You were taken by surprise, he told himself. Won’t happen again.
He charged Slater, bundling him backward, using his considerable size advantage for his own benefit. He knew the man could let loose with powerful and precise shots if he had the distance. Hopefully, by closing the gap, he would disorientate the man.
It wouldn’t be so easy.
An uppercut shot through the narrow space between their chests with incredible speed. King saw the blur a millisecond before his jaw cracked and his teeth crunched together and his eyes closed involuntarily. But now he was within range.
And he was mad.
He rolled with the punch, taking most of the serious power out of the connection, then swung with a haymaker of his own. His fist shot through the air like a released piston and caught Slater on the side of the head. The sheer power behind it knocked the man off-balance. He stumbled once and righted himself.
Then Slater burst forward, dropping low, reaching his arms out as if searching for one of King’s legs. Hunting for the takedown. If the man’s wrestling skills were half as good as his stand-up, King knew he could end up being punched into unconsciousness if Slater took him to the ground.
He dropped his hands, reacting reflexively, determined to stuff the takedown attempt before it could unfold.
But Slater wasn’t there anymore.
Fuck, King thought.
He had already committed himself to a downward trajectory by the time the kick came swinging at his head. His reflexes were superb, but he couldn’t avoid momentum. He recognised that Slater’s fake had caught him out just before he met the full brunt of the man’s shin with his own forehead.
A sharp crack.
Disorientation.
The world spinning.
King was on the ground, dazed. Maybe concussed. He couldn’t tell exactly what had happened — often a side effect of taking a brutal blow to the skull — but he knew that Slater had taken the upper hand.
Again.
The man was undeniably good. This time, there would be no more fighting. King was out of the equation. Both men recognised that.
King looked around with wide eyes, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Slater adjusted his clothing again.
‘Here comes airport security,’ he muttered. ‘Well, I’m off. I’ll see you again very soon.’
He turned and strode out of the terminal, disappearing as effortlessly as he had manhandled King.
Like a one-man wrecking ball.
King sat on his ass. He saw three shapes heading for him, yet they were too far away to properly make out. His head was still swimming. He wasn’t sure of the severity of his head injury. Hopefully it wouldn’t be so debilitating as to incapacitate him for the next few days. He needed to stay alert if he wanted to survive whatever the hell Slater was going to throw at him.
Whoever he was.
King got tentatively to his feet as the three officials approached. Two men and a woman. One had a semi-automatic pistol drawn and the other two wielded handheld tasers. They looked stern, yet unsure of themselves. He didn’t imagine there were security issues at Sainte-Catherine Airport very often.
‘Sir,’ one of them said in accented English. ‘Do not move.’
King wiped his bloody mouth and nose with his sleeve and corrected his balance. ‘I apologise for that. My friend and I had a bit of a disagreement.’
‘You’re going to have to come with us,’ the woman said, brandishing her taser menacingly.
King looked at her and raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’
‘We’d like to ask you a few questions.’
King pointed at the sliding doors. ‘I’ll be leaving.’
‘Sir…’ one of the men said.
King pointed at his gun. ‘You think I’m scared of that?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I have at least fifty pounds on each of you,’ King said. ‘You’re not going to stop me by force. I got into a fight — nothing more, nothing less. I’m going to walk out of here now, so if you really want to stop me, you’re going to have to shoot me.’
The man with the gun stared blankly at him.
‘You ever killed a man?’ King said.
Silence.
‘You willing to do so?’
Silence.
King turned on his heel and left the terminal, his head swimming, his nostrils streaming blood. He clutched his ribs as he walked. Each step sent a small bolt of pain through his sternum. He winced and pressed on.
There was no noise from the security personnel. At no point did King expect a bullet to punch through his back. The three officials had approached a scenario well above their pay-grade, and it seemed they were now frozen in place, unsure of what the right move was.
Before they could decide, King was gone.
He stepped out into a balmy morning and made for the orderly rows of car parks. As the sun rose higher, the activity had increased. He had to skirt around a row of vehicles to lay eyes on the space where he’d parked the Rover.
It was empty.
King’s eyes widened and he wheeled around, searching desperately for a target. In the distance, he saw his car turn out of the lot with Slater at the wheel. The man looked across as he peeled away from the airport and they locked eyes.
Slater touched two fingers to his brow and then brought them down in a mock salute. He grinned and left King stranded at the airport, roaring away into the Corsican morning.
CHAPTER 16
King assessed his options.
There were few.
He had no chance of making it onto a flight here at Sainte-Catherine. The incident with Slater had ensured that. If he tried his luck, he’d be met with a taser.
And arrest was the worst possible outcome right now. It was the only reason he was leaving the country.
To distance himself from the heinous crimes he’d committed up near Calenzana. To lay low until both the police had lost interest and the rest of Afshar’s mercenary friends had given up on finding the perpetrator.
The nearest airport was in the town of Bastia, close to two hours away from where he currently stood. To get there, he’d need a car and a hefty dose of luck. He didn’t fancy his chances of making it halfway across the island without running into Slater.
Who the hell was he?
As King felt the pain intensify in various areas all over his body, he stood immobile in the quiet parking lot and shook his head in disbelief.
The encounter had been undeniably jarring. Not so much due to the pain he was in, but because of the ease with which he had been dispatched. He didn’t often find his physical equal — a man who could keep up with his incredible reaction speed and martial arts prowess. Usually, if any altercation in his life resorted to hand-to-hand combat, he came out on top.
It was the field he excelled in.
And Will Slater had manhandled him.
King hadn’t landed a single blow. The experience was so shocking that he felt his hands grow clammy. A cold sweat broke out across his brow. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the head kick, or due to something he hadn’t felt in years.
True fear.
Even when Afshar and his friends had made an attempt on his life, he hadn’t been scared. He’d reacted accordingly, implementing his training, ensuring he seized the upper hand in the heat of the moment. But at no point had he thought the three mercenaries were a physical threat to him. This mystery man who he had never seen before in his life had rattled him more than any of the confrontations he’d faced over the last couple of months.
He had to leave Corsica.
He knew he could speculate all day as to who Slater worked for, and why he was being targeted. Yet he knew it would achieve nothing. The truth was he had no hard facts, no evidence whatsoever, and his main priority had to be reaching a plane — whatever the cost.