The Jason King Series: Books 1-3

by Matt Rogers

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, wiped his bloody nose on the shoulder of his shirt and headed for the parking lot’s exit. On the way he tapped his back pocket, checking the old timepiece was still there. It would get him through the next few hours…

  … or he would be torn to shreds as soon as Slater got his hands on a weapon and tracked him down.

  Neither outcome would surprise him. The shock of the beating wouldn’t fade for a while. Until then, he knew he would be constantly on edge. Even as he walked he flicked his gaze from side to side in paranoid fashion. Searching every nook and cranny for any sign of Slater, or one of Afshar’s friends, or a curious law enforcement officer.

  How easily you slipped back into the old routine, he thought.

  Always vigilant. Always alert. Never relaxing.

  Retirement hadn’t lasted long.

  Two cars entered the lot in unison. King sized up each vehicle as they pulled into a pair of empty spaces. He quickly selected which one to target.

  The first car he studied looked like it would fall apart at any moment. An old hatchback, with peeling paint and a sun-faded interior. King dismissed it instantly. Its sole occupant got out and crossed to the terminal, wheeling a cheap stuffed suitcase behind him. He was young — in his early twenties — and he seemed stressed, like he was late for a last-minute flight. King let him pass.

  The man didn’t need the added hassle.

  The other vehicle was a matte black BMW four-wheel-drive. A man in a tight-fitting button-down dress shirt, expensive slacks and cream-coloured loafers stepped out onto the hot asphalt and checked his cufflinks. King noted his designer sunglasses and his wife’s pristine dress and heels as she clambered out of the passenger seat. They clearly had money. King saw the man pop the trunk and extract a Louis Vutton duffel bag.

  An abundance of money, he thought.

  Anyone willing to drop serious cash on a fucking travel bag was definitely financially stable. King made up his mind and approached the couple. He was glad that they were well-off.

  Because what came next would set them back.

  ‘Morning,’ King said with a smile as he shuffled toward them.

  The guy shot him a quizzical glance. ‘What do you want?’ he said in accented English.

  King pointed at the BMW. ‘I need that car.’

  The man scoffed. ‘Funny.’

  He looked up, finally taking the time to study King, and what he saw made him hesitate. King knew he was still reeling from the beating Slater had dished out. It would show. He hadn’t properly cleaned his bloody nose and lip.

  He looked like a homeless junkie, more than likely.

  The man stuck out his chest with a false aura of confidence and waved King away like he was a rabid dog. ‘Fuck off. Get out of here.’

  King outstretched both hands in an apologetic gesture. ‘I’m very sorry about this.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘I can’t do that. Give me the keys to the car or I’ll hurt you.’

  The woman let out a soft gasp, like a tense situation had just become all too real.

  Which it had.

  King knew what would likely come next. The man — desperate to appear superior in front of his gorgeous wife — would probably let out a little of the adrenalin coursing through his system. But he was an upper-class member of society, and street brawls likely weren’t his forte. So he wouldn’t resort to punches. Not yet. A shove was the likeliest option.

  King prepared for it.

  The guy took a fast step, closing the gap between them, and thrust both hands out in the exact move King had predicted would occur.

  He flipped a switch and went from annoying bystander to trained killer in an instant. He seized one of the man’s wrists in a vice-like grip, moving twice as fast as him with four times the efficiency. He wrenched him down, throwing him off-balance. The guy let out a panicked squawk similar to a parrot in distress as he toppled to the hard ground. King smiled at the outburst.

  Everyone reacted to getting overpowered in different ways.

  He rolled the guy over with his foot and planted the sole of his boot on his chest, ruining his clean shirt. He squatted and used both hands to flip out the man’s pockets in one fluid motion. Before either he or his wife could react, King saw the keys tumble out of his right-hand pocket and jangle to rest on the asphalt. He scooped them up and brushed past the two civilians.

  They wouldn’t know what had hit them. Sudden blunt force did little damage, but it would be shocking enough. The man’s heart would pound in his chest for the next hour, and then everything would be okay.

  They’d buy a new car.

  The world wouldn’t end.

  King’s would if he didn’t get the hell out of Corsica.

  He dropped the keys into the centre console, depressed the brake and thumbed the ON switch. The BMW roared to life. Before the owner got any smart ideas and decided to give chase, he slammed the car into “DRIVE” and took off, peeling out of the lot.

  As he climbed the roads back into the hills, passing the occasional vehicle descending into Calvi, he forced down the cocktail of thoughts bubbling in his mind. Experience in the field had taught him that speculation was useless unless he had serious reason to believe something was the case. He had no idea who Slater was. He had no idea how many other friends Afshar had on the island. He had no idea whether Yves would give up King if interrogated.

  He shoved it all away and cleared his head, focusing on the road in front of him and nothing else.

  It was a bright morning. The wind howled in through the open windows, drowning out the pleasant music wafting out of the speakers. The owner had good taste. King leant an elbow on the sill and took a deep breath.

  He was actually doing it.

  Turning away from conflict.

  Burying his head in the sand when the going got tough. Just like José had told him to in Venezuela. It didn’t feel right, but retaliating would only lead to more chaos.

  He’d had enough chaos for one lifetime.

  He urged the luxury vehicle a little faster, keen to cover the fifty-five mile drive in record time. Every corner he turned he expected to see Slater standing by the side of the road, fully armed, a ghastly mirror image of Afshar and his men.

  Except he knew Slater wouldn’t miss.

  Whoever the man was, he was a different breed of combatant.

  Like King.

  CHAPTER 17

  He crossed the mainland without incident.

  Before long, the drive blurred into another ordinary cross-country trip. King kept one hand on the wheel and turned the music up and — for a brief while, at least — let a slight sense of normalcy return. He doubted Slater would intercept him on the way to Bastia. Unless he’d covertly managed to spot King’s vehicle theft and tail him without detection. Which King highly doubted had occurred. He was pretty good at spotting tails, and it would be all but impossible when there was this little traffic on the roads.

  A cluster of bustling commotion, Corsica was not.

  Even though he knew he shouldn’t, he began to grow a little optimistic. He doubted the staff at Sainte-Catherine would rush to radio a description of King to every airport on the island and instil a no-fly-ban on anyone fitting his description. The fight with Slater in the terminal had been violent and disruptive, but it hadn’t been enough to warrant that kind of reaction. He would reach Bastia, jump on the next commercial flight to the furthest corner of the globe and continue to enjoy a life without incident.

  At least, that’s what he told himself.

  He couldn’t shake the feeling that the emergence of Will Slater wouldn’t go away so soon.

  It troubled him to have such an experienced enemy. Mercenaries he could handle. Drug gangs and hired goons and street thugs were annoying, but he could deal with them. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before.

  Slater was.

  The only person he’d seen move with such fluid efficiency, able to dish ou
t such massive and savage violence…

  … was himself.

  Who was the man?

  He shook it off, knowing no answers would come unless he sought them out. Aware that nothing would cause more trouble than searching for them. He’d done the same thing in the backwoods of Australia — with devastating results. Best to leave things unexplained. Best to leave the bloodshed far behind.

  It didn’t matter who Slater was.

  Staying alive did.

  The BMW whispered through the mountain range in the centre of Corsica. King kept his eyes on the road as he weaved between rocky cliff-faces and passed deep gorges. Every so often he glanced out at the terrain and surveyed the land. He glanced down the face of a particularly steep ravine and a shiver ran through him like a bolt of energy.

  Large purple welts and bruises had formed across one side of his neck, where the leather seatbelt had bit deep into his flesh during the Mercedes’ barrel roll the night previously. As he studied the drop, the area tingled. He remembered the terrifying uncertainty of the crash. Not knowing whether he would live through the next few seconds.

  Then again, he’d spent most of his career in that grey zone.

  He passed through the most hazardous terrain without any surprises. Despite the lack of action, his knuckles remained white, clenched tight around the wheel. He figured the jarring nature of Slater’s arrival would play on his mind for weeks or months to come.

  An hour and a half into the trip, he realised he couldn’t deny his growling stomach any longer. He’d masked the need to eat and drink for a significant length of time. He was fast approaching his threshold. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d consumed anything. Refreshments were required. He wanted to be at peak performance by the time he reached Bastia.

  In the unlikely event that Slater had gunned it to the closest airport in an attempt to intercept him, he wanted to be ready for a fight. This malnourished, he didn’t stand a chance.

  Ahead, a faded street sign rested between a fork in the road. On the left, the asphalt peeled away from the main road, spiralling down towards the now visible coast. King had never been this far north. He was still relatively new to Corsica. He studied the coastline and spotted a small commune on the water’s edge, bathed in the morning sunlight. A sizeable marina curved around a bay much similar to Calvi’s.

  He kept his foot on the accelerator for a moment longer, thinking, weighing up his options.

  Fuck it, he concluded. You were a Black Force soldier. You shouldn’t be scared to get refreshments.

  He flicked the indicator on and left the highway behind. The BMW’s tyres purred as they mounted the rougher path, handling the cracked asphalt well. He glanced at the street sign as the 4WD whisked past.

  Saint-Florent.

  Pretty name.

  Even though he had been rapidly approaching his third month in Corsica, the beauty and architecture of the towns never failed to impress him. He slowed as he made his way into Saint-Florent, trawling through narrow lanes lined with traditional beige houses, all sporting the familiar schist tiles. He passed cafés and restaurants and a handful of tourist shops.

  Eventually he burst out onto the marina — sparkling in all its glory. He paused for a moment at an intersection, surveying the crystal clear water and the enormous pier lined with seaside restaurants, bars and delis. Luxury yachts similar to those resting in Calvi’s marina bobbed up and down in the ocean, tied to either the pier or equidistant buoys.

  The driver behind him leant on the horn.

  King waved a gesture of apology and continued on. He found a busy parking lot close to the marina and spent a few minutes creeping down each aisle, searching for an empty space.

  As he did so, he thought of Yves Moreau.

  Every single part of him had wanted desperately to help the man, to accept his offer back in the villa and work tirelessly to take down whichever of Afshar’s friends remained on the island. King knew it was an instinctive response, hardwired into his system. It’s what he had done for decades. It’s all he had ever known.

  Fighting corruption. Ending lives. Saving lives.

  But José’s words back in Venezuela had cut deep into his psyche. They’d made him realise that helping others was exactly what had created such a painful and turbulent life for himself. Sure, it satisfied him to succeed. He never felt as alive as when his life was on the line — and he came out on top. A sick obsession, most would say. One developed from years of violence and espionage.

  But he’d done enough.

  He’d saved enough innocent people.

  He’d killed enough savages.

  It wasn’t his responsibility anymore. That duty to protect others had ended when he stepped away from Black Force. The sole purpose of his retirement had been to find peace. He would never achieve that if he continued to throw himself headlong into danger.

  Hence fleeing Corsica.

  He found a park at the edge of the lot and slotted the nose of the BMW up to the brick wall. He got out and tucked the key into his pocket and made for the pier.

  One quick meal. Then back on the road.

  He found a restaurant named the Saint-Florent Seaside complete with a long open counter. Bar stools lined the length of the long counter, all facing a centre space populated by chefs, waitresses and bartenders. The stools swivelled, providing a pleasant view of the pier’s edge and the bay beyond.

  King sat and ordered a jug of water and a pair of club sandwiches. They would satiate his needs until he made it onto a flight, at which point he would probably order everything on the plane. Caving into desires was something he’d recently embraced after a lifetime of denying himself such privileges.

  He couldn’t help but admit it felt good.

  He turned to stare out across the marina. As he did so, a cool barrel jammed into his side, pressing between two of his ribs with considerable weight.

  ‘You really thought I wouldn’t be able to find you?’ a low voice whispered in his ear.

  Slater had positioned himself close enough to mask the sight of the gun from any passersby. Out of the corner of his eye, King saw the man sporting a false jovial expression, as if they were merely two old friends greeting each other after a long time apart.

  ‘I figured you would,’ King muttered back.

  The steel pressed harder into his ribs. He grit his teeth and rode out the rush of cortisol flooding his veins. Adrenalin was a potent drug. He knew controlling it would be his best bet at survival.

  ‘For a Black Force soldier, I thought you’d be better than this,’ Slater said. ‘You’re an amateur.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘You’re going to stand up and walk with me. You saw my speed at the airport. If I even get a glimpse that you’re not doing as I ask, I’ll put a bullet in you. I know you’re fast. I’m faster.’

  ‘You should already have put a bullet in me.’

  ‘Not just yet. I’m very curious about you, King.’

  ‘Who are you? You seem to know a hell of a lot about me.’

  ‘Of course I do. You were our best operative before you up and left.’

  King froze. Pieces began to fall into place. Who else could match him in hand-to-hand combat, make him look like a fool so effortlessly? Only a member of the most covert organisation on the planet, made up of a handful of soldiers with combat ability far ahead of any of their colleagues.

  Black Force.

  Slater was one of their operatives.

  King had never known the others. Due to his strict demands to operate as a one-man show, the higher-ups never integrated him with the rest of the cohort. He kept a low profile, and carried out the government’s wishes. He hadn’t even known that there were others.

  Yet here was another, pressing a gun into his side, nothing but a finger twitch away from fatally wounding him. King assumed that the man knew exactly where his vital organs were, and exactly how to target them with utmost precision.

  After
all, he himself did.

  And Will Slater was the closest he had found to an equal in his long and eventful life.

  ‘You want me to walk with you?’ he queried, still perched tentatively on the bar stool, listening to the soft ocean breeze and the hushed murmurings of surrounding civilians. It all appeared so very peaceful. No-one had clued into the tense stand-off happening in their midst.

  Slater nodded. ‘We’re going somewhere a little more secluded.’

  King raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that every second you unnecessarily keep me alive is a massive risk.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Slater said. ‘It’s worth it. I’d like to ask you a few things.’

  King flashed back to coming face-to-face with his old Black Force handler — Lars — in the Australian countryside. The man he thought he’d known had been revealed as a monster, hell-bent on releasing a cloud of anthrax over a populated city to compensate for a career kept in the shadows. Now, it seemed Black Force held another traitor in its ranks.

  As King got to his feet, he shook his head in bemusement. ‘You know, the whole time I was working for our organisation I thought it was pure.’

  Slater tucked the sleek black pistol into his jacket pocket in one fluid motion, so fast that King couldn’t get a glimpse at the make of the gun. Whatever the case, he knew he was still in enormous danger. He saw its barrel poking against the expensive leather, unwavering, trained directly at King’s torso to ensure complete certainty of a hit.

  Then the man cocked his head. ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

  King stayed where he was. ‘I didn’t realise the lot of you could be bought off so easily. First Lars, then one of the operatives. Money’s that important, huh?’

  Slater smiled wryly. ‘Who do you think’s paying me for this?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ King said. ‘Politicians, mercenaries, dictators — I’m guessing it’s one of Afshar’s friends?’

  A pause. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re out of control, King. Command didn’t like the amount of bodies you’re leaving behind. They think you’re a liability.’