by Matt Rogers
It hit King like a truck. ‘You don’t mean…?’
‘This is just another mission,’ Slater said. ‘Black Force wants you gone. And I’m happy to oblige.’
CHAPTER 18
The knot in King’s stomach twisted and turned as he set off back toward the mainland. Slater followed closely behind. The new revelation had come as a gut punch. Afshar and his two dead friends were something else — completely unrelated. Slater was a ghost sent from Black Force to make sure Jason King could cause no further damage.
How had it come to this?
He’d simply wanted to live out the rest of his days in Corsica, undisturbed, confronting no-one and keeping largely to himself. The illusion of a calm existence had been shattered after only a couple of months. He guessed that after wreaking such havoc for so long as a black-ops mercenary, it was impossible to ever truly escape the past, especially because there was so much of it. Sooner or later, someone was bound to come searching for him.
His blood boiled as he thought of the useless suits in Command taking one look at the amount of people he’d killed in his “retirement” and deciding he needed to be wiped off the face of the earth. They didn’t know the context. They didn’t know that dead men were exactly what he had been trying to avoid by stepping away from Black Force.
‘What’s your plan?’ he said, knowing that the wind would carry his voice to Slater, who matched his pace effortlessly.
He couldn’t see the man respond, but he heard it clearly, ‘After I kill you?’
‘Between now and killing me,’ King said. ‘You think I’ll give you any kind of answers? What do you want to know?’
‘Many things. I’ve never met a co-worker before.’
Ah, King thought. So it wasn’t just him.
Clearly, Black Force operatives were kept apart, unaware of each other’s existence. ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ Slater said.
The man was confident after the airport encounter. He’d gained the upper hand early and held it. He thought that had exerted enough dominance to remain in control by reputation alone.
Time for King to show him that they were more equal than he thought.
‘Command told me you’d be coming,’ he said, in a low tone, hushed, like he was privy to secret information. ‘Did you check the hills before you came down here?’
A completely meaningless question. King had no idea that Slater would come after him, and no idea that Black Force had been involved. Slater would probably deduce the same. But for that split second — he was confused. His brain would process what had been asked, and his eyes would involuntarily flick to the landscape ahead, wondering whether there really was anyone up there with a gun trained on him…
‘What—?’ Slater begun.
King spun. Opened his hips. Lashed out. The motion was charged with rabid intensity, helped by the knowledge that if he was a millisecond too slow, he would catch a bullet in the chest for his troubles.
He threw the kick to the mid-section with blinding speed. Years of practice on heavy bags had lent him that power. It thundered into Slater’s side with impressive force. There was an audible crunch as King’s shin made contact with the jacket pocket containing the gun.
Slater’s face contorted in agony. He stumbled once, thrown off-balance by the blow. King noted the man’s speed as he came back with a punch of his own, but he threw it half-heartedly, still reeling from having the breath knocked out of his lungs.
King batted it away and darted into range, letting fly with an uppercut. Even as he swung, he knew it would connect. The spark that came with a plan unfolding perfectly swelled through him. His knuckles hit the underside of Slater’s chin with impeccable accuracy, snapping his jaw back, smashing his teeth together, dazing and disorientating him all at once.
The man lost his footing and fell back, landing hard on his rear, dropped by two devastating shots. It took less than two seconds.
Bam, side kick. Dodge lazy punch, shoot in, land uppercut.
Game over.
King knew it wouldn’t take long for Slater to get his bearings and find a target with his pistol. He couldn’t let that happen.
Never slowing down, he dove for the side of the marina. His fingers reached for the low barricade running along the edge even before Slater had finished his fall. The man’s head whiplashed against the pier’s wooden planks as King grabbed hold of the top slat and vaulted over the side.
He fell for a second. Slater and the rest of the marina disappeared from sight. The surface of the ocean rushed up to greet him and then he plunged into the warm Mediterranean sea in a blast of noise and frenetic motion.
He knew it wasn’t enough. He had to put as much distance between himself and the pier as humanly possible so that he didn’t find himself dead at the bottom of the ocean, riddled with lead. He came to a halt a few feet under the surface. Eerie silence unfolded, in direct contrast to the bustling commotion of the pier. He tread water for a moment, getting his bearings.
The ocean floor branched away in all directions a few dozen feet below him. Saint-Florent’s bay wasn’t deep enough to escape Slater that way. Besides, despite the SEAL training that he’d undertaken early in his career, eventually he would run out of air. He could hold his breath for three minutes. Maybe four. Enough time to swim a fair distance laterally.
He noticed a cluster of dark objects hovering at the water’s surface fifty feet away, closer to the shoreline.
The marina.
That was certainly a way out.
He started to swim almost as soon as he came to rest in the ocean, using a powerful breaststroke and his long limbs to make fast progress. He’d never been a Navy SEAL, but he’d gone through their training. Black Force had worked him half to death in an attempt to capitalise on his incredible reaction speed.
Sometimes, he was thankful for what they’d put him through.
He covered the distance to the boats over the course of a long, tense minute. As he swam, he made sure to descend further from the surface, putting as much space between himself and a potential bullet as he could. At any moment he expected to feel the soul-crushing punch of a round tearing through his skin, piercing his lungs, his heart, his brain.
Would he feel it?
Or would death be instantaneous?
He could only hope for a quick death. The worst he could imagine was a bullet to a limb that incapacitated his ability to swim. He would sink to the ocean floor, bleeding out and drowning at the same time. The thought of such a result urged him forward.
He reached the crusty hull of a speedboat on the marina’s edge without a scratch to show for it.
It meant the uppercut he’d landed on Slater had done significant damage. Perhaps the man was still recovering. King knew he had to use every available moment to get away. He was dealing with someone just as adept at combat as himself.
A rare occurrence, to say the least.
He surfaced and took a quick glance up at the pier. There was no sign of Slater. Either he was still recovering from the knockdown, or he had found an advantageous position out of sight and King would soon be dead.
Whatever the case, he had no other options but to press forward.
He studied the nearby speedboat. It was silver, polished to perfection, large enough to hold more than ten people. Luxury vessels weren’t King’s forte, so he didn’t know what type of boat it was, or if it was any good. The brand on the side read MasterCraft in bold blue lettering. The number 35 was imprinted toward the back of the boat.
It would do the job.
King swam to the rear of the boat and snatched the small metal ladder. He hoisted himself into the open rear tray, moving fast, desperate to escape civilisation and Will Slater. He dropped silently onto the MasterCraft’s floor and assessed the situation.
The control panel in front of him was home to a plethora of indistinguishable switches and levers, and a soft leather steering wheel. King
scurried into the driver’s seat and flashed a glance over his shoulder.
There was Slater, a few dozen feet down the pier, raising something in his left hand…
A muzzle flash flared and a bullet sunk into the console in front of King. He blanched and dropped into the footwell, covering his head, waiting for the subsequent volley of shots to tear him to pieces.
The report of two rounds ejecting from the barrel echoed down the pier. Screams rose from the restaurants as civilians ducked for cover, probably thinking they had entered a war zone.
But King didn’t hear the shots hit the boat.
He paused and stole a look over the edge of the seat, which he’d been using as a temporary barricade. He saw three things.
Slater’s shooting arm wavering.
His expression tight with frustration and disorientation.
His torso swaying slightly.
The man was concussed. He couldn’t aim straight because King’s uppercut had rattled his brain inside his skull, debilitating most of the functions that made him such a deadly operative. The major effects would be suppressible. King had suffered his fair share of concussions on the battlefield, and knew that it was possible to force the symptoms away until he had found safety.
In the heat of life-or-death combat, the human body was capable of extraordinary feats.
Slater was a Black Force operative. He would do the same.
But it gave King a vital window of time in which he could take advantage of Slater’s incapacitation.
He vaulted back into the seat. Another round tore into the side of the MasterCraft, but he didn’t let it faze him. He checked the choke switch. A key had been slotted into it and left there. King thought it was lackadaisical that the owners hadn’t bothered to secure their boat. Then he checked the marina and noticed the entire space was walled off, only accessible to boat owners. They probably thought it was safe in here.
They clearly hadn’t expected an ex-Special Forces soldier to approach their vessel via the ocean.
He twisted the key until the 450HP engine roared to life and then slammed down on the throttle control lever. The boat surged out of its space in the water, tearing forwards, heading out to sea. King allowed himself a slight smile as it peeled away from the marina…
An enormous jolt sent him tumbling out of the driver’s seat. The shriek of fibreglass tearing and shattering resonated in his ears. He scrambled to his feet, panicking, then shook his head at his own foolishness.
The MasterCraft had still been moored to the pier when he’d taken off at full speed.
Sections of the boat’s hull where the rope had been attached had been torn clean off, losing the battle with the pier. Nevertheless, it was still drivable. King sat back in the driver’s seat and regained control of the vessel.
He aimed the craft in the direction of the open ocean and surged forward. He didn’t look back. Every second he spent close to Saint-Florent gave Slater more time to land the fatal shot. It wouldn’t take long for him to recover. King knew first-hand how Black Force operatives worked in the field.
The mission was the utmost priority.
He didn’t know where he was headed. He didn’t care. He wanted nothing more than to simply escape the crazed anarchy of the situation. He wanted solitude. He wanted to not have to worry about turning a corner to catch a bullet in the forehead.
He kept the throttle down and the engine roaring and pressed on — away from Corsica.
CHAPTER 19
As some semblance of calm was restored, King had a moment to think about what had occurred.
His old employers wanted him dead. It was a disastrous situation. Mercenaries and thugs were irritating, but surmountable. If the most covert and dangerous special forces organisation in the history of the United States were hell-bent on making sure he couldn’t trouble anyone else — that was huge.
Slater would just be the first.
If he managed to deal with the man and put him away for good, they would only send more dangerous operatives. Better operatives.
King doubted he could take down the entire organisation on his own.
Black Force had been designed to breed killing machines. King had seen first-hand what one could do. Truth was — if Black Force wanted him gone, then it was inevitable. They would keep hunting him until the end of time. He knew because he would have done the same in their position.
As sea spray splashed overboard all around him, soaking his clothes, he made sure the MasterCraft was aimed in a straight line away from the mainland. Then he got out of the seat and took a long hard look back at the island.
He couldn’t cross to another country. He knew that much. He would have to return to Corsica — somewhere far away from Saint-Florent. Some secluded bay in the middle of nowhere. There he could use his skillset to acquire a vehicle and get the hell off this Mediterranean paradise.
Then he realised it wouldn’t be so simple.
He saw the small object on the horizon heading out of the same bay he’d come from.
He saw the sea foaming on either side of the craft as it roared after him.
Slater, at the wheel of a similar speedboat.
‘Fuck,’ King whispered under his breath. He felt the nerves start to creep in. This man wasn’t going to quit.
But he’d known that.
Slater was the same as him.
He killed the throttle. It didn’t take long for the MasterCraft to slow in the water, settling quickly. The roar of the engine churning through petrol subsided. He had time to consider the options.
Slater was headed straight for him, determined and driven. He wouldn’t stop until either one of them were dead. But King knew he couldn’t kill the man. Besides the fact that it would be next to impossible given Slater’s expertise, he knew that if he killed a Black Force operative, there would never be any kind of retirement to speak of. He would spend his life on the run, until they caught up to him and tore him to pieces for what he’d done.
If Slater died, King would never have a chance to clear the air.
So you run.
He twisted the wheel until the MasterCraft was facing Slater’s approaching speedboat. He wasn’t sure how reckless the man would be. Would he throw caution to the wind and aim to ram King’s boat into oblivion? He wouldn’t put it past him. All Black Force operatives had some kind of death wish. They were willing to do whatever it took to complete the mission.
Even if that meant putting their life on the line voluntarily.
Slater’s boat grew closer. King made out his muscular frame behind the wheel, hunched over, surging forward at full throttle, gnashing his teeth in anticipation. Slater was wired on adrenalin.
‘He’s going to ram me,’ King muttered, unleashing a torrent of curses directly afterwards.
Now it came down to a matter of timing. Slater’s craft was bigger and looked stronger. It probably cost millions more than the MasterCraft. King had little doubt that a direct impact would split his own boat in two, hurling him into the ocean and leaving him completely at the mercy of the Black Force operative.
He had to act like a matador wielding a cape in the face of a charging bull.
When Slater’s boat was a hundred feet away, King shifted the throttle slightly and began to trawl to the left. Slater steered his craft to compensate. If they continued on these paths, the nose of Slater’s boat would plough into the hull of King’s, more than likely demolishing it beyond all recognition. King heard the roar of his engine even from this distance — it was truly a titan of a craft.
At the last possible moment — with his heart pounding against his chest wall like it was set to burst through — King spun the wheel in the opposite direction and yanked on the throttle, shifting it to maximum. His own engine roared and he gripped the leather tight in an attempt to stay standing. The rear of his boat swerved violently, changing direction all at once, sending all loose objects flying across the deck.
He felt the sea spray flooding ov
er the side as the MasterCraft churned in the ocean and kicked up geysers of saltwater. He found himself temporarily blinded, gripping the wheel tight, water pelting against his face and clothes.
The nose of Slater’s vessel turned to compensate for the change of direction.
Too late.
King’s MasterCraft shot past the other speedboat at a blistering rate, so close that he felt the displaced air wash over him. Their hulls missed by inches. Slater had corrected his course with lightning-quick reaction speed, but it hadn’t been enough. King made brief eye contact with the man as their boats passed each other by.
Now King knew he could make it back to land before Slater. Slater’s boat was bigger, faster and stronger — but it would take him considerable time to turn the craft in a giant “U”. King could spend that time roaring back toward Saint-Florent.
Which was exactly what he did.
He wiped the saltwater out of his eyes and kept the throttle on full blast, making a beeline for the marina from which they’d come. If he could just get back to his car…
A compact burst of air washed over his cheek. He recoiled in abject terror, aware of exactly what that meant. The crack of a gunshot came a moment later. The bullet had passed dangerously close to his face, so close he was able to feel the displaced air. He wheeled around in his seat and went pale at the sight of Slater’s craft in the distance, still completing its U-turn. The man himself stood at the driver’s seat, nothing but a speck, his right arm raised, his aim true.
As King had predicted, his accuracy had returned.
Now King was battling a fully functional human weapon.
He stayed low in his seat, shielding himself from any further shots, and kept one hand tight on the wheel. If he could just keep the MasterCraft pointed in a straight trajectory … perhaps everything would be okay.
The time passed with incredible tension. King listened to the engine’s din and the sound of the speedboat slicing through the ocean. Every now and then, a particularly large wave would send him sprawling to the soaked deck, coughing and spluttering. The adrenalin had begun to worn off, quickly being replaced by fear.