by Matt Rogers
‘Guess you’re going to have to do something about that,’ he whispered.
He began to formulate an idea well before he reached Saint-Florent. It was preposterous. Ludicrous. He was asking to be killed in the process. But he knew that something reckless was required to shake Slater free. He had to do something that his pursuer wasn’t willing to replicate.
Otherwise, he would never pull away. Slater would stay on his tail until he dropped from exhaustion. He knew that much.
He rose out of the footwell and saw the bay closing in, wrapping around his craft. The shoreline grew closer, carrying a sense of finality with it. If he chose to carry through with the actions he had planned, there would be no turning back once he reached a certain point.
He didn’t touch the throttle. It stayed maxed out, tearing through petrol, sending the MasterCraft hurtling towards the beach at over thirty knots. King closed his eyes for a moment. He spent the time thoroughly considering what he was about to do.
‘Not many other options,’ he muttered.
And that was that. He made up his mind, and committed to the course. He aimed for the least populated section of the beach. Saint-Florent’s bay was alive with activity at this time of the day — same as Calvi’s. Tourists and locals alike sprawled across the sand, lapping up the Mediterranean sun. Others strolled along the promenade, funnelling into the pier full of restaurants or heading further into the mainland.
King glanced at the pier. It was empty. A handful of remaining civilians scattered, fleeing the scene. Gunshots often caused that kind of commotion. Especially in a place like this.
The panic hadn’t yet spread to the rest of the town.
It would.
King gripped the wheel tight and entered the shallow waters of the bay — without any intention of slowing down.
CHAPTER 20
Before he made impact, he checked Slater’s position.
The larger speedboat was roaring after him, gaining ground fast. He saw the man behind the wheel, cold determination spread across his face. The unmistakeable look of a Black Force operative in the heat of combat. But he’d never faced anyone like King.
Recklessness was the only thing that would allow King to escape. Slater was too good otherwise. Too experienced.
But he would be unwilling to copy what King was about to do.
He turned back and concentrated entirely on the beach. Already, those civilians covering the sand around his proposed point of impact were in the process of gathering their items. Many had already abandoned their beach towels, sprinting away from the rapidly approaching MasterCraft.
King didn’t blame them. It would be a terrifying sight to behold. A large speedboat roaring at full pelt toward their position.
The hull of his boat smashed into the floor of the bay as the water dissipated near the shoreline. It rattled every bone in his body, threatening to throw him overboard. A hideous groaning sounded from all around him.
Then the speedboat burst out of the ocean, careering onto the sand.
The craft had built up so much momentum in the water that the speed carried it all the way along the beach. It only took a few seconds.
King’s world descended into madness.
He held tight and tensed every fibre of his being in anticipation for the ride. The boat tore itself apart all around him. Sections of the hull peeled away, smashed apart by the bumps and jolts as it was carried across the beach.
Slowing fast, the MasterCraft mounted the promenade…
… and began to roll.
King felt the hull grating, tearing, shrieking underneath him. He lost his footing on the deck and squeezed the wheel with everything he had. The muscles in his forearms burned with exertion. Then his world began to tilt.
He knew if he stayed in the boat while it rolled across the concrete he would be pulverised. Torn limb from limb. That outcome wasn’t on his agenda.
Time seemed to slow as the boat began its roll. Sound and sight and smell and taste blurred into a furious sensory overload. King knew he had one opportunity to abandon the destroyed MasterCraft before he met a grisly demise.
He saw the concrete below his feet. That would do.
He leapt.
For a moment he was airborne, surrounded by fragments of fibreglass and aluminium. He thought he might land in the path of the twisting boat. At least it would be a quick death.
He crashed into the asphalt, landing on all four limbs. The skin tore off his palms yet he barely noticed. Carried by the momentum of the fall, he rolled over one shoulder and spun away from the wreckage, bruising great swathes of his back in the process. Hot pain rolled over him all at once. He slammed into something hard and came to rest — winded, dazed, confused.
With a final explosion of noise, the MasterCraft came to rest — upside-down — in the centre of the promenade, a dozen feet from King’s motionless form.
He gave himself three seconds to recover from the impact. It was all the time he had. He looked over one shoulder and saw the gutter which had halted his wild tumble-roll. He was bruised and battered and shocked beyond belief.
But he’d carried out such a brash manoeuvre to give himself a lead on Slater — who would have to spend precious seconds parking his boat and disembarking safely onto the shore.
He couldn’t let himself lose the slight advantage he’d gained.
He had time to rest on the plane.
Grunting in agony, he clambered to his feet. His palms and elbows bled freely, most of the skin scraped away by the brutal fall. He made eye contact with a cluster of people gathered at the opposite end of the promenade, staring wide-eyed at what had just occurred.
King thought of events from their perspective.
A man had just run his boat aground at breathtaking speed and proceeded to leap from the destroyed wreck before it crushed him. Then he had picked himself up like nothing was wrong.
King nodded to them, then spat blood on the pavement and hurried away from Saint-Florent.
Towards cover.
Towards escape.
CHAPTER 21
By the time King had disappeared into the claustrophobic heart of Saint-Florent, news of the incident on the pier had spread like wildfire throughout the commune.
The laid-back atmosphere typical of Corsican towns had all but vanished. Locals hurried between tightly-clustered buildings, speaking in hushed whispers, reporting noise of gunshots. King darted from alley to alley, staying in cover, checking his vantage points at all times. The last thing he wanted was to survive the speedboat crash only to look up and find Slater aiming a gun at his head.
He snuck into the lee of a doorway, escaping the sun for a brief moment. He paused and took the time to get his bearings. He had the keys to the stolen BMW somewhere in the soaked pockets of his jeans. If all went well, they would still work. If he could make his way back to the carport without running into Slater — or anyone else looking to end his life — then there was nothing but a short stretch of highway between Saint-Florent and the airport at Bastia.
Then a quick purchase of a ticket on the next flight out of Corsica was all that stood between himself and freedom.
The world was an enormous place. He was confident in his ability to burrow down in the middle of nowhere until all the commotion had blown over and Jason King was all but a distant memory to those that wanted him dead.
But first he had to make it to the middle of nowhere.
He wasn’t sure it would be so easy.
He navigated through tight alleyways, growing cautious before every turn, heading in the direction in which he thought the carport lay. He rounded a corner and almost bumped into a tourist family.
‘Excuse me,’ the middle-aged woman said, her accent British. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘I do,’ King said.
Relief flooded their faces. The couple had two young boys, both sunburnt, both fearful.
‘Do you have any idea what’s going on?’ the man said. His voice
wavered despite his best attempts to remain calm. ‘We’re hearing that there was a shooting on the pier. What have you heard?’
King shrugged. ‘I haven’t heard anything. I’m sure everything is okay. Are you—’
The woman let out an audible gasp. In her haste, she hadn’t bothered to study the man in front of her. Now King saw her eyes dart to the grievous wounds on his hands and the torn flesh on his elbows and the bruising across one half of his face.
She turned to her husband and spoke in a hushed whisper. ‘Greg, I think we should—’
King brushed past them, leaving them to ponder what had just occurred.
‘Enjoy your holiday,’ he said as he hurried away.
He passed several groups of people making for the town centre, fleeing the beach where the trouble had originated. At any moment he expected them to part to reveal Slater hiding behind, ready to shoot.
Ready to kill.
It took five minutes to locate the carport, yet it felt like an eternity. By the time he stumbled into the gravel lot and fished for the keys in his pockets, his heart rate had skyrocketed with tension and fear. There weren’t many people on the planet who could evoke such a reaction. He usually considered himself above such nerves.
But Slater was different.
He emptied his pockets, turning up several items now soaked to the core. First was the smartphone he’d prised off Afshar’s dead body before rolling him down the mountainside the night before. After the chaos of the last twelve hours, its existence had completely slipped his mind. Clearly water-damaged beyond repair, he shrugged it off and checked the set of keys for the BMW. They appeared no worse for the wear, but he couldn’t be sure.
He approached the vehicle and clicked unlock.
The BMW’s brake lights flashed once — indicating it had responded to the command.
King breathed a sigh of relief and threw the door open. He tossed Afshar’s phone and his own wallet onto the passenger’s seat and climbed in. The warm interior would be uncomfortable to most after the car had spent so much time under the sun. Ordinarily, King would hurry to fire up the air-conditioner and bring the space to a pleasant temperature.
Now, it was the last thing on his mind.
He leant back against the headrest and closed his eyes, water dripping off him sporadically. He wasn’t sure which parts of his body were covered in water and which were covered in blood. He slowly brought his breathing back under control. The unavoidable adrenalin rush of the prior chase would take its time to dissipate. He had no chance of returning to normal just yet.
But he could calm himself a little.
He fired up the engine and reversed out of the space. A stream of men and women alike were in the process of hurrying to their vehicles, worry spread across their innocent faces. He assumed the police were on their way to the marina to ascertain exactly what had occurred.
King didn’t care. By then, he would be long gone.
He took the BMW out of the lot and coasted back up into the hills.
You should have known, he told himself.
It had been an awful idea to stop for refreshments. His own ego had masked his judgment. He knew that after a lifetime of meeting adversaries in combat and coming out on top every single time, his opinion of his own abilities had been significantly heightened.
Slater had been a much-needed reality check.
The man was just as smart, just as fast, and just as lethal. King couldn’t take a single chance until he was well clear of Slater’s wrath. While parts of him were curious about the knowledge of other Black Force operatives, every rational bone in his body screamed to flee.
He reached the same turn that he’d previously taken and continued toward Bastia.
CHAPTER 22
Down in Saint-Florent, Will Slater stood with his hands in his pockets and stared at the overturned speedboat resting in the centre of the promenade.
He shook his head in disbelief. Even though he considered himself reckless at times, he had to admit he had nothing on Jason King. He could throw around his money on the gambling tables like it was nothing — in fact, his two-hundred-thousand euro loss in Montenegro could not even be considered an anomaly given his track record. He could throw caution to the wind on a mission — routinely he put himself willingly in harm’s way.
But King’s actions had come with such a carelessness for his own life that Slater had no choice but to allow him the head start.
He had parked his own speedboat back in the marina and hastily made his way onto the pier and down to the bay. By then, King had disappeared. Slater half-expected to find him dead in the wreckage. The MasterCraft had mounted solid ground so fast and so brutally that he couldn’t imagine anyone surviving what had occurred.
He must have abandoned ship at exactly the right moment.
You win this one, he thought.
His jacket pocket began to vibrate. He withdrew the same sleek black smartphone and flashed a glance at the same familiar number scrawled across the screen. He answered with a flick of the touchscreen.
‘Progress?’ the female voice said instantly.
‘I’m working on it.’
Silence. ‘Will…’
‘What?’ he snapped. ‘It’s a little harder than I expected.’
‘We’re picking up reports of a confrontation between two men at Sainte-Catherine Airport,’ the voice said. ‘Was that you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened?’
‘I found him.’
‘And he’s still alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he get the upper hand?’
‘No.’
‘Will, what the fuck are you doing?’
Slater clenched his jaw and stared out across the bay. ‘I told you. I’m working on it.’
‘You didn’t kill him when you had the opportunity to.’
‘We were in the middle of an airport. Did you honestly expect—?’
‘What does that matter?!’ the woman yelled. Slater took the phone away from his ear for a moment until she settled down. ‘You’re a Black Force operative.’
‘And you people have your limits,’ Slater said. ‘You can pull strings. You can get away with a lot. But I wouldn’t fancy my chances of committing blatant murder in the middle of a populated airport terminal. There’s only so many strings to pull on foreign soil. Am I right?’
‘No,’ the woman said. ‘You have no idea what we can do. The next time you see Jason King, you blow his brains out? I don’t give a shit where you are. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
The line went dead. Slater tucked the phone back into his pocket. He hadn’t told her about Saint-Florent. He could have shot King right there on the pier and disappeared before anyone was the wiser.
But he hadn’t.
Something was stopping him. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was the fact that he’d never met another Black Force operative in the flesh. King’s mere existence fascinated him. He couldn’t kill someone who resembled himself.
At least, that’s what he was telling himself.
Truth was he simply wanted to talk to the man.
First, he had to corner him.
Slater’s head throbbed and his jaw ached and his ribs still burned from the two good shots King had landed on him. It had been years since he’d felt such pain. He was the best of the best in hand-to-hand combat. A true outlier. After the incident at the airport, he’d thought not even Jason King was on his level.
He’d thought wrong.
King had demonstrated that they were even after all. All it took for men at their level of combat prowess was one split second of hesitation, one slight lapse in concentration, to lean the odds heavily in favour of the other man.
Slater tasted blood and fished around in his mouth for missing teeth, running a finger over his gums. The uppercut had truly rattled him. He feared he would feel its effects for weeks.
But time wa
s of the essence.
‘Holy shit…’ someone behind him proclaimed. A deep voice, accented English, full of surprise.
Slater wheeled around.
A wry smile spread across his features.
In front of him was a pairing he’d seen a million times before. A fast-aging male with a receding hairline, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, accompanied by a gorgeous young supermodel twenty years his junior.
The things people do for money, Slater thought.
What made him smile was the matte-grey Lamborghini Huracan LP610-4 that the pair had climbed out of to gawk at the speedboat King had left in the middle of the road.
The man turned to Slater, eyebrows raised as if to say, Are you seeing what I’m seeing?
Yes, Slater thought. I’m seeing an empty car. Engine still running. Big mistake.
He took a step towards the guy. ‘Sorry, buddy. Hate to ruin your vacation.’
Perplexion spread across the man’s features. ‘What?’
Before he could utter another syllable, he had been flung wildly off-balance. Slater kicked low and hard, putting enough force into the blow to knock both the guy’s legs out from under him. He sprawled awkwardly to the ground, gasping softly. Slater imagined he hadn’t been in a fight in years.
But this was no fight.
Slater brushed past him and ducked swiftly into the driver’s seat of the Huracan. He reached up and swung the vertically-raised door down into place. It clicked as it closed. He ran his hands over the luxurious steering wheel crafted of the finest leather and allowed himself a rare moment of joy.
‘Oh, baby…’ he whispered.
Amidst cries of protest from outside the vehicle, Slater slammed the gearbox into drive and took off along the promenade. The ten-cylinder engine purred, omitting a sound so smooth and pure that for a moment he considered abandoning his career in black-ops and spending the rest of his days driving a supercar around some secluded tropical island until he died of old age.