by Matt Rogers
Then he flashed back to reality and hurtled through the small commune, making a beeline for the hills.
He knew exactly where King was headed. Bastia housed the only airport on this side of the island.
He had unfinished business with the man.
CHAPTER 23
King couldn’t help but check his rear view mirror every few seconds.
Everything had unfolded so quickly. He found himself constantly on edge, expecting some kind of attack at any moment. Despite the turmoil of his past, he wasn’t used to all this chaos. He’d settled into a peaceful routine that had been quickly and savagely broken.
The BMW entered a section of the highway that cut through uneven, mountainous terrain. On either side, steep cliffs and craggy hillsides rose into the sky. He felt boxed in. Uncomfortable. In danger.
Home sweet home, he thought.
According to the GPS built into the dashboard, he was eight minutes out of Bastia. It wouldn’t take long to locate the airport. He was so close to freedom he could taste it.
What if Slater manages to find out what plane you got on? What if he comes after you?
King made up his mind to eliminate all boundaries once he was out of Corsica. While on the island, he promised that he would do his best to avoid any kind of confrontation with Slater. It simply wasn’t worth the risk.
But if the man followed him across continents … he wouldn’t be so lenient.
If he fled to some yet-to-be-determined country and spotted Slater there, still after him, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill the man.
Something on the passenger seat drew his attention. He took his eyes off the road for a moment, glancing across. His eyes widened.
Afshar’s phone had lit up. The screen displayed a missed call, which apparently had come through just a couple of minutes ago. The number was unidentifiable. What surprised King the most was that the phone still functioned. He would be the first to admit that he wasn’t a technological guru, but even he couldn’t keep up with the rate at which these things were progressing.
Waterproof, now?
He reached across and picked up the device, unlocking it with a simple swipe of the finger. As he drove, he flicked absent-mindedly through its contents.
He saw several gambling apps. A couple of international money transfer programs. The messages were empty, obviously cleared after each day.
Smart, King thought.
He clicked on the contacts. Afshar hadn’t been so wise in this department. Close to five hundred names appeared in a long list. King scrolled with no real purpose, speed-reading the list of names, wondering if any would jump out.
‘Wonder if I’ve run into any of your friends in the past,’ he said to himself.
As he reached the end, a name stood out among the rest.
Yves.
King shook his head in quiet resignation. So Afshar really had been targeting the politician. The desperate man with the plump belly and the thick white hair who had shown up on his doorstep late at night had been right to be suspicious. There truly were mercenary forces after him. He wondered how deep corruption ran in Corsica.
What had Yves Moreau disturbed to become such a target? What was going on in the bowels of this island?
It didn’t concern him. None of it did. It was someone else’s problem. For the first time in his life, King was ignoring what would probably lead to a shocking discovery.
Out of sheer curiosity, he thumbed the call signal.
Ringing.
He pressed the device to his ear. Would Yves still be alive?
He hoped so. The man had shown true fear, yet a sense of steely determination. He would carry on with his righteous task until he either succeeded or died trying. King admired that.
The ringing stopped. The call was answered. ‘Hello?’
King paused. It was definitely Yves. The voice was the same as the man who had appeared in his living room the night before.
But the tone was off. It seemed like he’d almost been expecting the call.
King didn’t respond for a long time. Silence descended over the other end of the line, interrupted by the occasional crackle. He felt a mounting suspicion in his gut.
What if…
‘C’est moi,’ King said, imitating Afshar’s voice as best he could, speaking low and hushed. Arabic-accented French.
It’s me.
A clear gasp came through the speaker. ‘What the fuck!’
King said nothing.
‘I thought the American killed you?’ Yves said. ‘What have you been doing this whole time? We need you.’
A sick feeling coursed through King. He felt like throwing up. In silent fury, he hung up the phone and slammed on the brakes. The BMW’s tyres squealed on the asphalt and it fish-tailed to a halt in the middle of the road.
*
The Lamborghini Huracan accelerated to almost a hundred miles an hour. With traffic so sparse in this section of Corsica, Slater couldn’t help but test the limits of the Italian supercar. He was confident that he would intercept King before the man reached Bastia. There was no chance that King would be travelling at speeds like this.
He entered a narrow section of the highway, where the road began to wind sharply. He slowed, but not by much. A certain exhilaration came with guiding the supercar through twists and turns at breakneck speed. As a special forces operative, he didn’t often get the chance to experience thrills like these.
His thrills came in the form of bullets, blood and death.
He rounded a particularly sharp bend as fast as he could, letting out a holler of adrenalin in the process. The Lamborghini would have to be abandoned in Bastia, where it would likely be returned to its rightful owner.
But not just yet.
He tore around the corner and a new, straight section of the highway revealed itself all at once.
A BMW four-wheel-drive had been parked sideways across both lanes, blocking a section of each.
‘Oh, fuck,’ he whispered, slamming on the brakes.
He hadn’t given himself enough time to slow.
The Huracan sent up four plumes of smoke as it struggled to bite into the asphalt. It swerved violently. Slater’s stomach fell as he realised he wouldn’t clear the BMW’s path. He caught a glimpse of a large man loitering in the scrub nearby, watching closely, anticipating what he was now unable to avoid.
One side of the bumper clipped the BMW’s rear as the Huracan flew past. Not enough to cause significant damage — but at these speeds, it was the only thing required to cause total pandemonium. He felt the chassis of the supercar lift up on one side and then he was tumbling, his vision blurring. The outside world turned into madness.
He knew he was rolling.
There was nothing he could do to stop it.
He simply closed his eyes and hoped the vehicle’s safety features lived up to its price tag.
Centrifugal forces smashed him to one side. His chest bit into the seatbelt, hard, causing him to grunt. Before he could process the impact another devastating punch knocked him senseless, throwing him back into the racing seat. The shocks compounded the headache that had already been throbbing behind his eyes. He moaned in pain — which was cut off by another massive hit.
Finally, the car began to slow. He felt it leave the unforgiving asphalt and roll one final time, burying itself upside down in a row of roadside bushes. He came to rest — suspended by nothing but his seatbelt — surrounded by debris and shattered glass and twisted metal and a rapidly deflating airbag.
Alive.
That’s all that mattered.
Blood ran from his mouth, winding down his face and seeping into his eyes. He lifted a hand and wiped it away. As he did so, he felt a numb sensation in his gums. He probed with a finger and confirmed his worst suspicions. Two teeth had been knocked out during the crash.
Somewhere in the haze of pain and discomfort, he struggled to unbuckle his seatbelt. He operated on the sole provision that as long as he was
conscious, he had to continue to survive. Laying around feeling sorry for himself would achieve nothing. It would allow King to capitalise. So he reached up, ignoring his screaming muscle fibres. Searching for the unlock function by his waist.
He needn’t have bothered.
A figure squatted beside the destroyed driver’s window and peered into the vehicle. Slater looked across and saw King staring at him with a mixture of regret and satisfaction. The man held Slater’s own weapon in his right hand — a Heckler & Koch MK23 with an attached sound suppressor. It had been resting loose on the passenger seat before the Huracan’s demise. It must have flown out during the impact.
‘Think you dropped this,’ King said.
Slater gave a final pathetic sigh of defeat and gave up trying to unbuckle himself.
CHAPTER 24
King had observed the crash with wide eyes, never anticipating that his setup would cause such destruction. He had parked the BMW on the other side of the sharpest turn he could find, aware that Slater would be on his tail.
He guessed the man would be suitably reckless in his efforts to catch up to King.
He guessed right.
Even so, he hadn’t been expecting to see the Black Force operative at the wheel of an Italian supercar. How Slater managed to get his hands on these luxurious modes of transport so effortlessly, he would never know. Whatever the case, it had sure led to devastating results.
He counted six full revolutions before the Lamborghini came to rest by the side of the road, shattered and beat to hell. For a moment he thought he’d killed the man, and eluded the answers he so desperately desired. Then he saw Slater’s struggling form in the driver’s seat — and laid eyes on the Heckler & Koch Mark 23 pistol that spun from the wreckage amidst a spray of debris.
He snatched it up and crossed to the supercar.
A Huracan, he noted as he approached the overturned vehicle. Its owner won’t be pleased.
Slater’s demeanour instantly shifted as King gestured to the sleek black weapon in his palm and let out a quip. He accepted his position. Surrendered to King. Reluctantly admitted that he had been defeated.
‘Get it over with,’ he muttered, wiping blood off his lips.
King paused. ‘I’m not going to kill you. We need to talk.’
Slater had been staring straight ahead, accepting his demise with a resigned finality. Now he looked across and made eye contact for the first time. ‘I made the mistake of keeping you alive. You shouldn’t do the same. You know I’ll kill you if I get the chance.’
‘I’d prefer you didn’t,’ King said. ‘We’ve only been at this game for a couple of hours and look at what we’ve done to each other.’
‘I fail to see your point.’
‘I’d say we’re the two most dangerous men on the planet. Would you agree?’
Slater raised an eyebrow, then winced as a seemingly fresh wave of pain coursed through him. ‘You think pretty highly of yourself.’
‘Just facts.’
‘Yes, I’d say we are.’
‘So let’s talk. That’s why you kept me alive on the pier. You could have killed me there, just like I could have killed you here. I think we both know that it would be too much of a waste to finish the other off.’
‘Fair point.’
‘Get out of the car.’
King waited patiently as Slater spent a long minute manoeuvring out of his seat. He cut his forearms on shattered glass as he clambered out of the Huracan. King didn’t care. The man had shot at him just half an hour ago. He deserved whatever he got.
He watched Slater get to his feet. They faced each other on the asphalt, two soldiers of fortune, men who could dominate almost anyone on the planet in combat.
But they couldn’t bring themselves to kill each other.
King considered what would happen if his judgment was wrong. He almost backed out, but then he made up his mind. He needed the man’s help, and holding him at gunpoint would achieve nothing. So he flicked the safety back on the MK23 and tucked it into his waistband. He held up both hands in a show of compromise, palms out, demonstrating that he was unarmed.
‘Don’t try anything,’ King said.
‘I might,’ Slater said.
‘I know you won’t. You’re fascinated by me, aren’t you?’
Slater didn’t respond.
‘All your life you’ve been shut off from the other Black Force operatives,’ King said, ‘and now you’re face-to-face with one. Someone like you. That’s why you can’t kill me. You’re intrigued. So am I.’
‘It’s my job to kill you. I’m still employed.’
‘Retirement hasn’t been as relaxed as I thought it would be.’
‘Evidently. Command picked up on bodies you left in several countries. What the hell are you doing?’
‘Trying to survive.’
Slater let out a scoff. ‘Playing the victim?’
‘I didn’t ask for any of this.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘I don’t know how much Command told you about what went down in Australia,’ King said. ‘But it involved Lars. Was he your handler?’
‘You brought that up before and I thought nothing of it,’ Slater said. ‘He was. Until he disappeared off the face of the earth. I’ve been told nothing.’
‘Best leave it that way. The less people know about what happened, the better.’
‘So you’re saying none of this is your fault? The dozens of people you’ve killed? It’s all just a crazy coincidence.’
‘If I had an answer to that I wouldn’t be here. I’d be lounging on a beach drinking margaritas without a worry in the world. But people are dying by my hand. Whether that be coincidence or not, I don’t know. Seems like making a lifetime of enemies is finally catching up to me. I can’t catch a break.’
‘Poor you.’
‘I hope you try and get out one day,’ King said. ‘Before you wind up dead. So you can see what it’s like.’
Slater glanced over himself. His designer clothes were tattered. He was battered and bruised and bloodied. Much like King. ‘You almost killed me then.’
‘I needed to pin you down. So we could talk.’
‘About?’
King raised Afshar’s phone and wiggled it in the air. ‘I need your help with a problem. I told myself I’d back away from any kind of confrontation, but I don’t think I can. I could leave you here to tend to your wounds and disappear into another country, but I don’t want to. I want to fix this.’
‘Fix what?’
‘What do you know about Yves Moreau?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘You and me both — until a couple of days ago. He’s a politician here in Corsica. Big anti-corruption standpoint. He tracked me down and told me he was being hunted by mercenaries — the same mercenaries who attacked me last night. They wanted to shut him up, apparently.’
‘The three bodies you left on a hillside?’
‘Hired guns. One of them recognised me from a Black Force gig years ago. Unrelated to whatever’s going on with Yves.’
‘You sure are a beacon for trouble,’ Slater said, shaking his head.
‘Can’t help myself.’
’So — why should I give a fuck about Yves Moreau?’
King pointed at the phone in his hand. ‘I fished this off one of the dead guys. Yves’ personal number is in it. I called it. He knows the mercs. They’re working for him.’
‘I couldn’t care less,’ Slater said.
‘I know. But I do. This guy showed up at my house, pleading with me for help. He could have killed me if he had something to hide, but he didn’t. I want to sort this mess out. I could use your assistance. Wrap it up quickly.’
‘You’re an ex-Black Force soldier,’ Slater said. ‘Do it yourself.’
King gestured at the state he was in. ‘I’m a little incapacitated.’
‘So am I, no thanks to you.’
‘Then we make a good team.’
Slater raised an eyebrow. ‘What part of this makes sense to you? I work for the most secretive government organisation in the United States. I’m being paid millions of dollars to kill you. And you want me to help you clean up a personal issue?’
‘I thought you might have wanted to do some good,’ King said. ‘Instead of killing me and ignoring the real problem on this island — which would achieve nothing. Maybe I’m not jaded enough yet.’
It struck a nerve. King saw a flash of something in Slater’s eyes, and suddenly he knew. This man didn’t have a pleasant relationship with Black Force to begin with. Maybe he wanted out. Maybe he was disillusioned. Or perhaps he simply wanted to discover more about a man who used to work for them.
King doubted he would ever know the true reason, but a few seconds later Slater brushed past him and made for the BMW.
‘It’s a fair drive back to wherever you came from,’ he said, throwing open the passenger door. ‘Let’s talk on the way there. I may just decide to kill you yet.’
King followed him. ‘Don’t be so sure. You try anything and I’ll rip your head off.’
They ducked into their respective seats, two of the most lethal operatives the Special Forces had ever seen. King completed a three-point-turn and took off the way they’d come, leaving the destroyed Lamborghini Huracan resting idly by the side of the road.
He drove back toward an uncertain fate. He drove toward confrontation. The exact action José had told him to avoid.
But the action he had spent a lifetime succeeding at.
Someone was going to pay.
And he felt right at home.
CHAPTER 25
They spent the first five minutes of the journey in absolute silence. King focused on the road, a million thoughts bubbling through his head, at the same time wary of any ill-fated movement from Slater’s side of the car. He was just waiting for a punch to whistle its way toward his throat. He wouldn’t blame the man. He was operating on shaky pretences here.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Slater checking his wounds. The man moved methodically from limb to limb, assessing each cut and bruise before moving onto the next. He fished through the glove compartment and found a standard-issue first-aid kit. Bandages were slapped onto the most grievous injuries, and the others were cleaned and sterilised with some cotton and a small bottle of antiseptic.