by Matt Rogers
He’d found his equal — something he hadn’t even considered a possibility before this.
Slater reached forward and punched the address he’d found into the GPS on the dashboard. It acknowledged him with a high-pitched beep and set out a route to the estate. A digital timer said they would arrive in twenty-two minutes.
‘It’s the middle of the day,’ Slater said. ‘Don’t think he’ll be home.’
‘He doesn’t have to be.’
CHAPTER 27
The sun rose just after seven in the morning over Washington D.C., bathing the city in a pale orange glow. The south parking lot of the Pentagon had already begun to fill.
At 7:09a.m. a nondescript beige Toyota pulled into a parking space and a mousy middle-aged woman got out. She slung a cheap handbag over one shoulder and hurried toward the looming headquarters of the United States Department of Defence.
Dressed in tan secretarial clothing and sporting a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, no-one would have looked twice at her on the street. Nothing about her drew attention. She blended effortlessly into any crowd. Which was exactly her intentions. Nobody would be any wiser to the fact that she had been running the most secretive division of government black-ops for the last six months — promoted after the previous’ handler’s untimely demise.
She entered one of the compartments of a rotating door in the building’s side and strode into a vast marble lobby bustling with activity. A security guard nodded as she approached and ushered her quickly through a plain white door. She found herself in a narrow hallway that stank of cheap air freshener and cleaning product. There were no decorations on the walls. There were no noticeable ornamentations anywhere. This section of the Pentagon was kept sparsely utilitarian.
The woman navigated the corridors with the experience of a seasoned veteran and unlocked one of a hundred indistinguishable wooden doors. No labels of any kind. No markings. Everyone in this area knew exactly where they were heading. If they didn’t, they would be promptly escorted out.
She opened the door to reveal a group of four men. Two were high-ranking military officials and the others were part of the Presidential detail, sent to receive a report on how the operation in Corsica was unfolding.
Together, they made up half of the population who knew of Black Force’s existence.
‘Gentlemen,’ she said, nodding as she sat. ‘Let’s make this quick.’
‘Where is Slater?’ one of the officials said, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a knife.
Straight to the point.
‘Corsica.’
‘Where exactly in Corsica?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Can’t you track these things?’
‘We have a few different means of knowing exactly where our operatives are. He seems to have disabled most of them. Maybe this part of his assignment needs to be carried out at his discretion. We generally let our men do whatever they want. They operate outside the boundaries of the law. They don’t exist. You know this. Whatever Slater’s doing, I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for it.’
‘He’s going after Jason King?’
‘He is.’
The second official piped up. ‘And King walked away eight months ago?’
‘He did.’
‘What’s to say King hasn’t killed him? He would know how to disable all kinds of tracking devices.’
‘No he wouldn’t,’ the woman said. ‘To do so requires all kinds of personal identification methods that King would never have access to. Slater wouldn’t give them up.’
‘King could have interrogated him.’
The woman paused. ‘That simply wouldn’t work. You clearly don’t understand the level that our operatives are at. They never break. They never stop. They’re human weapons.’
‘You’re describing King perfectly, ma’am. This was a risky assignment to hand Slater. He could very well be dead already.’
‘You’re right,’ the woman said. ‘He could. But King cannot be allowed to continue his path of destruction. Who knows how many he’s killed in Corsica. The three bodies uncovered by the police could be just the start of a deeper web. He needs to be eliminated. We can’t have the risk hanging over our heads. We created a killer, and then allowed him to walk away.’
One of the President’s men finally decided to open his mouth. ‘Slater is our best operative, correct?’
‘He is now,’ the woman said. ‘Before him, it was Jason King…’
‘And if Slater is dead?’ the man said. ‘What next? Who do we send out?’
‘We have other operatives…’
‘Who aren’t on Slater’s level. Or King’s. Truth is, our two most valuable assets are in the process of trying to kill each other somewhere in the Mediterranean. I vote we put a stop to this madness right now.’
‘It’s too late,’ the woman said. ‘Slater’s fallen off the grid. We don’t know what’s going on. When he resurfaces, we’ll know.’
‘Send more of your operatives to Corsica.’
‘That will create anarchy,’ the woman insisted. ‘Let them fight. If Slater makes it back, we’ll be fine.’
The first military official rose out of his chair, deep wrinkles furrowed into his forehead. ‘If he doesn’t, we’re fucked. We’ll have lost our two best operatives.’
‘We can always pull more men from Delta. The best of the best.’
‘We could. But they’re not Slater or King, and you know it.’
There was nothing further left to be said. The four men got to their feet and hurried out of the room with terse nods of farewell. The woman sank into her chair and chewed away at the inside of her mouth. An unfortunate tendency when she was highly stressed.
Which — lately — seemed to be every waking moment.
She waited until the last man had left the makeshift conference room. Then she picked herself up and hurled a pen at the far wall. It clattered off the plaster and rolled to a halt on the thickly carpeted floor.
Truth was, Slater falling off the grid was a much more serious event than she’d given off. He had never been so reckless before.
Whatever carnage the man was wreaking in Corsica, she prayed he made it out alive. Without him, Black Force was nothing. She begrudgingly admitted that King and Slater were the two best operatives the secret world had ever seen. If they lost them both…
She turned her mind off such pessimistic thoughts. As always, there were other operatives in the field. Two were in Bangladesh, and another was deep in the slums of Mogadishu. They awaited further instruction.
She hurried out of the meeting room and made for her office, sending up a silent prayer that Slater would return to her shortly.
CHAPTER 28
On the outskirts of Calvi, a matte-black BMW turned into a private estate with a whisper and coasted along the smoothly-paved roads. It moved slowly, as if its occupants were scouring each house in turn. When they finally found the correct destination, the driver pressed on the brakes and killed the engine.
King stepped out into a literal paradise. Staring at the houses all around him, he briefly regretted not looking for property in these parts before settling on the villa in Calenzana. The estate had been constructed on the side of a gently-sloping hill, so that each house had an equally gorgeous view of the Corsican coastline. He glanced down at where Calvi met the ocean, and revelled in the location’s beauty for what would likely be the last time.
After this, a one-way ticket to anywhere else in the world lay in wait.
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ he muttered as he crossed to the other side of the car, stepping up onto the pavement.
‘Working with me?’ Slater queried, climbing out of the passenger seat.
‘No. Doing exactly what I promised myself I wouldn’t do. Getting into trouble.’
Slater cracked his neck and rolled his wrists. ‘Trouble’s the only thing we’re good at, brother.’
‘There was a br
ief period where I was enjoying an absence of it.’
‘Did it drive you insane?’
‘I was beginning to get used to it.’
Slater grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. ‘Needed a reality check, huh?’
King shook his head in silent resignation. ‘It seems so. This the place?’
Slater checked his phone, then studied the enormous three-storey mansion in front of them, walled off by a substantial brick-and-mortar fence running the perimeter of the property. The fence was easily seven feet tall, but what King could see of the building was beyond luxurious. Pristine glass windows ran the length of the upper level, which he knew would provide stunning views of much of the coast.
Moreau clearly did well for himself.
‘Can’t tell if he’s home,’ Slater said. ‘If he was, he’d keep the car in the garage anyway. So — if he answers, we talk?’
‘We talk,’ King said.
For two men about to embark on a home invasion which could potentially see them interrogating a renowned politician, their communication had been surprisingly sparse. Yet somehow, King knew exactly what to do. There was enough experience between the two of them to classify this type of confrontation as near the bottom of the list of dangerous encounters.
Despite that, they knew very little about what lay ahead.
Slater took the lead. He strode up to the solid metal gate built into the security fence and slammed on it hard, three times, loud enough for the neighbours to hear.
‘Jesus Christ,’ King whispered. ‘Keep it down.’
Slater turned to the electronic panel built into the side of the gate and proceeded to tap the “DOORBELL” button eight times in quick succession. Then he returned to smashing his fist against the gate with everything he had, rattling it on its hinges.
After ten seconds of controlled chaos, he took a step back, crossed his arms, and waited.
He noticed King staring at him out of the corner of his eye and flicked his gaze across. ‘What?’
‘You want to draw the attention of everyone on the island?’
‘If it makes this guy answer his door, then yes. I want to make sure he’s not home.’
He leant over and thumbed the doorbell another six times.
They waited patiently. The street remained deserted. King guessed everyone was at work. It would take either an inherited fortune or an intense work-ethic to afford one of the properties in this neighbourhood. He quickly concluded that Slater’s knocking was falling on deaf ears.
It was the middle of the day on a weekday. Moreau would be busy handling his political career.
‘He’s not home,’ King said.
‘Perfect.’
Slater reached into his jacket and withdrew something. His frame blocked it from view. He fiddled with it for a moment. King craned his neck in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the object. Slater seemed awfully preoccupied with it. When he finally caught a glimpse of what the man held, his stomach fell.
‘What the fuck are you—?’ he begun.
Slater didn’t listen. He finished removing the pin from a standard-issue M67 fragmentation grenade — the go-to grenade for the United States Special Forces — and tossed it lackadaisically over the gate.
‘Might want to step back,’ he said, his voice holding the same level of panic as if he were halfway through a Sunday stroll.
King felt the energy that came with an adrenalin rush flood through him. His legs picked up a life of their own. He took off across the road, away from the live grenade. Slater followed in his wake.
Before it went off, King managed a single statement. ‘You’re fucking insane.’
Slater grinned. ‘Thought you wanted a way in.’
The sound hit him first. His eardrums thrummed as the M67 detonated on the other side of the fence. A deep, bass-filled fist punched him in the chest. He felt the shock even from the other side of the road. A large chunk of the brick crumbled to pieces, forced outward by the explosion. Debris smashed across the pavement outside the property.
King grit his teeth as two of the BMW’s windows shattered, cracked by the grenade’s punch. The metal gate crumpled and spun away.
When the dust settled, a gaping hole lay in the fence. Slater nodded approvingly and headed for the newly-formed entrance.
‘Gotta love grenades,’ he muttered to himself as he walked.
King snatched his arm. ‘I wanted to do this as quietly as possible.’
Slater shrugged, just as nonchalant as always. ‘No point wasting time. I have places to be.’
‘You’ll get us both killed if you keep going like this.’
‘You said the guy’s hired a mercenary force? This is the quickest way to sort out who he’s employing. They’ll come straight here.’
‘Are we ready for a fight? And where the hell did you get all this stuff?’
Slater yanked the MK23 out of King’s belt in one swift motion. King made to seize the man’s wrist but he was out of range before the gun could be retrieved.
‘This is all I need,’ Slater said. ‘And I have a contact here. Ex-Paraguayan military. Told me years ago that he owed me a debt. I came knocking.’
‘That’s all you took off him? A pistol?’
‘Thought it was all I’d need.’
‘And the grenade?’
‘He had that lying around. Couldn’t pass it up.’
King sighed. The pair of them stepped over the rubble at the base of the fence and entered a small courtyard. He guessed it was previously untarnished. Now, dust and debris lay over everything. ‘Let’s hope a pistol’s enough.’
‘You bet your ass if Yves has any friends on standby, they’ll already be notified of what just happened,’ Slater said. ‘They’re the next best thing. We can find out why he needs guns-for-hire.’
‘What if we’re wrong?’ King said.
‘You mean, what if you’re wrong?’ Slater corrected. ‘I’m just tagging along for this.’
‘I never intended to demolish the guy’s house before we found out what he’s doing.’
‘Fuck me,’ Slater said, exasperated. ‘His house is fine. It’s just a fence. He can afford it. You’d think I committed genocide by the way you’re talking…’
They stepped onto a secluded patio and approached the enormous oak front door. King tried the handle. Locked, as he expected.
‘Okay, so we’re past the fence,’ he said. ‘Now how do you expect we—’
Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Slater bending down to snatch up some kind of object on the edge of the patio. He ducked away as fast as he could. He didn’t want to find himself in the path of whatever madness the man conjured up next.
No sooner had he ascertained what Slater was doing before the man hurled a heavy pot plant through the floor-to-ceiling glass window to the right of the door. The pane shattered and caved inward. Slater nodded in satisfaction and stepped through the newfound entrance.
‘Unbelievable,’ King muttered.
Perhaps you’ve finally found someone as reckless as yourself, he thought.
He followed Slater inside the home. They clambered over a recliner chair and came to a halt inside a luxurious sitting room, fitted with custom-made leather sofas and expensive framed artwork lining the walls. It reminded him of a similar living room he’d come across in the hills of Venezuela. The owner of that home had lauded over a drug empire.
He wondered what Moreau’s particular vice was.
‘You think he makes all this money from politics?’ Slater said, gazing around the space.
‘I’m sure he says he does,’ King said. ‘But any bet he has a side income. Which is likely why he’s employed an army of mercenaries. There must be some kind of big deal going down.’
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
They ducked through an open doorway into a massive space containing a living room, a dining room and a kitchen. The ceilings were high. The countertops were spotless. Everything was kept in pristin
e conditions.
‘Think he has a maid?’ Slater said.
‘Probably. Seems like a busy man.’
‘Can’t wait to ask him all about it.’
‘What if the police show up before his gun-toting friends do?’ King said.
‘Then we run. You’re good at that.’
‘What do you tell the higher-ups when you get back?’
‘I thought King was hiding inside the property. I was wrong. My mistake. Won’t happen again. Sorry, ma’am.’
Slater cut off the mock conversation as he ducked through a connecting hallway and moved methodically from room to room, looking for something in particular. He swung open an ordinary wooden door halfway along the space and nodded approvingly.
‘Bingo.’
‘What is it?’ King said.
‘Office. Hopefully he’s dumb enough to keep some juicy details locked away in these drawers.’
‘I don’t have a paper clip,’ King said. ‘Get me one and I can pick the—’
A gunshot rang out through the house, loud even with the sound suppressor attached. King saw the hint of a muzzle flash ring out from the office. Instincts kicked in.
Slater.
He took off, powering into the room, thinking someone had been lying in wait. As he burst into the small office, Slater turned and looked at him with a furrowed brow. ‘What’s the hurry?’
He stood in front of a large file cabinet, wielding the MK23 in his hand. A thin trail of smoke wafted from the barrel. The top drawer had rolled open, its lock blasted to shreds by a single gunshot.
‘You’re an idiot,’ King said, allowing his heart rate to settle. ‘Warn me before you do shit like that.’
Slater chuckled. ‘Didn’t realise you were that much of a baby.’
King grimaced and left the man to sort through the documents within the drawer. He could spend his time elsewhere. He’d known Slater for an hour and already the man was getting on his nerves.
He ducked back into the vast living space and crossed to the fridge — an enormous stainless steel number with an inbuilt ice-machine and a small dial that displayed the temperature of each compartment. He opened the right-hand door and searched for anything to eat. After all, Slater had rudely interrupted his meal at Saint-Florent’s marina.