by Matt Rogers
His stomach was on the verge of consuming itself.
He found a half-empty dish of leftover lasagna and threw the entire thing in the microwave. Two minutes later he wolfed the majority of the food down with a tall glass of tap water. After not eating for over twenty-four hours, the meal hit a spot that he’d been meaning to satiate for most of the day. He sighed approvingly and finished up as quickly as possible.
At some point, Slater stuck his head out of the corridor. His eyes widened.
‘Do you want a massage with that?’ he said.
‘Fuck off,’ King said. ‘I was hungry.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Slater mocked in a high-pitched tone. ‘If there’s anything else I can do for you, master, just let me know. I’ll do all the hard work. No problem.’
He retreated to the office. King couldn’t help but smile at the banter. It had been a while since he’d done anything of the sort. He followed Slater into the office just as the man finished rifling through the last few documents in the drawer.
‘Anything?’ he said.
Slater shook his head, perusing a booklet. ‘Political shit. Nothing out of the ordinary. I think our man is smart enough not to leave anything incriminating lying around.’
The screech of tyres on asphalt sounded from somewhere outside. King’s ears pricked up at the noise. He felt cortisol rear its head, charging his limbs with energy. ‘That sounds like Moreau’s friends.’
Slater checked the MK23’s magazine and smiled. ‘Beautiful.’
They moved like wraiths through the house, King leading the way, Slater following close behind. King felt the fluidity of their actions as he approached the front door. Slater moved exactly where he expected him to, checking each doorway for signs of life, one finger slotted into the trigger guard. He moved like the expert he was.
King had always operated alone, but he recognised the advantages of a cohesive team in that moment, especially if he managed to team up with someone of Slater’s caliber. He crept to the nearest window — situated in the sitting room they’d entered from — and peered out through the hole in the fence.
Instantly, he soaked up information.
Three men. Hard, expressionless faces. Grizzled mercs, for sure. Same ethnicity as Afshar. Scars dotting their visible skin. Dressed head-to-toe in standard combat uniform — army boots, dark khakis, long-sleeved polyester compression shirts, bulletproof vests resting over tight fat-free musculature. They had exited an armoured four-wheel-drive with blacked out windows, bringing it to a stop next to the BMW.
Slater saw them too.
Without a word, he raised his MK23. King noticed his mannequin-like composure. When he locked on his aim, he didn’t move a muscle. He slotted the same finger back into the trigger guard and moved to unload a series of rounds.
The mercenaries carried MK17 Mod 0 SCAR assault rifles, but all the firepower in the world was no use against a few well-placed shots from a covered position.
King waited for the three men to die.
Then rapid footsteps against the marble entranceway floor echoed through the house.
Someone behind them.
Reflexively, King spun. He was unarmed. Any wild shot would put him out for good. He searched desperately for cover, then dove behind the nearest sofa.
A well-built figure hurried into the room, armed with some kind of carbine. King saw him in his peripheral vision as he rolled for cover.
Slater spun and fired a shot with the reflexes of a trained killer.
The wet sound of a body slapping against tiles sounded through the hallway.
‘He came round the side,’ Slater muttered.
King pulled himself to his feet just as a hail of automatic gunfire diced through the open window.
CHAPTER 29
The mercenaries were onto them.
Their friends’ little distraction had proved advantageous.
Slater recoiled away from the window, avoiding a swathe of bullets. King skirted around the sofa he’d taken cover behind and scrambled for the entranceway. As he crawled, he passed over the body of the surprise guest. He noted the cylindrical hole in the centre of his forehead, already pouring blood onto the tiles. He admired Slater’s aim, then dashed out into the hallway.
He was one step ahead of Slater, who was still in the sitting room, flattening himself out across the floor to avoid the barrage. All at once, the gunfire ceased. King’s ears rang. He stayed poised in the hallway, listening closely.
He made eye contact with Slater.
‘You think they’re—?’ he begun.
Two things happened at once.
First, a bulky figure leap-frogged through the gaping hole in the sitting room’s shattered window. Slater noticed the movement and rolled onto his back, bringing the MK23 up in a controlled arc.
King didn’t have time to see what resulted from the exchange, because right beside him the front doors burst open, shouldered inwards by two charging bodies.
Surrounded by frenetic movement, he chose to focus on the most pressing issue.
The last two mercenaries charged into the hallway, running straight into him. He felt their strength and knew it was inferior. He ducked instinctively, avoiding any weapon barrels, his veins pumping and his head pounding from the intensity of the conflict.
He loved close-quarters chaos.
Wielding heavy-duty assault rifles in a hand-to-hand fight was disadvantageous. While they were preoccupied with trying to lock on an aim, King could act. He smashed aside one of the SCARs with a well-placed shove and thundered a closed fist into that same mercenary’s jaw. He felt the crack of breaking bone and shouldered the guy aside, sending both him and his weapon skittering across the floor.
He spun and snatched hold of the other man’s SCAR in a vice-like grip, clutching the barrel with white knuckles. In a millisecond’s hesitation, he realised that if the gun went off it would burn his palms severely. He wrenched it out of the guy’s grip and threw it aside.
The now-unarmed man — who sported a buzzcut and the hint of stubble on his pronounced jaw — swung a vicious combination as soon as King disarmed him, reacting quickly to the change of momentum. King was fast, but he still had to obey the laws of physics. He couldn’t pull his head out of the way in time to avoid the first punch.
Thankfully, he rolled with it. The fist crashed against the side of his head with enough power behind it to drop a smaller man, but King jerked his head backwards to take the majority of force out of its impact. He felt the sharp firing of nerve endings across his temple, but he could deal with superficial pain.
And now the man had over-extended in a wild attempt to knock him unconscious.
Counter-punching was a technical feat. It required dexterity, speed and a level-headed approach to combat. Most of the adrenalin had to be taken out of the interaction. King knew he had the ability to complete all three.
As soon as the punch clattered off his head he fired back with a left straight of his own.
Pinpoint.
Load.
Fire.
He hit the man on the button as he was moving in. He felt the guy’s jaw rattle under his own knuckles and followed through with the punch, pouring everything into it in turn.
His landed much more effectively than the mercenary’s had.
The man met his fist with all of his bodyweight behind it, unable to stop himself from falling into it, carried by the momentum of his own swing.
The mercenary’s legs buckled and his eyes rolled back and he dropped like a sack of shit all in the space of a second.
Goodnight.
He spun on his heel, assessing the situation in a half-second. One of the mercenaries was out cold, and the other struggled to his feet, sporting a broken jaw and a bloody nose. His weapon had been hurled off to the side, well out of reach. King only had a couple of feet to close the distance.
And more than enough time to do so.
As he hesitated for only a fraction of a second, he heard
an exchange of gunfire from the adjacent room. His chest tightened in worry.
Slater.
He charged forward. The only conscious mercenary saw him coming and threw his hands up feebly, trying to mount some kind of offence.
He needn’t have tried.
King grabbed him by the vest with both hands, spun around and hurled him through the fragile plasterboard of the nearest wall. A large section of the material caved inward and the mercenary slammed into the wooden supports in a tangle of limbs.
It would take him precious seconds to pick his way out of that mess.
King hurried into the sitting room.
He laid eyes on a life-or-death struggle.
It seemed the mercenary who’d leapt through the window had landed on Slater, disarming the both of them in the violent clash. King had heard gunshots but it seemed no-one was hit. The brawl had turned savage, as both men struggled to secure a weapon faster than the other.
They were sprawled across the carpet, fists flying with significant weight behind them. King took one look at the situation and noticed the MK23 lying nearby, both men scrambling for it with teeth bared. The atmosphere was charged with tension.
In one motion, he leapt over the both of them and snatched up the handgun with one hand. He let his legs go loose, falling to the carpet and rolling in the process, twisting as fast as he could. He made sure he was facing the two men before locking his aim on.
Their bodies were tangled together. Blood spilt from the mercenary’s mouth. Slater was cut over one eye.
King had one shot. If he hit Slater, he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself.
He let out a single, sharp breath. He steadied his limbs.
The mercenary jerked his head up and stared at the scene unfolding beside them.
The man went pale.
Now.
King tapped the trigger once. The gun leapt in his hands and the mercenary’s head whipped back with the looseness of a corpse. All the tension dissipated from his limbs and Slater threw the body off himself in the same split second. The man clattered to the carpet and lay still. A pool of red instantly began to pool around his face.
‘Fuck me,’ Slater whispered, collapsing back onto the ground and panting heavily. ‘I thought I was gone.’
‘Fight-or-flight instincts?’ King said. He’d felt the same sensation many times before. The ferocious determination to live. It turned normal men into savage beasts when their lives were threatened.
Slater nodded. ‘Never fun.’
‘You’ll be tired tonight. It saps the strength out of you.’
‘I’m tired now.’
‘We have a job to do.’
He rose off one knee and made for the entranceway. The last conscious mercenary was busy forcing his way out of the wall. He fell to the tiled floor, covered in plaster and blood.
A sorry sight.
King raised the MK23. ‘Don’t even think about moving.’
The guy probably didn’t speak English, but he got the message. He nodded and ran a hand through his curly black hair, wincing as he did so.
Behind King, Slater stumbled into the hallway. King heard him exhale sharply as he saw the unconscious man by his feet — and the guy on the ground, disarmed and broken.
‘You’re something else,’ he said.
‘Thanks,’ King said. ‘Nice to redeem myself after you schooled me at the airport.’
‘What do we do with them?’
King gently kicked the body of the unconscious man. ‘He’s no use. Leave him here. The police will sort him out.’
‘And him?’ Slater said, gesturing to the other guy.
King pondered for a good moment. ‘He knows what they’re up to. He’ll be useful. Bring him with us.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Anywhere but here. We just had a skirmish in a residential neighbourhood. Police will be en route.’
Somewhere outside, King heard sirens blaring. They were faint, but it was definitely the cops. It sounded like a substantial convoy, even from this distance away.
‘There they are,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. Now.’
‘Jesus,’ Slater said. ‘That was quick.’
‘Place like this, you have the advantage of an instant response.’
‘Ah, of course. Rich bastards paying to be first priority.’
‘That’ll be you if you ever get out.’
Slater smiled, shaking his head. ‘Already falling into that trap. You should have seen my place in Montenegro.’
‘Montenegro?’
Slater waved it off. ‘Another time.’
They scooped up the incapacitated mercenary, looping a hand under each armpit. In unison, they dragged him out the front door and into the courtyard.
‘What if there’s more?’ King said.
Slater silently acknowledged the possibility and motioned for the gun. King tossed it underhand. Slater caught it and hurried ahead. He leapt across the destroyed brick wall and swept the barrel in a wide arc around the closest surroundings.
‘We’re good,’ he said. Then he paused. ‘Oh, shit…’
‘What?’
‘Police are faster than I thought. Fuck, hurry up.’
King hustled with a newfound sense of urgency, dragging their injured hostage along with him. A gruelling fitness regime and the strength of adrenalin assisted his pace. He rag-dolled the guy over the fence and into the back seat of the BMW, which Slater held open, awaiting the arrival of the new passenger.
King skirted around the rear of the vehicle. As he did so, he flashed a look down the sloping hill, searching for the source of Slater’s panic.
‘Shit,’ he whispered, laying eyes on the cluster of armoured vehicles roaring up the road toward their position. All were fitted with flashing emergency lights and the insignia of the French police. He counted at least four cars before ducking into the driver’s seat of the BMW.
‘That’s not good,’ Slater said. ‘They’ve seen us.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ King said. ‘You a good driver?’
‘I crashed a Lamborghini an hour ago. Not really.’
In any other setting, King would have found the statement hilarious. Now, stern-faced, heart pounding, he fired up the car and slammed it into drive. He mashed the accelerator to the floor. The mercenary was thrown back against the rear seats as the BMW shot off the mark, tearing away from the kerb and ascending the hill amidst a squeal of tyres.
Slater took the MK23 off King, whipped round and jammed its barrel against the man’s forehead, keeping him frozen in place. ‘Don’t try anything, you fuck.’
King saw the leaders of the pack growing closer in his rear-view mirror. They had built up enough speed to ascend the hill faster than he could accelerate. He urged his own vehicle on and swore at the number of police converging on their location.
Moreau must have special privileges when it came to response time. It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of minutes for the convoy to reach his private residence. Probably the standard reaction speed when a politician was involved.
He twisted the wheel as they approached the T-junction at the top of the street and the car screamed around the corner, heading into a grid of wealthy suburban avenues. King kept his gaze firmly fixed on the road ahead, taking the BMW to its limits. He tore down a narrow lane and swung the vehicle around another bend not five seconds later.
Then the mercenary in the back exploded into action.
He must have taken advantage of a lapse in Slater’s attention. Slater would have drifted his gaze to the police convoy pursuing them, losing concentration on subduing the man.
The MK23 flew past King’s face, knocked out of Slater’s grip by a well-timed swing. It clattered against the driver’s door and disappeared under the seat.
They found themselves defenceless with a furious soldier of fortune in the back seat.
CHAPTER 30
King knew he would be targeted first. If the mercenary had a
ny common sense, he would aim to incapacitate the driver and cause a crash. It carried with it the risk of death depending on how severe the impact was, but it was his best chance at getting away.
Without taking his eyes off the road — which would be a death wish given they were travelling at close to seventy miles an hour — King ducked away from the punch he knew was coming.
It didn’t achieve much.
The fist hit him in the jaw, not hard enough to strip him of consciousness but with the well-placed accuracy of a trained fighter. He felt pain flare across one side of his face and he recoiled involuntarily. The car swerved, throwing all its occupants violently around the inside of the vehicle.
King crashed into the driver’s door, which would have thrown him out of the car if it had sprung open. He bounced back, locking his grip tighter on the wheel, bringing the vehicle back under control.
Slater spat out a torrent of curses and dove head-first into the back seat, throwing himself into harm’s way to protect King from losing control again. King heard the wild sounds of a dirty brawl breaking out. His senses were overloading. Too much was unfolding at once.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror again.
‘Fuck!’ he roared.
The swerve had slowed them down significantly, giving the police convoy time to gain vital ground. The 4WD in front pulled ahead. Its bull bar filled the mirror. King knew an impact was inevitable.
Slater and the last remaining mercenary slammed into the back of King’s seat, carried by the brawl. He jerked forwards…
… then the police vehicle obliterated their rear bumper, its bull bar causing massive damage.
The jolt was vicious. It catapulted King into his steering wheel, crushing him against the leather. He rebounded back into his seat but the wind had been knocked from his lungs. He gasped for breath and wrestled to maintain a steady course.
It wouldn’t work.
The BMW had veered from the impact.
King’s knuckles turned white as the tyres screamed against the asphalt, sending up plumes of smoke. A body crashed into his shoulder and he looked across to see the mercenary launch through the space between seats, carried by the force of the police vehicle ramming them. King took his one hand off the wheel and lashed out.