by Matt Rogers
He caught the guy in the throat in mid-air.
The mercenary toppled head-first into the passenger’s seat footwell, his trajectory changed by the punch. His legs splayed awkwardly across King’s lap. King wrestled them away, then concentrated on saving everyone in the car from certain death.
The BMW fishtailed across both lanes, narrowly missing a sedan passing in the other direction. He stamped on the brakes and wrenched the wheel.
He heard Slater hurtle across the back seat, slamming into the opposite door. He held on for dear life, riding out the centrifugal forces as the car entered a spin. Smoke billowed from everywhere at once, pouring off the asphalt.
They came to rest in the centre of the road.
Unhurt, but shaken.
King looked out the driver’s side window and blanched at the sight of the police convoy heading straight for his door. The pick-up with the bull bar surged ahead once more, aiming for the side of the BMW. If it made direct impact, it would kill him.
He doubted they cared after what had occurred.
He shifted the gearbox into reverse as fast as he possibly could and stamped on the accelerator. What little traction the tyres had left clamped to the asphalt and sent the vehicle careering backward. King’s stomach dropped and Slater let out a grunt of surprise.
The police wagon hit the hood of the BMW. A glancing blow. But the vehicle had picked up enough speed to cause massive damage to whatever it touched.
The impact spun their car around like a plaything.
Loose chunks of plastic and metal exploded off the BMW as it twisted around. Inadvertently, they ended up facing the direction they’d been heading in the first place.
King returned the car to drive and floored it.
‘We can’t take another one of those,’ Slater said from the back seat. ‘This thing’s going to fall apart.’
‘I know that,’ King said.
The mercenary had finished scrambling out of the footwell, bucking and writhing until he righted himself in the passenger’s seat. King sensed Slater diving across the space between them. A thick arm looped around the man’s throat and locked into place.
Slater choked the guy into unconsciousness while King drove. The incident with the police wagon had put them in an uncomfortable position. They were now boxed in by the convoy, with the main aggressor vehicle coasting in front of them. Every time King swerved to overtake, the car in front compensated, blocking their path. The driver had good reflexes. King imagined this wasn’t his first high-speed chase.
Directly ahead, a narrow laneway branched off from the main road, disappearing between two residential apartment buildings. It was just wide enough to fit a car.
King sucked in air, psyching himself up for what lay next. ‘Slater.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Hold onto something.’
As the police wagon in front tore past the alleyway, King stamped on the brakes, wearing away the rubber on the tyres even further. He wrenched the wheel and aimed as best he could and hoped for the best.
The BMW mounted the footpath at close to fifty miles an hour.
It rocketed across the pavement and shot into the alleyway, knocking off both side mirrors in an explosion of sparks.
King yelled in fear.
Slater released his grip of the unconscious mercenary and grabbed the passenger seat’s headrest for stability. The man in front of him slumped over, eyes closed. He wouldn’t know if they were involved in a fatal crash.
Lucky bastard, King thought.
The suspension kicked in as they bounced over uneven ground. King jolted in his seat, barely managing to ride out the waves of bumps and crashes. A particularly vicious drop sent him head-first into the roof. He winced and wrestled with the wheel, keeping his foot on the accelerator, making sure they stayed on a straight course.
Then they shot out the other side amidst a spray of sparks. The sound of shrieking metal surrounded the vehicle.
King wasn’t sure what was keeping the BMW together, but he thanked the vehicle for keeping them alive.
Barely.
Thoroughly rattled by the treacherous journey between buildings, he pulled them out onto a twisting road that spiralled down into Calvi.
‘Get us down there,’ Slater said. ‘We can lose them in town. It’s too congested.’
‘On it.’
He brought them back up to max-speed and followed the road, tearing around the bends as fast as he dared. This area was more perilous. Away from the estate, there were no houses boxing them in. No barricades, no railings. Just one wrong turn and a hundred-foot drop to certain death. The BMW was on its final throes. Any more significant force applied to its chassis would buckle it completely.
‘Well, that changes things slightly,’ Slater said, falling back into the rear seats and sucking air into his lungs in an attempt to calm himself down. King did the same.
It was their first real opportunity to recover from the chaos.
‘It doesn’t change much,’ King said. ‘Except now Moreau knows he has a problem.’
‘We’re nowhere near working out what he’s up to.’
‘There’s no backing out now. There’s two dead men up there.’
‘There’ll be more once I discover what this fucker is doing,’ Slater said, venom in his tone. ‘That wasn’t an ordinary police response. They were looking to ram us off the road and kill us. I’m sure of it. No-one’s that aggressive when trying to make an arrest.’
‘We work for the government, technically,’ King said, allowing himself a quick smile. ‘I’m sure we’re that aggressive — if not more.’
‘We’re a different story,’ Slater said. ‘You think they chase civilians like that? They wanted us dead. Moreau’s paying them off, I’m sure of it.’
‘Let’s not jump to conclusions. Right now, we don’t even know if he’s doing anything illegal.’
‘You never would have turned around if you didn’t think he was doing some sick shit. You wouldn’t have risked it. You had a straight path to a plane ride out of here. Whatever you found out on the phone — you believe in it.’
‘I didn’t find out anything,’ King said. ‘Just that he lied through his teeth when he tracked me down. That’s enough to get me fired up.’
‘Thought you said you were trying to avoid this kind of thing in retirement.’
‘I was. Doesn’t seem to be working out at all. I was adamant that this was the day I would put it all behind me. It’s why I was in such a hurry to leave Corsica. The old me would have razed half the island to the ground to sort out the mercenary situation.’
‘That seems to be what you’re doing now.’
King reluctantly agreed. He looked across at the unconscious man in the passenger seat and thought back to the skirmish with the other three mercenaries.
To knocking weapons away and throwing punches.
To putting bad men in their place.
To winning.
Truth was, he’d enjoyed every second of it.
‘The old me is back,’ he said. ‘Don’t know if he ever left. Don’t know if he ever will.’
CHAPTER 31
It didn’t take them long to find a place to hunker down.
King pulled their battered ride into a narrow residential street on the outskirts of the main town and stopped in front of a small one-storey house with a spacious yard and a two-car garage. A huge sign nailed into the grass out front indicated that the property was for sale.
And entirely unoccupied.
‘This’ll do,’ King said.
He climbed out. As his feet touched the pavement he experienced a momentary wave of dizziness. He leant against the car and steadied himself. His head throbbed. His jaw ached. His ribs seared with every hurried movement.
None of which were new experiences.
He had spent half his career in considerable pain. He knew how to deal with it. Ride it out. Power through the unpleasantness until he had completed whatever task
lay in front of him.
He would do so now.
He assumed Slater would do the same.
Together they helped the mercenary out of the car, who had woken to a semi-conscious state. They hurried him across the sidewalk and up to the front deck. Now that they were out of the carnage, King could get a better look at the man.
He was tall. Almost the same height as King. He guessed six-two. Well-built. Obviously kept himself in reasonable shape at the gymnasium. He was the perfect example of commercial fitness. Theoretically, he was likely the same size as King in terms of sheer muscle mass. Yet it was clear he trained entirely for aesthetics. King could hurl him around with ease.
King had battlefield fitness.
He thundered the front door open with a single kick. No alarms sounded. A system hadn’t even been installed yet. He imagined crime was relatively low in a seaside town like Calvi. They would be more lax to security measures than other areas.
Except Moreau, apparently.
Slater followed him inside, slamming the door behind them. They moved to the empty kitchen — entirely devoid of furniture — and threw the mercenary down on the dusty wooden floor.
He moaned and coughed violently.
‘You speak English?’ King said.
No response.
‘English?’
The guy shook his head. ‘No.’
King looked at Slater. ‘Please tell me you speak French.’
Slater raised an eyebrow. ‘You don’t? You live here.’
‘Not enough to hold a conversation.’
They established a system where King would talk, Slater would translate, the man would respond, and Slater would relay the message back to King.
‘You’re working with Afshar?’ King said.
The mercenary instantly perked up at the name. He nodded, a little too vigorously. As if he were hoping his leader were still alive.
‘You’re employed by Yves Moreau?’ King said.
No response, even when Slater translated.
Which meant yes.
King darted forward, moving with anger and purpose, a fake bull rush that made the mercenary flinch from where he lay cowering on the floor. ‘I’ll hit you for real next time. Yves Moreau?’
Slater translated again. Begrudgingly, the man nodded.
‘What is he using you for?’ King said. He assumed the man understood, but got Slater to translate just in case.
The man took a long time to respond. As if he were weighing up his options. He knew he had few. Either he told King and Slater what they wanted to hear, or the consequences would be disastrous. He began to speak, fast and panicked, like he was sharing information that he knew he shouldn’t be divulging, no matter the severity of the situation.
Slater said, ‘He says he and his friends are set up on a luxury yacht in the Bay of Calvi. He says it’s the largest one there. Towers over all the others in the marina. Impossible to miss. They’re here to oversee the smooth transition of a shipment and make sure everything goes according to plan.’
‘A shipment?’ King said. ‘What does he mean?’
‘He’s being intentionally vague,’ Slater said. ‘Think you should do something about that. Give him a reality check.’
King motioned for the MK23. Slater handed it over. He took a step forward and elevated the barrel, aiming it directly in between the mercenary’s legs.
‘You hold back one more fucking thing from me,’ King said, ‘and I’ll change your life forever. Tell me what I want to hear.’
The man spat out, ‘Femelles.’
King knew what that meant. His stomach dropped, even before Slater uttered the single-word translation. ‘Females.’
‘I definitely don’t like the sound of that,’ King said.
Slater stared at the mercenary for several drawn-out seconds, letting the silence hang in the air, until it reached an uncomfortable length. The mercenary squirmed on the floor. He said something, speaking inhumanly fast, his voice laced with fear.
‘He says he just does what he’s paid to do,’ Slater said, refusing to take his eyes off the man. He bored his gaze into the guy until he began to visibly sweat. Pores opened up across his forehead and salty droplets started to trickle into his eyes.
King wasn’t about to interrupt. He could feel the rage coursing through Slater.
Perhaps he’d been affected by personal experiences related to human trafficking in the past…
Whatever it was, it didn’t seem like there was a positive outcome involved for the mercenary on the kitchen floor. King saw something flash in Slater’s eyes. Something primal and furious. He feared that if he let Slater do as he pleased, the mercenary would suffer for an extended period of time.
No matter what his shortcomings were, King didn’t want that to happen.
When the mercenary made a sudden, desperate move — his limbs scrambling against the wooden floor as they flooded with panic — King raised the MK23 and shot him between the eyes.
The discharge echoed through the tight space, making Slater flinch. The mercenary slumped to the floor, his expression cold, his face already turning pale. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Staring into oblivion. King flicked the safety back on and slotted the handgun into his waistband.
Slater turned to him. ‘That was too quick.’
‘Thought you might think as much. We’re not here to torture anyone.’
‘It would have been my pleasure.’
‘You’re letting emotions get in the way,’ King said. ‘I can tell something about that made you snap. I won’t be too intrusive. I won’t ask questions. But he wasn’t the man to take out your anger on…’
‘Who are you to say he wasn’t? He’s willingly aiding this entire thing.’
‘We’re after the men who run it,’ King said. ‘We’re after Moreau.’
Slater rested a hand on the smooth stone countertop running the length of the kitchen and pressed down hard, letting out some of his anger. ‘I haven’t had the chance to meet him yet. I can’t wait.’
‘He’s all yours,’ King said.
‘You happy?’ Slater said.
‘Why on earth would I be happy?’
‘Now you know what he’s up to. Roughly. Wasn’t that your whole intention in coming back?’
‘I’ll be happy when he’s dead.’
Slater glanced at the corpse pooling blood onto the wood. ‘Would have been ideal if we could get a bit more information out of that guy. We just know the biggest boat in the marina is where everything goes down. A little rudimentary.’
‘You’re right,’ King said. ‘But he made a move.’
Slater kept his eyes on the corpse. ‘You acted pretty quick.’
‘You need to in situations like those.’
‘He was unarmed.’
‘Didn’t want to risk it.’
‘You didn’t kill him to stop me from having my way with him, did you?’
King paused. ‘I’m not going to answer that.’
‘I don’t need you to babysit me.’
‘And I’m not going to. We go after Moreau, and you can do what you want with him.’
King crossed to the nearest window and pried open a pair of blinds. He peered out into the yard. The sun had begun its steady decline toward the opposite horizon. He guessed it would set in a couple of hours.
‘What’s the time?’ he asked Slater.
‘Almost three.’
‘I say we wait until it’s dark. Easier to approach the boat that way. And if it’s as large as I think it is, then whoever’s buying or selling the girls will be staying onboard. That way, they can leave at a moment’s notice.’
‘You think Moreau’s task force is the only people involved in this?’ Slater said.
‘We don’t know enough yet. I vote we get a couple of hours rest. I have a feeling we’ll need it.’
Slater crossed to the living room and threw himself down on one of the sofas. ‘I was thinking the same.’
CHAPTER
32
King didn’t want there to be any chance of their vehicle being spotted out on the street. He pulled the BMW into the driveway and parked it inches away from the closed garage door. A solid wooden fence blocked it from any inquisitive eyes. A passerby would have to stare directly down the driveway to get a glimpse of the BMW’s rear, which had been caved in by the impact with the police wagon.
He was surprised the car even started.
He returned to the house, where Slater had closed his eyes. His head had drooped back against one of the armrests. He looked peaceful. King let him be. Enough time had passed to reduce the risk of serious brain injury.
Besides, the man deserved a nap.
King planted himself on the opposite sofa and stared at the ceiling. There was a great deal on his mind. None of it positive. He was furious at himself for throwing all his progress away and willingly diving back into the madness. It almost seemed like he’d been looking for an excuse to turn back and fight. If he’d truly intended to find peace, he could have been halfway over the Tyrrhenian Sea, en route to a thousand potential destinations.
All of them probably entirely devoid of people looking to actively end his life.
Moreau knew who he was. He’d been able to locate King’s villa and find a way in fairly effortlessly.
But what had that conversation been necessary for?
The politician had asked for his help in tracking down the remaining mercenaries — even though in truth they worked for him. Why had he bothered to involve King at all? Why hadn’t he planted a bullet in the back of his skull when he went to leave the property? That would be the rational solution to finding the man who had killed three of his employees.
King drew frightening parallels to Venezuela, where a drug lord had toyed with him on the grounds of letting out a little rage.
But Moreau didn’t seem like an inherently angry man.
There was something more to this.