by Matt Rogers
King spent a full minute staring at his surroundings, observing their carefree lives. They had no knowledge of the evil and filth that lurked under the surface of this island. That was nothing exclusive to Corsica, though.
Bad people existed everywhere in the world…
Which was why he needed to do what lay ahead.
First, though, he had unfinished business. He found the place he was looking for and stepped into a lavish air-conditioned lobby complete with high ceilings and marble columns.
Nice place.
He walked past pasty tourists lathering themselves in sunscreen and peeling the tags off freshly-purchased swimming trunks. A male receptionist greeted him in a pleasant tone as he approached the front desk.
‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, ignoring the purple bruise splotched across one half of King’s face. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘There’s a woman staying here,’ King said. ‘Her name’s Klara. She’ll be expecting me. My name’s Jason.’
‘Not a problem, sir. Do you know if she’s in her room?’
‘I think so.’
‘I can phone her room and see if she wishes to come down?’
‘Please do.’
King sat as the man punched in a number and spoke in a hushed tone into the receiver, relaying what King had told him. The call only lasted a few seconds before she hung up.
It only took her a minute to reach the lobby. The elevator doors chimed open and she hurried out in a blur of motion, a tropical sundress covering her lithe frame. King couldn’t help smiling when he saw her. It was an emotion he was quickly becoming used to — genuine happiness.
Something inside him darkened when he realised that it wouldn’t be that way for long.
He rose off the stool and looped one arm around her shoulder. They made for the elevator as fast as the social norms allowed. When they hurried aboard, Klara punched the number 17 and the doors swung shut.
They fell on each other in a tangle of limbs. He couldn’t get enough of her. He ruffled her hair as they kissed, feeling every sensation of her body against his. When they reached their floor they composed themselves, just in case any innocent families happened to be waiting for their same elevator.
The corridor was empty.
They spilled out and Klara led him wordlessly down to the one-bedroom room she had secured several nights ago. As the door closed behind King, they fell on each other in an irrepressible frenzy. Hours passed, and it seemed the intensity and passion would never end. When it finally did, they lay side-by-side, naked, panting, shocked at just how animalistic they had become.
‘What the hell was that?’ Klara whispered, dotting his chest with small kisses. ‘I’ve never felt like that.’
‘Me either,’ King muttered, staring at the ceiling.
‘You think it was a release?’
‘A what?’
‘You know,’ she said, propping herself up. ‘Like after all the stress. I’d never been so truly scared in my life before yesterday.’
‘Did you get any sleep last night?’
She shook her head, and King saw her eyes flicker. She was on the verge of tears. He held her tight.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I just kept playing it back. The way they threw me into the van. I would have known nothing but pain if they shipped me off. I never would have made it back.’
‘I’ll never let you get into that kind of situation again,’ he said.
She looked at him, unblinking. ‘Does this mean…’
‘I have to leave,’ King said. ‘For a short time. For work. Unprecedented things have come up. I honestly don’t have any control over it.’
‘You do,’ she said.
‘Technically, I do,’ he said. ‘But I’d never be able to live with myself if I ignored my thoughts. I need to go away for a while. But you’ve made me truly happy, and I know that’s too rare to pass up. So I want to see you again. I’d love to come to Sweden after I finish my work.’
She beamed. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Are you okay with that?’ he said. ‘I don’t want to keep you waiting.’
She leant over and pressed her lips to his forehead. She held them there for what felt like an eternity. Then she peeled away. ‘As I said, I’d like that.’
He hesitated. ‘You’re not curious as to what I’ll be doing?’
She smiled. ‘You wouldn’t tell me anyway.’
He laughed and swung one leg off the bed. ‘You know me too well.’
‘You’re going now?’ she said, astonished.
‘I can’t wait,’ King said. ‘If I do, I’ll psyche myself out. I already did that with something personal here in Corsica. I can’t keep waiting. I need to move.’
‘How will you stay in one place?’ she said. ‘After it’s over? It seemed to work out so well for you here.’
He tossed her the sundress. ‘I think you might be able to help keep me grounded.’
She flashed her pearly white teeth. ‘Oh? Falling for me, I see?’
‘I think so.’
She hadn’t been expecting his response to hit so hard. He could see that. She worked her way into the sundress, never taking her eyes off him, her eyes brimming with intensity.
‘You’d better fucking come to Sweden,’ she said as he finished dressing. ‘You’ve got my hopes up now. Don’t go and die on me.’
King winked. ‘Not dying seems to be my specialty.’
‘I can agree with that,’ Klara said.
They made their way downstairs, holding each other in the elevator, knowing that it would be a while before they saw each other again.
Yet King felt oddly determined to make his way back to her. He had never felt like that before…
They kissed a final time in the lobby, not caring who looked on. King held onto her supple lips for as long as he could. Then he stepped away and didn’t look back.
He hurried out into a balmy summer’s day, his pace measured and even, his nerves fluttering.
What came next would either be the death of him … or the start of a new phase in his life.
He fished the mobile phone out of his pocket and entered a number he knew off by heart.
It was answered on the second ring.
‘Hello?’ a stern female voice said, cool yet inquisitive.
‘Command?’ King said.
‘Who the hell is this?’
‘It’s Jason King,’ he said, hailing a cab for Sainte-Catherine Airport. ‘I think it’s about time I got back to work.’
BOOK 0
HARD IMPACT
A JASON KING PREQUEL NOVELLA
MATT ROGERS
CHAPTER 1
0700 hours.
One hundred miles from Iquitos, Peru.
Waiting was the worst part.
Jason King tucked his knees further into his chest. He rocked back and forth, slowly and steadily. His heart hammered. In times like these, the fear began to surface. It didn’t matter how many operations he had been through. It didn’t matter how many times he had narrowly escaped death.
The fear never left.
He sat on the padded floor of a tiny single-engine plane. A Cessna 182. The only other occupant was the pilot, Diego, a wiry Peruvian man with a pencil moustache and long dreadlocked hair. He chewed absent-mindedly on a toothpick as he flew. The small aircraft rocked and shook as the wind outside battered against its panels, but it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. King was also unperturbed. If the plane went down, he would not be around to see it.
The straps on his shoulders dug tight, connected to the parachute container on his back. A constant reminder that there was nothing but a large canopy separating him from survival and certain death. Especially in these conditions.
Landing would be a bitch.
‘Thirty seconds,’ Diego said in heavily accented English.
‘You sure about the landing zone?’ he said.
‘You will be fine, brother. I don’t know about rest of miss
ion. But if you jump when I say, you live. Simple?’
‘Simple,’ King repeated in an attempt to reassure himself.
The Cessna flew fourteen-thousand feet above the Amazon Rainforest. King leaned over and glanced out the dirty side window. Nothing but a sea of green in all directions. Over five million square miles of dense jungle, much of it unexplored.
Ten seconds from now, he would freefall into uncharted territory.
‘Ready?’ Diego said, one hand tapping a glass display next to the controls. ‘Almost there.’
‘Ready,’ King said.
An uncontrollable burst of adrenalin flooded through his veins. He had given up on trying to manage the feeling long ago. Jumping out of a plane was something that you couldn’t get used to. Each time it came with the vertigo and the rushing wind and the awe and the terror.
King checked his gear a final time. Parachute on his back, packed meticulously inside its container. Duffel bag locked against his chest, fastened securely. Inside the bag was a FN SCAR-17 assault rifle, a Heckler and Koch MP5SD sub-machine gun with attached suppressor, a Glock 19 compact pistol, countless rounds of ammunition, several all-weather insect-repellent khakis, a handful of ration packs, some water purifying tablets and a small machete.
That was it, apart from the second Glock 19 strapped to a holster at his waist.
It was unclear how long this operation would take, but if he needed more supplies than that, he knew his position would be in jeopardy. He hit targets fast, and he hit them hard. Spending too long planning led to delays. Delays killed momentum.
This line of thinking explained the arsenal he had chosen for the jungle. Soldiers of his calibre — of which there were few — often spent hours selecting tailor-made, customised weapons. These were usually prototypes reserved for the upper echelons of the special forces.
Not King.
He saw nothing but potential problems in guns like that. The majority of them were largely untested. He favoured the sturdiest, most reliable weaponry available. The guns that would never in a million years jam on the battlefield, in the heat of combat.
‘Door!’ Diego screamed.
King had lost count of the number of times he’d heard that same command. For as long as he could remember, he’d operated alone. That meant clandestine missions. It meant sneaking around behind enemy lines without any of his foe having the slightest notion that he was there. It meant using unconventional methods to enter hostile situations.
Usually he came from the sky.
He reached for the handle and threw the door up and outward. In came the screaming wind, howling around the tiny cabin, shaking the plane to its core. It deafened him. But with it came an icy calmness. It was time to act.
No more waiting around.
No more nerves.
He slapped the pilot on the shoulder, gesturing good-bye. Diego raised a hand, thumb pointing towards the roof of the plane. They had known each other for less than an hour. Something about the tension of dawning combat created a bond.
Then King stepped out onto the tiny foothold. He looked down once, and it tightened his gut. The treetops were dots. Rivers snaked across the terrain like string. It was all so far away. Wind battered him relentlessly, threatening to throw him off the ledge he was perched on. It didn’t bother him. He would leap off on his own accord soon enough.
Head up. Back arched.
Go.
He stepped off into nothingness.
CHAPTER 2
C.F. Secada International Airport.
Iquitos, Peru.
Twelve hours earlier…
The sun had just dipped below the horizon as the passenger plane touched down on the runway. It carried more than a hundred passengers, almost entirely tourists. One of the flight attendants read a pleasant welcome announcement over the speakers as it pulled up to the terminal next to the few other arrivals.
Jason King was displeased. The flight had been rough and the food had been terrible. He had not slept for more than sixteen hours. A long day of travel lay behind him. He wasn’t sure what lay ahead.
The seatbelt lights overhead flicked off simultaneously. King rose from the economy-class seat he had spent the last ten hours in and grabbed his sole piece of luggage. A single khaki backpack. In it were the only possessions he ever carried with him while he travelled between operations.
That’s how he spent his life. At the service of whichever high-ranking official needed him. Sent across the globe, dropped into the middle of warzones. A combat operative for one of the most secretive and exclusive government departments on the planet.
Black Force.
He was under no illusion as to how important he was. No-one else could do what he did. No-one else survived what he had, sometimes a hair’s breadth from death. Somehow, he always found a way to get the job done.
‘Thanks for flying with us,’ the flight attendant said as he strode past into the detachable corridor.
It pulled him out of his thoughts. ‘Thank you.’
He was the first one off the plane. He always was. Everyone else moved so … slowly. Their actions seemed laborious. Like they had all the time in the world. Perhaps they did. King certainly did not.
As he stepped out into the terminal, he scanned his surroundings. It was peak hour at the airport. Approaching seven in the evening. Tourists bustled to and fro, munching on fast food and sorting through boarding documents.
A man loitered by the walkway he had come through. He wore plain blue jeans, slightly faded, and a brown leather jacket over a white V-neck shirt. He was white, with plain features: a receding hairline, round glasses and a shadow of a beard. Nothing about him stood out. But King knew that was the intention. He held a small placard that read: ‘GERARD STEVENS.’
King stopped in front of him. ‘That’s me.’
‘Gerard?’ the man said, his expression quizzical.
‘The one and only.’
‘Excellent, we have a car waiting for you. My name is Clint. Would you like me to accompany you to collect your luggage?’
‘I’ve already got it.’
‘Where is it?’
King motioned to the pack slung over one shoulder. ‘Here.’
Clint nodded. ‘Of course. Right this way.’
They dodged hordes of civilians passing through the terminal. All of them either heading toward airport security or the departure gates. As they approached the lines for the metal detectors, Clint pushed past the crowd. He made eye contact with the officer manning the computer. Pointed a single finger at King. The officer gave a curt nod and ushered them straight through, without any question.
‘You’re well-known,’ King said as they headed for the exit.
‘Not really. They don’t have much idea what’s going on.’
‘They sure are co-operative.’
‘Of course. A phone call from the President changes a lot of things.’
As they stepped foot outside, the first thing King noticed was the heat. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his T-shirt. The humidity threatened to turn his skin damp within a minute.
‘Please tell me your ride’s close,’ King said.
‘Very. Special privileges.’
He breathed a sigh of relief. They crossed the asphalt in front of the terminal and entered a small car park.
‘Here we are,’ Clint said, unlocking a battered sedan with an electronic key. The vehicle looked as if it would fall apart at any moment.
‘Fuck me,’ King said. ‘The budget must have been enormous for this operation.’
‘We spared no expense for you,’ Clint said, a little curtly. ‘Doesn’t matter what the rest of us have. We’re not the ones risking our lives.’
‘You sure aren’t.’
King threw his bag into the back as he climbed in. Left out in the sun for a period of time, the interior of the sedan was an inferno. The air felt heavy. It was impossible to stop the perspiration seeping out of
his pores.
‘Where are we headed?’ he asked as Clint fired up the engine.
‘An airfield on the other side of the city. Much more secluded. We’ve organised a private plane to fly you to the drop-off point. I’m one half of your assistance detail. The other guy will meet us there.’
‘Are you briefing me? Because right now I know as much as those airport guards.’
‘That’s Brad’s job. He’s waiting for us with the mission file. It’s got everything you need to know.’
‘Do you have my gear?’
Clint nodded. ‘Everything’s ready to go.’
‘Perfect.’
King settled back and observed the urban life in Peru. It was far from pretty. Clint drove through dirty streets strewn with rubbish. The sidewalks were damp. The air bore down heavier in the heart of the city. Thick and musty. Hot and wet. By now the sun had disappeared completely. He sweltered in the evening heat.
Faint streetlights flickered on and off, partially illuminating the roads. The pedestrians they passed ranged from young children to elderly beggars. Most seemed happy. They were used to the conditions.
‘So you’re Jason King,’ Clint said after a long period of silence.
‘I am.’
‘It’s weird to finally meet you in the flesh.’
‘How so?’
‘Well, you know … everyone talks about you. But you’re a myth. No-one ever sees you.’
‘That’s because I work alone.’
‘Who for, exactly? Everyone in Delta knows you because you used to be one of us. Then they whisked you off for some secret project. Now no-one has a fucking clue what you do.’
‘I’m not with a branch of the military. I guess you could say I’m an independent contractor.’
‘To who?’
‘The very top. I can’t go into too much detail.’
‘I understand.’
Another quiet moment. Very faintly, far in the distance, King thought he heard a gunshot. He twitched at the sound.