by Matt Rogers
He lay down on the mattress and shut his eyes. Within seconds he was asleep.
CHAPTER 5
Clint and Brad re-entered the room at exactly 0400. As promised.
King was already awake. As promised.
He sat on the bed, dressed in a plain white T-shirt and jeans. He hadn’t paid any attention to his clothing. He knew it would be replaced by tactical gear imminently.
‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ he said as the door swung inwards.
‘Did you set an alarm?’ Brad said, taking a look around the room.
‘I didn’t bring a phone,’ King said. ‘I never bring anything personal on these operations. Helps detach myself from regular life.’
‘How did you wake up so early naturally?’
‘I never sleep long.’
Too many bad dreams. Too many violent memories.
Brad seemed to sense that he wasn’t getting much else out of King. ‘Alright. Follow us. Let’s get you ready.’
King trailed behind the pair as they headed out of the makeshift bedroom. It was still dark in Iquitos. The halogen lights overhead seemed to flicker even worse than the previous night. As they walked, King noted that Clint had not said a word to him since they had entered the airfield six hours ago. He believed what the man had said on the drive there. Clandestine operations in Peru were most definitely stretching the limits of his comfort zone.
‘We were told to supply you with the same gear you use on every assignment,’ Brad said, waving his hands toward a thick grey duffel bag sitting atop the closest trestle table. ‘Plus jungle survival tools, of course.’
‘I hope you packed the minimum.’
‘We did. As instructed.’
‘Are you nervous?’ Clint said quietly.
‘Very,’ King said.
‘You’re not showing it.’
‘I can’t afford to. Have to keep up appearances. Everyone will tell you the tough-guy act is just that, an act. Even Brad here.’
The soldier shrugged. ‘Everyone gets scared.’
‘Damn right they do. I’m just as scared as you would be, Clint.’
‘I doubt that,’ Clint said.
‘It’s a controlled fear. Do this job enough and everyone would grow numb.’
‘I wouldn’t.’
‘You’ll never know until you try it.’
King spent the next half hour meticulously analysing the contents of the duffel bag. He performed the same actions every time, without fail. Routine meant no mistakes. It meant he would not head straight into territory and find his gun jammed, or his ammunition low, or any of the other thousand possibilities that could occur in the heat of combat. He disassembled all four of his weapons. Checked each individual part for flaws. He made sure to take extreme patience and care with the tasks. There was a time for brashness and recklessness. It wasn’t before the mission began.
Brad strode over as the time approached 0500.
‘They work,’ he said, motioning to the guns King was in the process of reassembling. ‘Trust me.’
‘I do trust you. Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t check for myself.’
Brad shrugged. ‘Doesn’t affect me.’
‘How will I keep in contact during the mission?’
Brad gestured to a trio of thick satellite phones on the edge of the table ahead. ‘Take one of those. They work anywhere on the planet. If you truly need backup, call. But only if shit hits the fan.’
‘Where’s our pilot?’
‘He should be here right about —’ Brad glanced down at his chunky digital wrist watch ‘—now.’
Not a sound. There was no sign of any new arrivals for the following ten minutes. King spent the time packing his gear back into the duffel bag. Not rushing, making sure everything fit just right. Clint paced restlessly back and forth across the path of the roller doors, which he had raised when the clock hit five in the morning. A small arc of runway was visible, faintly illuminated by the glow of the hangar’s lights. On the horizon, the faint shimmer of light began to appear.
Another ten minutes passed.
Still nothing.
‘I told him to be here at five on the dot,’ Brad said, shaking his head. His tone had become exasperated.
‘He’s a civilian,’ King said. ‘He’s probably not as strict about these things as we are. Doesn’t realise the urgency. You didn’t tell him anything about what we’re doing, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then give him time. There’s no use panicking over things we can’t control.’
But even King began to grow wary when 0530 came and went. By now, Clint was a nervous wreck.
‘We’re completely fucked if he doesn’t show,’ Clint said, his voice cracking with each syllable. He ran two hands through his thinning hair. ‘I’m not exaggerating. Command will tear us apart. This was on us to organise, Brad. We told them we could handle it.’
‘Shut the fuck up,’ Brad said. His voice cut through the hangar like a knife. ‘He’ll be here.’
King waited patiently. Silently. His mind was elsewhere.
In the distance, the drone of an engine.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Clint said.
Sure enough, it was the pilot. He drove a beat-up pickup truck, paint flaking off its sides. The vehicle looked worse off than Clint’s sedan as it bounced over the runway toward the hangar. Even from this distance, King could tell the suspension was terrible.
The sun had just started to rise, turning the sky yellow. He walked with Brad underneath the roller doors and out into the dawn. Before he exited the hangar, he made sure to tuck one of the Glock 19s into his waistband.
Always stay armed. Always stay ready.
‘Diego!’ Brad called as the pickup screeched to a halt just outside the entrance to the hangar. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Very sorry, my friend,’ the pilot said, clambering out of the vehicle. His accent was thick. ‘I was having breakfast.’
‘Of course he was,’ Clint muttered.
Brad strode up to him. ‘I said 0500, Diego. What part of that didn’t you understand? This is extremely important.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand,’ Diego said. ‘I understand you, mister. I very sorry. I got held up at cafe.’
‘Cafe? What cafes are open at five in the morning?’
‘Not many. Just the one I always go. Karma Cafe. Very good food. Fantastic. But I get held up by stranger, wanting to talk. Otherwise, I be on time!’
Brad hesitated. ‘What stranger?’
‘Ah, it was nothing.’
‘Tell us,’ Brad said, more insistent. His tone had changed. Less scolding; more wary.
‘Man come up. He say, “Hey, Diego!” But I don’t know him. But then, maybe I forget him. I no want to offend. I say hey back. He say, “Diego, my friend, what you doing today?” I say I flying tourist into rainforest. Then he run off. Just like that.’ Diego clicked his fingers for added effect.
King’s heart rate increased instantly. ‘Oh, that’s not good.’
Brad slammed a closed fist down on the bonnet of Diego’s truck, infuriated. ‘Why the fuck would you tell him what you’re doing?’
‘I didn’t!’ Diego yelled. ‘You see, I say tourist! I don’t say soldier! He does not know.’
‘Did you make sure you weren’t being followed here?’ King demanded.
‘I—’
‘Answer the question!’
‘I don’t know. I no pay attention.’
‘Diego, did you ever stop to think that you shouldn’t go around telling people about top-secret tasks you’ve been paid handsomely to do?’
‘I dunno,’ Diego said, flabbergasted. ‘You no tell me much. I dunno if it was important!’
‘We’re probably okay,’ King said to Brad. ‘Chances are it’s nothing.’
Then came the thunderous sound of tearing metal, and the four of them stared across the airfield to see a black four-wheel-drive burst through the flimsy metal gate. It slid mome
ntarily across the grass. Then it revved its engine and powered toward the hangar, heading straight for them.
CHAPTER 6
King didn’t act for a split second. He focused hard, staring at the 4WD. It was imperative he caught a glimpse of the number of hostiles. He saw a figure running after the vehicle, attempting to catch it from behind.
The guard at the gate.
The rear window of the 4WD rolled down and a thin man leant out. He clutched some type of assault rifle in his hands. King couldn’t make out the exact type from this distance. The assailant let out a quick burst of fire, rat-a-tat-tat, and the guard dropped like a rag doll.
‘Inside!’ King roared.
Brad’s instincts kicked in and he reacted fast, wrapping an arm around Clint and tugging him into the hangar. It was the necessary action to jumpstart Clint’s movements. He’d been frozen solid, startled by the gunfire. Now he found his feet and bolted inside.
With one swift motion, Diego dropped to the tarmac and rolled under his truck. A practiced move. King wondered if he often found himself in the middle of shootouts. He had no more time to ponder that idea, as a hail of bullets churned up the tarmac all around him. He got one look at the 4WD — now sporting three men hanging out the windows, all brandishing fully automatic weapons — before darting into the hangar, behind cover.
It did not take long to realise what was about to happen. With dawning dread, King let out a shout.
‘Clint, to the side!’
It was too late. Clint, in his inexperience, had decided to flee in a straight line away from the enemy vehicle. He’d sprinted down the centre of the hangar, toward the cover of the Cessna.
Too far away.
King watched as his back turned to pulp, lit up by a barrage of bullets. He stopped running. Staggered. His head swivelled side to side, eyes wide and bulging. There was nothing anyone could do to save him.
Whether he would have succumbed to those injuries did not matter. The round that punched through the side of his skull finished him off.
It was less graphic than King expected it to be. He’d seen some gruesome injuries during his time in the field. He’d seen men bleed more liquid than he thought could possibly be contained within a human body. The sight was always grisly, and something he attempted to avoid revisiting. The killing round that hit Clint sliced through his head, just above his ear, and pulverised his brain.
He died instantaneously.
King couldn’t help but feel relief that the bullet had found its target in the side of his head. Not for any malicious reason. In fact, he felt a stab of sadness as he watched Clint’s limp body fall to the concrete. He’d warmed to the analyst. But he knew that if the man hadn’t been killed by that shot, he would have bled out slowly, over the course of hours. It would have been accompanied by an unfathomable amount of pain. A quick and painless departure was in all ways preferable. If King had to choose the method of his own death further down the line, a bullet to the brain would be one of the most favourable outcomes.
He withdrew the Glock 19 from his waistband. It was a small pistol. Compact. Designed for concealed carry as well as use in the field. But experience had taught King that the length of a barrel did not change how fast a bullet entered an enemy’s head. The Glock 19 was pinpoint accurate, and that was what truly mattered.
Diego had fallen out of his line of sight. He would worry about the pilot later. Brad, on the other hand, was clearly visible. He’d ducked off to the far side of the hangar, putting a corrugated iron wall between himself and the 4WD. Just as King had done. A clear example of the quick thinking that separated the dead from the living.
‘You hear them?’ Brad called from across the space.
King nodded. The racket of the growling engine grew closer. ‘You think they know we’re right here?’
‘I can’t be sure.’
‘My bet is they’ll come speeding in. Be ready.’
King let his pulse quicken. The icy determination of imminent combat was upon him. He knew he had less than five seconds before the 4WD came roaring into the hangar.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment. Zoning in.
Now.
As soon as he saw the bonnet of the vehicle pass through the entrance he broke into a full sprint toward it. His timing paid off. As the truck charged into the building the men hanging out each window rotated wildly, desperately searching for targets. It took the two men on the left-hand side a fraction too long to notice King.
That half-second cost them their lives.
He raised the Glock with a rigid arm and squeezed off a single shot. His aim did not falter. Neither did the bullet. A loud discharge echoed off the walls and the man hanging out of the passenger seat jerked back, a red burst coating the matte black paint of the 4WD. Shocked by the sudden turn of events, the man behind him spun his rifle around to face King. He managed to fire two bullets.
Way off.
King felt them whisk past him as his stride quickened. He reached the truck just as it slammed on the brakes, the driver reacting to the now stone-dead passenger. King wound up and swung a well-placed fist at the assailant hanging out of the back seat. Squeezed his shoulder blades. Swung round. Followed through. His knuckles smashed into the man’s chin, breaking bone and tearing cartilage in his neck. His head whipped to the side and he slumped back inside the car, instantly unconscious.
The driver panicked. As King assumed he would. Two of his men had been incapacitated in the blink of an eye. King heard the screech of tyres and knew the 4WD was about to take off again.
In one movement he wrenched the door open and threw himself inside the truck.
Fighting for your life at close quarters inside a moving vehicle with two limp bodies in the mix was chaotic, to say the least. King thrived on chaos. It was something his enemies were never used to. But it was something he fully prepared for.
His eyes darted left and right. Assessing. Calculating.
There were two threats. The driver, currently focusing on slamming the accelerator. And the man in the back seat with him, separated by the limp body of his unconscious friend.
‘What the—’ the thug started.
King planted his feet on the floor and sprung across the man he’d just knocked out. He slammed into the thug, crushing him against the far door. Now the fight raged directly behind the driver. If he had a weapon, it would be difficult to fire a shot under these circumstances.
King wrapped an arm around the thug’s throat, taking advantage of the confusion. A glancing blow bounced off the side of his head. It did little to faze him. He locked his hands together and squeezed like a madman. Tensing all the muscles in his forearm, he pulled and wrenched and constricted like his life depended on it.
Which it did.
He’d locked the choke in under the chin, which was disastrous in any street fight. Nine times out of ten it led to unconsciousness. With a man of King’s power and explosiveness, half the time it resulted in a crushed larynx, and possibly death.
It didn’t take long for the thug to join his comrade in unconsciousness. King felt him go limp, and released him instantly. There was no use wasting time making sure he was dead. For now, he was out of the fight. That was all that mattered.
Now, a new situation appeared. King and the driver were the only two people still conscious. The three bodies surrounding them were either dead, or close to. The driver quickly recognised how the tables had turned. He no longer had the advantage of numbers. He was about to enter combat with the man who had dispatched his three colleagues effortlessly, at the same time battling for control of an enormous motor vehicle. The odds were skewed heavily against him.
‘Give up,’ King said.
A futile statement. There would be no surrender. He watched the driver stamp down one last time, crushing the accelerator into the footwell. The engine roared and the speedometer spiked. Their surroundings quickened to a blur. The vehicle had already been clocking close to sixty miles an hour. No
w it surged forward. One final burst of momentum.
The driver bailed before King could move. One moment he was there, white knuckles clutching the wheel determinedly. Then he reached down, tugged the handle and fell out the open space created by the door swinging open. As he disappeared, King saw what lay ahead. His view had been obscured by the back of the driver’s head. Now he saw the far wall of the hangar growing closer, expanding, filling his vision. The car was seconds away from impact.
He felt a pang of shock in his gut. He knew he was in an awkward position. The unconscious thug’s body lay splayed across him, pinning him in place. He took a deep breath and exploded into action. Fuelled by a burst of primal energy. The type of strength that only materialised in life-or-death situations. With one hand he threw the man away like a discarded plaything. With the other, he reached sideways. Desperate, manic. Knowing he would be pulverised if he was not out of the car in a second.
Two fingers found the door handle.
He tugged.
It opened.
Using one last surge of movement he dove. Springing off the footwell. Flailing head-first toward the gap.
Halfway out the door the vehicle ploughed into the hangar wall with breathtaking force.
CHAPTER 7
King felt the car crumple around him.
An ear-splitting shriek of tearing metal raged everywhere, from all directions, filling his senses. But he was out. With milliseconds to spare. The edge of the door clipped his ankles. Spun him around in mid-air. Threw him onto the concrete. He landed hard, back-first. Rolled with it. The impact flung him head-over-heels, careering across the concrete. First his upper back, then his shoulder.