Warrior: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 2)

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You realise how ridiculous you sound?’

  Lars didn’t respond.

  ‘You’re sending me into a situation like this to secure my future?,’ King said. ‘Sounds like you’re trying to get me killed.’

  ‘It’s not as bad as you think. Somalia can be brutal, but the areas that AMISOM’s got hold of are safer than most. Venture outside the boundaries and you’ll get yourself killed, but I’m not asking you to do that. All I need is for you to break Reed down, get him to admit why he did what he did, and — if need be — infiltrate the same areas he did to get conclusive proof that he successfully disrupted a supply chain. Got it?’

  ‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘But I’m not happy about it. I thought my operations would consist of clear orders.’

  Lars shook his head again for what felt like the millionth time. ‘That’s not how we’re going to do things going forward. You need to understand that. So much of this organisation relies on improvisation. We’re not an atypical military unit. I give you barebones instructions, and you do whatever the hell you want with them. I know you’re twenty-two, and that poses a whole range of problems in the field of self-discipline. You don’t have the same experience as others do. But you’re the best of the best at taking advantage of situations on the fly, and that’s why I need you here. Go in there, make what you can of it, and improvise. Just like you did in Mexico. Okay?’

  King nodded. ‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

  ‘Don’t get yourself too worked up about it, though,’ Lars said. ‘We’ve got a fifteen hour flight ahead of us, give or take. Settle in for the long haul.’

  King set about detaching himself from all physical sensations. In reality he was trying to get comfortable in a rigid metal seat in the fuselage of an unidentified cargo plane screaming toward Somalia, but he tuned everything out in favour of a few hours of optimal rest. He closed his eyes and ignored the churning gut and the sweaty palms and the shaking legs that signified a live operation. Instead he focused on his breathing, taking a harsh inhale followed by a succinct exhale and repeating ad infinitum, until he dozed off into a slumber in the early hours of the morning, Washington time.

  He thought of nothing, and considered nothing.

  He simply slept.

  6

  It didn’t last.

  King thought he had the willpower and determination to shut out all external surroundings for the entire duration of the flight, but he found himself awake within minutes. He shifted restlessly in the seat, unable to get comfortable.

  Then again, it had been quite some time since he’d been comfortable.

  He opted to mull over what Lars had told him while the man dozed alongside him, unperturbed by the turbulence that rattled the fuselage every time the pilots guided the cargo plane through a rough patch of sky. At one point, Lars came awake all of a sudden, jolting as if he had been summoned by a horrifying dream. King scrutinised the expression the man’s face and concluded that Lars had certain demons he hadn’t cared to disclose over their time together.

  All in due time, he thought.

  ‘This plane,’ King said, when it became clear that Lars had no intention of going back to sleep. ‘What is it, exactly?’

  ‘Just one of a hundred thousand other cargo planes,’ Lars said. ‘We live in a capitalist society. These planes fly goods into Mogadishu. It doesn’t matter that the country’s plagued by a civil war — they still need supplies. You’d be surprised what kind of companies would jump at the chance to profit off a war zone. We can work in conjunction with them when we need to. Of course, we’re not on their records, just as we’re not on government records. Another one of the many advantages of not technically existing.’

  ‘No-one will know I’m in country,’ King said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘No safety net.’

  ‘Do I have to go over this with you again?’ Lars said, incredulous. ‘I thought you would understand what kind of jurisdiction you operate in by now.’

  King smirked. ‘I understand. I just need to get used to it.’

  ‘In retrospect, I think Mexico might have been the steepest learning curve possible. But the fact that you made it through, and learnt what you were capable of … maybe that will end up being a good thing.’

  ‘Nothing about Mexico was a good thing.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Lars said. ‘I’ll be the first to say you don’t seem like the same person since you returned.’

  King paused. ‘How so?’

  ‘You were a twenty-two-year old kid the first time we met. Talented, for sure, but inexperienced. The fact that you’d already made it into the Delta Force shocked a lot of people — my superiors included. Behind the scenes you were ridiculed. What you did in Tijuana, and then in Guatemala after that — it shut a lot of people up. And I think you proved to yourself that you could do it. I think you went across the border with hidden questions about yourself, and you returned with answers. Any of this ringing true?’

  King took some time to consider the spiel. He concluded that nothing Lars had said rang false, and nodded. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Do you feel like you’ve matured since then?’

  ‘I feel different,’ King said. ‘It’s not something I can easily describe. I can’t really put my finger on what it is.’

  ‘Confidence, I’d say.’

  ‘Not that obvious. Something deeper. I spent years trying to convince myself that I wasn’t a special little snowflake, like everyone was telling me I was. I thought I was progressing through the ranks because of sheer dumb luck. Then Mexico happened, and I realised that all the tests weren’t exaggerated. I guess I always felt different to other people, but I suppressed it because I didn’t want to come off as an arrogant little shit.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You’re starting to understand what you are.’

  ‘And, to be honest, I think it’ll get me killed.’

  Lars raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’

  ‘That’s why I’m reluctant about this one. If I’m being honest — as much as I hate to admit it — Mexico gave me this aura of invincibility. By the end of it, I was convinced that I could do anything. I wouldn’t have sprinted headlong into Guatemala if I didn’t have confidence in myself.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘If it sticks in my behaviour, there’s plenty wrong with it. I can’t survive like that forever.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Lars said. ‘These are still early days. You need a proven track record behind you, and I need to carefully slot you into situations where you can build that resume. You can attempt the impossible later — we have all the time in the world for that. For now I need you in situations like these — where your skills are necessary, but you’re not being thrown straight into a war.’

  ‘I could be,’ King said. ‘You don’t know much about what’s going on in Mogadishu.’

  ‘No-one does,’ Lars admitted. ‘Which makes it the perfect test for you.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘I’m giving you even less instruction than I did in Mexico. The end goal is to detach support from the operations entirely. In future I want to be able to turn you loose in any kind of environment I deem necessary, and let you wreak havoc until the objectives have been completed.’

  ‘I like the sound of that.’

  ‘Well, it starts in Mogadishu. Get to the bottom of whatever the hell Reed’s got himself wrapped up in, and clash some heads together if you deem it necessary. Basically, sort the situation out. On your own. With no help.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘There’s another fourteen hours of flying ahead of us,’ Lars said. ‘Rest up.’

  He closed his eyes all of a sudden, slipping back into slumber in mercurial fashion. King watched Lars drift away into a peaceful sleep, then he leant his own head back against the cold headrest and let out the breath that had caught in his throat over the course of their conversation.

&n
bsp; He knew he had no chance of sleeping for quite some time. A few hours of restless stirring would suffice.

  King closed his eyes, but no sleep came. Instead he thought of war zones and instability and a burning desire to disregard the boundaries of the law.

  He had received an addictive dose of the feeling in Mexico, and something told him he wouldn’t grow tired of the ability to improvise for quite some time.

  It’s what you were put on this planet to do, he thought.

  In an unknown cargo plane somewhere above North America, heading for a war-torn hellhole in Africa entrenched in an active civil war, with his instructions unclear and his exact destination unknown, King managed a smile.

  This was what he was meant for.

  7

  Indian Ocean

  Off the coast of Somalia

  The ship stank of fuel and rust and grime. Thousands of shipping containers lined the deck in towering, orderly rows — most were coated in mould and muck from years of constant use. There weren’t many new TEUs onboard the vessel. It was an ancient creature by international shipping standards, used for countless supply runs by one of the major respected corporations.

  Inside its bowels, a meeting had begun.

  A cluster of grizzled, bearded men with weather-beaten features and crude tattoos snaking up their tanned forearms crowded around a long metal table in the centre of a cramped windowless room. The table seemed like an extension of the ship itself, made of the same material as the steel walls and bolted into the ground, fixed in position. The surroundings were sterile, as if they were regularly wiped down.

  One wondered what needed to be wiped clean from its surfaces…

  ‘I won’t budge on this,’ one of the bearded men said, ice in his tone, gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles to ride out the sickening rage coursing through his system. ‘It’s our way or nothing.’

  Across the table, a ragtag collection of frail foreigners in official crew uniform stood in varying states of distress. None of them looked like they wanted to be there, most opting to stare vacantly at an empty wall or cast their eyes down to the floor between their feet. The only man with a semblance of determination in his gaze sat straight-shouldered on one of the stools surrounding the table. He was in his late-twenties, with deep bronze skin and a distinct Spanish accent.

  ‘We didn’t want you onboard in the first place,’ he said, daring to defy the bearded men, shooting daggers across the room. ‘You are not welcome here.’

  The first man who had spoken snarled. ‘Too bad, sunshine. Our payload is due for arrival in exactly thirty hours, which is when you lot are scheduled to arrive on the coast of Somalia. It’s crucial that we retrieve our cargo, and your superiors clearly agree. They were the ones who gave us the all-clear to come aboard.’

  ‘Because you paid them,’ the Spanish man said.

  ‘Maybe so. It’s none of your business what happened. The reality is that we’re here, and you’ll have to put up with our requests. Besides, they don’t involve you. You may just need to stay an extra day milling around the coastline, while we wait to receive information. But it’ll all be wrapped up within a day. We’ll have what we came for, you’ll turn a blind eye, and no-one outside of this ship will be any wiser. How’s that sound?’

  ‘Not good,’ the Spanish man said, his tone matter-of-fact. ‘I know what cargo you are after. Some of my men don’t, so I’d prefer to keep it vague in order to keep it that way. It is not welcome on this ship. I don’t care what my superiors said. I’m in charge when we’re on the open waters, and I won’t let you bring it onboard. It could get me killed.’

  The bearded man frowned. He hadn’t been anticipating this level of resistance. The hardest part of the entire ordeal had been convincing the multinational corporation that owned the container ship to let them discreetly attach themselves to the supply run for their own personal advantage. It had taken the man long enough to realise that money talked, and after a substantial offer they had been given a long list of instructions and protocol.

  None of the information they’d received had mentioned the sheer hostility they would face from the ship’s crew.

  It surprised the man — he wouldn’t deny that. He would have thought that the men responsible for commandeering this ship regularly turned a blind eye to all kinds of shady dealings.

  Maybe they’re that naive, he thought. Maybe they don’t know.

  It was impossible. Even the most hands-off forms of illegal trade involved some kind of knowledge. These men would know that ninety percent of the TEUs they transported back and forth across the world’s oceans were either undeclared or reported inaccurately. It was the nature of the world.

  They must not be used to dealing with our types, the man thought.

  Their usual shady dealings were separated by a metal container.

  The presence of the rugged combat veterans unnerved them.

  That much was clear.

  ‘Do we have to do things my way?’ the bearded man said.

  If they wouldn’t willingly co-operate, he would make them. They had come too far to fall short due to the temperamental feelings of a disgruntled band of crew members. The fee to clamber aboard back in port had been substantial — frankly, the man couldn’t believe that the crew’s superiors hadn’t communicated that to them.

  Then again, this industry was mind-numbingly enormous. Holes existed, communication failures occurred, and crew members got pissed off. It was the way of life out here.

  So is this, the man thought.

  He signalled to one of his friends — a beefy, muscle-clad bald man with a permanent sunburn and cheap black sunglasses to complement his faded khakis. The pair had worked together for as long as he could remember, and it only took a single flick of two fingers to spur the guy into action.

  The enormous man strode straight across the room, wrapped one hand around the skinniest crew member’s throat, and hurled him into the nearest wall. The kid bounced off the metal and collapsed in a heap on the cold floor, not seriously hurt but effectively intimidated into submission.

  The big guy stepped back, lined up a kick, and swung a steel-toed boot into the crew member’s ribs.

  A sharp crack rung through the cramped room, plastering grimaces across the faces of the other crew members. One of them moved imperceptibly, taking the slightest step forward as if he were about to stick up for his friend.

  Big mistake.

  The heavy bearded man punched him square in the nose, jarring enough to send the second kid flailing back in a tangle of limbs, hands flying to his face.

  The first man smiled wryly and watched as the crew froze simultaneously, shocked by the sudden violence. Even though they had operated around legal jurisdiction for most of their careers, the criminal world often relied entirely on trust. The man wondered if any of the crew members had experienced such violence up close before, seeing with their own eyes the devastating effects of a powerful adversary with no regard for pleasant co-operation.

  Probably not, judging by their reactions.

  All of them clammed up, their skin paling and their eyes widening, looking like a group of deer in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

  ‘Hey—’ started the Spanish guy, the one who had given them all the problems.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ the first man said. ‘Ring your bosses? They’ll chew you out for speaking an ill word about us. Do you know how much we’re paying them? All of you, shut your mouths, and do as we say. Then we won’t have any more problems.’

  The man scraped his chair back, signalling that the conversation was over. The crew members hurried for the door — one-by-one, the only method available in such a tight space. The air hung thick in the room, choked with sweat and fear. The two injured crew members filtered out last, one sporting a freshly broken nose and the other clutching his torso with white knuckles, grasping the region he had been struck by the steel-toed boot.

  The last guy gave a pa
thetic whimper as he exited the room.

  ‘Too far?’ the enormous man said as the squad was finally left alone.

  The first man shook his head. ‘Needed to send them a fuckin’ message. Entitled pricks. They’ll do what we say.’

  ‘And if the payload isn’t there when we need it to be?’

  ‘This ship isn’t moving until we get what we’re after,’ the man said. ‘There’s too much at stake here. All our futures…’

  The enormous guy nodded. ‘Let’s hope it all works out.’

  ‘It will. I’ll make sure it does.’

  8

  There were no windows fixed into the fuselage of the cargo plane, and it made the descent into Mogadishu uncomfortable as all hell. King considered himself hardened to the ambiguous nature of the battlefield, but diving into a war zone with no view of the landing area, left to simply stare at the walls of a long metal tube that could be blown out of the sky at any moment — it rattled him, literally and figuratively.

  He jolted and bounced in the seat, fixed into place by the harness strapped painfully tight across his chest. Even Lars went uncharacteristically silent as the cargo plane looped around its landing site.

  The journey had passed slowly, no thanks to an unexpected eight-hour stopover in Algeria.

  ‘We can’t do anything about it,’ Lars had muttered as the pilots refused to explain the impromptu landing fourteen hours previously. ‘We agreed to be flexible when we organised with the airline to catch a ride. Sometimes business calls.’

  They’d sat restlessly in a humid open-air warehouse as the pilots waited for an express delivery of supplies from a neighbouring village. The private airfield sat at the base of two towering hillocks, both covered in dead grass and soaring far over their heads, obscuring the view of the countryside. After nearly a half-day of waiting, both King and Lars concluded that Algeria was boring as all shit, and they were ecstatic when the pilots signalled that their work was done and it was time to press forward into Somalia.