by Matt Rogers
Malvado turned white with fear.
He tried to struggle, but there was nothing left in his bones. The badly broken nose had shut him down, overriding any kind of life-or-death strength he might have been able to tap into. He slapped feebly at Slater’s arms. Slater kneed him in the gut, smashing the air from his lungs, then pulled him in close.
He yelled, ‘Enjoy the ride.’
Then he leapt backward off the ramp, dropping away from the Hercules in the darkened sky, plummeting toward terminal velocity. As the wind assaulted him he released Malvado, sealing the man’s fate. The big man spiralled away into the night, no parachute in sight, plummeting to certain death.
It felt good.
25
Slater went through the motions — although he couldn’t see what lay underneath him, the routine was the same.
He tilted his head back and spread his arms out on either side at ninety degree angles. He arched his back and stabilised in the air, correcting the tailspin he’d entered when he threw himself out of the transport plane. By now he imagined the giant Hercules would be nothing but a blip in the sky above, continuing on its downward trajectory until it broke apart on the surface of the ocean.
He had to estimate his height by sight alone, and it didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the distance the Mexican coastline stretched along the horizon.
At what he guessed to be three thousand feet he reached back and secured his grip on the pilot chute. He yanked it out of its pocket, throwing it away so it caught the wind and wrenched the main parachute out of the container. The shoulder straps tugged violently against him, and he sunk into a seated position against the leg straps.
Above him, the canopy billowed out.
He went through the mental checklist.
Shape. Looked good.
Size. No problem.
Sliders. Down.
Line twists. None he could see.
Toggles. He located them, snatched up one in each hand, and nodded satisfactorily.
Simple.
He pulled one toggle all the way down, entering a corkscrew toward the ocean, figuring there was no point prolonging what needed to happen. It took a little over a minute to descend. Shivering and shaking and bracing himself for impact, he flared the canopy and touched down gracefully in the swells. With no thermals to speak of, he shed the harness as soon as his feet touched the water, shimmying out of the shoulder and leg straps and letting the entire kit float away. The life jacket kept him afloat, so as he started treading water he extracted the waterproof satellite phone from the inside of his jacket and set about adopting as comfortable a position as he could manage.
He dialled a number firmly ingrained in his head, and waited for the answer that would save his life.
The call went through, answered with dead silence.
‘Lars,’ Slater said, his teeth already chattering.
‘Oh, thank Christ,’ the Black Force handler said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Can you track this phone?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do that now. Send something for me as fast as you can. Preferably from your side of the border. I don’t want to get rescued by the Mexican Army and handed straight over to the Sinaloa cartel.’
‘What the hell happened?’
‘I’d tell you, but it doesn’t feel real. Can we talk in person?’
‘Of course.’ There was a pause, and then Lars exploded with a torrent of swearing. ‘Christ, what on earth are you doing in the middle of the ocean?’
‘Thought I’d go for a swim.’
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘I’m alive. That’s enough for me.’
‘Okay. Okay. We can have a chopper there in twenty-five minutes.’
‘Hurry. I’m cold.’
‘Will fucking Slater,’ Lars muttered, and the line went dead.
26
Two days later, Slater found himself at a shadowy den of a bar on the outskirts of San Francisco, nursing the afterglow of a headache from the madness he’d endured in Mexico. It hadn’t surprised him how fast the U.S. military had released him. He got the general impression they wanted nothing to do with him. He was the worst kind of military operative — unlabelled. Every conversation regarding him lay shrouded in mystery, full of unsubstantiated rumours and general contradictions. No-one quite knew who he reported to, or in what capacity he served the government. He’d been pulled from the North Pacific Ocean by rescue chopper, relatively unharmed, and taken back to Naval Base San Diego as the shadowy bureaucracy busied themselves sorting out what to do with him.
Less than twenty-four hours later, the call had come down the pipeline.
Let him go.
You shouldn’t concern yourself with him.
So Slater rented a car and made the trek back to San Diego on his own, snatched up by the institution and then thrown back out to the wolves. He bunkered down and replayed the events of the last few days in his mind, finding it hard to comprehend what he’d been through. He drank a reasonable amount, opting not to fly off the handle.
He assumed Black Force would be in touch, and sure enough he got the call.
Lars Crawford was in town.
A solitary figure stepped down into the bar, pausing for a moment in the entranceway to survey the scene. Spotting what he needed to see, he crossed the room, weaving between empty tables, and planted himself down on the bar stool next to Slater. The bartender had busied himself at the other end of the room, at Slater’s request. There was no-one in earshot.
‘You know I prefer to do this kind of thing somewhere more private,’ Lars said.
‘I’m a special case,’ Slater said. ‘We’ve been over this.’
‘I get that you hate the political aspect of it, but you’re not a vigilante citizen, as much as you try and keep up the illusion.’
‘Actually, that feels like exactly what I am. Do you have good news?’
‘I have news.’
‘Not good?’
‘Hard to say. There’s never a happy ending with anything involving the cartels. But you got your job done, didn’t you?’
‘What did I tell you? When I’m on, I’m on.’
‘But you didn’t get anything from Malvado. No information. Nothing. You just killed him. That’s all you seem to be able to do. Kill without considering the consequences.’
Slater cradled the beer in his hand and hunched lower over the countertop. ‘Incorrect.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been holding back some things I found out until I could meet you in person.’
‘You wouldn’t happen to know what’s going on with the Sinaloa cartel, would you?’ Lars said. ‘Because there’s some serious shit stirring in Mexico. Fighting. Betrayals. Dead hitmen showing up everywhere. It’s like they’re tearing themselves apart.’
Slater chose his next words very carefully. He would only say them once, and then he would move on with his life.
‘Malvado was threatening to release information about covert U.S. operations, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he said he was holding this information with a team of international lawyers who’d release it if they heard anything suspicious — such as the government being responsible for his death?’
‘Yes. Which is exactly why I didn’t want you to kill him, you moron.’
Slater stood up, drained the rest of his beer, and rested a hand on Lars’ shoulder. ‘He did the exact same thing to his own cartel. Call it greed. Call it a lust for leverage. Whatever you want. He held sensitive details over their heads that would tear them apart if it ever came into the public eye. And he threatened them with the same thing. So when his lawyers found out that he died in a plane crash carried out by the Sinaloa cartel…?’
Lars’ eyes widened, and he froze up in shock.
‘What information do you think they decided to release?’ Slater said. ‘Who do you think they blamed?’
S
ilence.
Slater leant in. ‘I’m a lot smarter than you think I am. And I plan my moves well in advance. So next time you need the job done, you know who to come to. Even if I am a drunk.’
He gently placed the empty bottle down in front of Lars and said, ‘Thanks for the beer. You know how to reach me.’
He couldn’t remember ever being more proud of his work.
It wasn’t every day you made a criminal organisation the size of a country cannibalise itself behind-the-scenes.
Who’s your best operative now? he thought.
He strode straight out of the bar and disappeared into downtown San Francisco.
MORE BLACK FORCE SHORTS COMING VERY SOON…
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Books by Matt Rogers
THE JASON KING SERIES
Isolated (Book 1)
Imprisoned (Book 2)
Reloaded (Book 3)
Betrayed (Book 4)
Corrupted (Book 5)
Hunted (Book 6)
THE JASON KING FILES
Cartel (Book 1)
Warrior (Book 2)
Savages (Book 3)
THE WILL SLATER SERIES
Wolf (Book 1)
Lion (Book 2)
BLACK FORCE SHORTS
The Victor (Book 1)
The Chimera (Book 2)
The Tribe (Book 3)
The Hidden (Book 4)
The Coast (Book 5)
The Storm (Book 6)
The Wicked (Book 7)
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About the Author
Matt Rogers grew up in Melbourne, Australia as a voracious reader, relentlessly devouring thrillers and mysteries in his spare time. Now, he writes full-time. His novels are action-packed and fast-paced. Dive into the Jason King Series to get started with his collection.
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www.mattrogersbooks.com
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