by Matt Rogers
‘Where is he?’ Rex demanded.
‘Conversation is over. I appreciate your input, but—’
‘Don’t get high and mighty with me, Lars. You were beneath me a month ago — we both know that. Think of all the favours I’ve leant you. Think of everything I’ve done for you.’
‘I never for a second said that I didn’t appreciate—’
Rex held up a palm, fingers closed, demanding silence. Lars cut off mid-sentence, then subconsciously scolded himself for such a foolish gesture. It showed, albeit subliminally, that Rex could still get what he wanted. Just because Lars ran the division, it didn’t change the underlying power dynamic enough to satisfy him.
‘I understand your strengths,’ Rex said. ‘And I’m not protesting your new position. In fact I think it suits you perfectly. All I’m asking for is a favour.’
‘A favour that will get me in serious shit.’
‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
‘It doesn’t work like that. This isn’t the front lines. This is Washington.’
‘Same thing, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. Why do you even want to go?’
‘I’ve read every file and report and summary of both Mexico and Somalia. This guy is special, and you know it.’
‘Of course I know it. That’s why he’s in the…’
Now it was Lars’ turn to cut himself off. Once again, he cursed his idiocy. He’d almost let it slip.
‘The what?’ Rex said.
Then his eyes lit up, and realisation spread across his face, and Lars spotted the reckless glint in Rex’s pupil that could spell nothing but disaster.
‘He’s in the Congo, isn’t he?’ Rex said. ‘You’ve got him holed up with Brody Hartman while you work on the details of this new program.’
Lars opened his mouth to deny everything, but he couldn’t hide the subtlest facial tics to indicate his surprise at Rex’s accuracy.
Now, Rex’s face truly lit up like a Christmas tree.
‘I’ve been to the Congo. I’m a big boy. I can handle that.’
‘I told you no twenty minutes ago.’
‘And I refused what you told me.’
‘Just wait until he gets back. What’s the rush?’
‘I want to meet him.’
‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’
‘I mean — I understand why. But why now?’
Rex sat back in his chair and clasped his giant hands together behind his head, resting against a skull that had taken hundreds — if not thousands — of knocks in service of his country. ‘I’ve lived my entire life making spur-of-the-moment decisions. Trusting my gut. Listening to my intuition. It’s got me this far. Now my gut is telling me to meet this man as soon as I possibly can. I’ve got a feeling he’s special, and I think — considering everything I’ve done for you and our government — I’ve earned the ability to follow my gut if it won’t harm anyone.’
‘You get yourself killed over there and it’s a PR nightmare,’ Lars said. ‘You know that better than anyone.’
‘Then I’ll have to be careful.’
‘You’re not going.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘This is madness,’ Lars spat. ‘I have more important things to worry about, Rex. Wait until he gets back, for God’s sake.’
‘How long will he be over there?’
Lars paused, nervously shifting in his chair. ‘That’s up to Brody.’
‘If I’ve learnt anything in service of my country, it’s to never leave goddamn anything up to Brody. That man’s a psycho.’
‘He’s also a genius. Tactically speaking.’
‘Which is why you sent King over there.’
‘Exactly.’
‘What if King gets himself killed in the Congo?’
‘It’ll be a horrifying loss. But not a PR nightmare. The upper echelon tend to favour whatever the public cares about. You’re a public figure, Rex, whether you like it or not.’
‘So send me over discreetly.’
‘You’re asking a lot.’
‘I don’t think I am.’
‘You want me to be honest with you?’ Lars said.
‘Always.’
‘You might not like it.’
‘You think I’ve got through my entire career up to this point by only listening to things I like?’
‘Okay — I warned you. I’m not entirely convinced King didn’t get insanely lucky twice.’
‘What about everything before this? What about Ramadi? Isn’t that why you offered him a spot in Black Force? Isn’t that why you started Black Force? How many other operatives have you got?’
‘We’re working on things…’
‘How many?’
‘None yet. None that fit the bill. We’ve done a couple of preliminary screenings, but nothing conclusive…’
‘Except Jason King.’
‘Yeah.’
‘In fact, you’ve deployed him twice, and twice he’s made more progress than an entire SEAL team would have.’
Lars paused. He didn’t take that statement lightly — much of Rex Bernardi’s esteemed military career had unfolded in the service of the Navy SEALs. He wasn’t one to mince words. He truly considered King a prodigy.
For the first time in a while, Lars sighed, bowed his head…
…and relented.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Pay him a visit, if you really think it’s that important.’
‘It’s a matter of principle,’ Rex said.
This time Lars was the one to hold up a hand. ‘I get it. I’ve got it all along. I just don’t approve. It gives me one more thing to stress about.’
‘If you’re already juggling a thousand problems,’ Rex said with a sly grin, ‘what’s the harm in making it a thousand and one?’
9
Surprisingly, King passed through Sake without incident.
The sprawling town rested at a junction, complete with staggering scenery the likes of which he’d never seen before. Sake was positioned at the northernmost tip of Lake Kivu, a giant body of water that stretched across the Rwandan border. He lost sight of the sweeping blue as it disappeared into the horizon, melting into nothingness even from King’s vantage point atop a raised hillock near Sake’s outer limits.
He coasted the open-topped jeep to a halt at the precipice of the rise, taking a moment to admire the view. To the left he glimpsed the giant hulking mass of Mount Nyiragongo, the stratovolcano Lars had spoken of. Between Sake and the towering natural behemoth lay smoking fields, uninhabitable and littered with equal patches of forest and dead land.
Brody’s compound rested closer to the Rwandan border, positioned along one edge of the giant Lake Kivu. Lars had instructed King to follow the GPS to its final destination and then carry on a little further, looking out for a bustling mining operation on the horizon.
Copper.
Diamonds.
Cobalt.
Coltan.
Casserite.
They could be mining anything. The Congo was rich in natural resources and open for exploitation by giant conglomerates. King had enquired about the exact nature of the mining setup, but Lars had cut him off almost immediately.
Not your problem, Lars had said. You can’t solve corruption in the Congo. You’re there to train. Keep your head down.
He’d already got off to a swimming start, nearly picking a fight with four Congolese soldiers and choking a civilian unconscious to protect a battered woman.
You’re lucky to be alive, King told himself.
He carried on, moving through Sake and drawing all manner of stares from a sea of impoverished civilians ghosting between ramshackle huts and humble abodes. The jeep’s tyres ate up the dirt, churning through the narrow trails. At any point King expected to be stopped by a convoy of militants, or jumped by Congolese rebels, or shot at by armed bandits.
But nothing happened.
It was as if Lars had warned the entire country that
he’d be coming, and to leave him alone.
Or, for the first time in his life, he’d simply managed to naturally avoid trouble.
It didn’t last long.
Sake melted away after a few minutes of steady travel, and King found himself back in lawless plains, choked by thick slabs of jungle before bursting out into vast open fields bordering Lake Kivu. In any other section of the globe, he would take a chance to stop and admire the view.
But not out here.
Every second he spent outside the walls of Brody’s compound felt like another opportunity to receive a bullet for his troubles.
Instinctively, his hand twitched for the MEU pistol on the passenger seat. He glanced down at it, staring for a couple of seconds, his gaze lingering on the toxic lure of the weapon. He wanted it resting on his lap, the touch of the steel reassuring in case of an ambush. Then he shrugged off the thought — he was almost there, after all.
When he lifted his eyes back to the road, he spotted the roadblock stretching across the narrow lakeside trail.
You inexperienced idiot, he thought to himself.
It didn’t take long to realise contact would have been inevitable either way. Even if he’d seen the array of vehicles a few moments earlier, when they’d first appeared amidst the rolling hillocks, there was nowhere to go regardless. To the left the trail sloped up into fields of thick weeds — King had no chance at traversing that terrain. To his right the land sloped down to the banks of Lake Kivu, the ground clogged with mud.
Similar result that way.
The only way was forward.
The men manning the roadblock knew that.
King spotted four shapes milling around the vehicles — all souped-up pick-up trucks that shone under the glare of the Congolese sunshine. Each truck was packed with modifications, all of them elevated and fitted with state-of-the-art suspension systems and fat off-road tyres. They looked like they cost a hundred grand a piece — an incredibly odd sight in this corner of the globe.
King didn’t know what he was dealing with, but he approached with confidence all the same.
There was little other option.
He kept his chin held high, stretching his shoulders as broad as they would go and puffing his chest up with bravado. It wasn’t false confidence — by this point he had enough experience under his belt in uncomfortable situations to feel ready for any encounter. Besides, he was close enough to Brody’s location for the man to know who lived in these parts. There couldn’t be many permanent residents, and a man of Brody’s reputation would no doubt have vetted his neighbours, even in the depths of the Congo.
So King approached the unknown force at a steady pace, slowing the jeep enough to leave a respectable distance between the two parties. He got out and squelched through the damp muck, his boots sinking a couple of inches into the trail with each stride. The pick-up trucks were arranged in a tight wall across the trail, blocking King from moving through even if he’d wanted to. The four men met at the head of the blockade, standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder, facing off with King across the trail like some kind of twisted modern Western film.
They were all white, with pale unblemished skin and piercing gazes that signified some kind of combat experience. Their heads had been buzzed clean and they each had a fearsome-looking sidearm resting in holsters at their waists. None of them had made a move to draw their weapons. They simply scrutinised King, uniformly silent.
He’d left his own pistol in the jeep.
There was nothing he could do against four well-trained combatants from this distance — bringing the gun with him would only serve to heighten the tension that already drenched the warm afternoon air. They had strategically set up shop in the most disadvantageous position possible — King had been bottlenecked and manipulated into approaching. If they wanted to kill him right here and throw his body into the lake, he would be helpless to stop it.
With that thought, a bead of sweat broke out at the corner of his forehead.
‘Boys,’ he said, offering a nod that could only be shared between men who had seen active combat. It was a hard thing to describe — more like a visceral, subliminal awareness — but the hardness in the four men’s eyes, along with their guns and trucks and combat gear, meant only one thing.
They were in the hurt business.
‘Who are you?’ one of the men said, his South African accent thick.
He was the tallest of the lot, and seemingly the heaviest, with a powerful build that rippled with athleticism and raw strength. King could sense the toughness of the man — not the soft-at-the-edges power that came with recreational weight lifting but the kind of unbridled crackling energy that laced a man who had used his power to hurt people.
Most likely with his bare hands.
King didn’t know exactly what it was, but he’d pinpointed the same sensation in Mexico and Somalia. Only now was he starting to gain the subconscious ability to recognise it.
The guy had a firm jawline and thin lips resting below a nose that didn’t quite sit right. It had been broken before, and set badly during the recovery process. His eyes were beady and piercing.
‘Could ask you the same question,’ King said.
‘We don’t have to explain ourselves.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘Yes you do.’
‘This your territory?’
‘Sure is.’
‘You own the land?’
‘Basically.’
‘Basically doesn’t mean yes.’
‘We work for the people who own half this country.’
‘And they are?’
The man with the piercing eyes said nothing. ‘Got some nerve on you, kid.’
‘You heard of an American named Brody?’
‘No.’
‘I’m here to see him.’
‘Sounds like some bullshit you just made up.’
‘I can take you to visit him if you’d like.’
‘I’d like you to get back in your truck and fuck off the other way, mate.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You ain’t gotta choice.’
‘I’m here to visit Brody.’
‘You fuckin’ said that. Doesn’t change a thing.’
‘So you do know him.’
The guy cocked his head. ‘Did I say that? Still sounds like bullshit.’
‘We’re going round in circles here.’
‘You’re gonna go round a fuckin’ circle in a minute. Actually, more like a half-circle. Then you’re gonna drive back up that trail and never go digging where you shouldn’t be again.’
‘I’m just here to see a friend,’ King said. ‘I’ve told you that. I don’t want this to escalate.’
‘Awfully convenient that your mate Brody lives so close to us.’
‘I don’t get to choose where he lives.’
‘You can’t be that close if he lives all the way out here.’
‘We’re not close.’
‘You said he was your friend.’
‘He will be.’
‘You’re a fuckin’ oddball, mate. Americans…’
One of the silent trio — King noted that the situation oddly mirrored the encounter with the four Congolese soldiers at the airfield — stepped closer to the apparent leader of the group and muttered something. King thought it sounded something like, ‘The crazy guy with the ponytail.’
The leader’s eyes lit up at the phrase.
‘Your mate Brody,’ he said to King. ‘He got a ponytail? American guy with a ponytail?’
Sounds like my guy, King thought.
‘Sure does,’ he confirmed, even though he had no idea. ‘So you do know him?’
‘Seen him about. He keeps to himself. You really weren’t bullshitting?’
‘I don’t bullshit.’
‘What did you say your name was?’
‘I didn’t. But it’s Jason King.’
‘Wyatt,’ the man with the piercing eyes said.
‘Got a last name?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
Some of the tension had dissipated — King wondered if the four men had a reason to be truly cautious of outsiders. ‘You guys thought I was here to fight you or something?’
‘You fought before? Military?’
‘Few years,’ King said. ‘Been through some shit, though.’
Wyatt nodded understandingly. ‘Same here, brother.’
‘You out here for contract work?’ King guessed. ‘Mines?’
Wyatt nodded. ‘Security. The big corps need it. And they pay well.’
‘You thought I was here to steal minerals?’
‘You’d be surprised. No-one comes out here unless there’s a damn good reason … and there’s not many reasons in the first place.’
‘Like I said, just visiting a friend. I won’t go near your complex.’
‘If you do, we have orders to shoot on sight.’
King had been in the process of turning back toward his jeep, sensing the conversation reaching its inevitable conclusion, but he paused mid-pivot. ‘You’re allowed to do that?’
‘It’s the Congo, mate,’ Wyatt said. ‘Could shoot up a whole goddamn village and no-one would bat an eyelid.’
Something in the man’s tone dripped with sinister intention. King’s stomach turned at the odd statement — some kind of animal instinct told him Wyatt was speaking from experience. The piercing eyes turned dark for the briefest of moments, and Wyatt flashed a grin of bright white teeth.
King said nothing.
You can’t save everyone.
The same voice.
He got back in his jeep, waited silently for two of the mercenaries to fire up their massive trucks and back them out of the barricade, and eased his way through the procession, staring straight ahead. He sensed Wyatt’s eyes boring into him on the way past, but he refused to meet the man’s gaze.
Something deep inside him told him he might react violently if he caught another glimpse of the smug expression.
He might just reach for the MEU on the passenger’s seat and start a war.
‘Enjoy your stay, mate,’ Wyatt called, barely audible over the chugging motor. ‘Hope the Congo treats you well.’