by Matt Rogers
‘Time,’ Brody said. ‘Reflexes now.’
By this point, King had the system memorised to a tee. He wiped sweat off his brow and moved to a state-of-the-art punching bag Brody had erected in the back corner of the combat area. It stood eight feet tall, hovering only a few inches above the ground, suspended from the ceiling by the same thick chains adorning all the other equipment. This bag, however, was covered in smooth circular patches that glowed on command. The entire setup was connected to a nearby laptop, with a single hardwire cable trailing from the bottom of the bag to the computer.
Brody hovered over the laptop and started a program that had become second nature to King.
‘You’re getting the hang of this far too quickly,’ he said. ‘I’m ramping up the speed.’
‘The last one challenged me.’
‘But you held a ninety-percent hit rate. Try this.’
Immediately, patches began to light up, one at a time, changing every half-second at a blindingly fast rate. King burst into motion, sizing up the distance between each glowing pad and selecting whether to strike with a punch, elbow, kick, or knee. He hammered shots home, one after the other, detonating knuckles and shins and elbows off the heavy bag with a speed akin to semi-automatic gunfire.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Bang.
Crack. Bang. Crack.
For nearly two hundred seconds the pads lit up like a Christmas tree, and by the time a harsh electronic buzzer cut through the warehouse to signify the round had come to its conclusion, the lactic acid had built up so severely in King’s shoulders and hip flexors that he found himself collapsing to the mats, soaked in sweat and horrendously fatigued.
For a few seconds he remained that way, sucking in air like his life depended on it, recharging his muscles with oxygen. The ceiling wavered before his eyes as he stared up at it — he’d reached the physical limit of what a human being was capable of, even one in such impeccable physical condition like himself.
Suddenly Brody appeared over him, filling his vision, staring incredulously down.
‘What?’ King said.
‘You threw close to five hundred strikes in three minutes. How do you feel?’
‘Like absolute shit.’
‘Eighty-eight percent success rate. I’ve never seen anything like it. Your reflexes … Jesus Christ.’
‘I thought you were the one,’ King said, then sucked in a gulp of air before continuing, ‘who told me not to get a big head.’
Brody shook his head, moving away, unable to mask his astonishment. ‘It’s been nine days and you’re already making unprecedented leaps. Lars was right.’
‘Thought he said there’d been countless solo operatives like me before?’
‘Not like you.’
‘Yeah, well, all this combat training doesn’t stop a bullet.’
‘How’s your shooting?’
‘Excellent, I’m told.’
‘I don’t know how you have the uncanny ability to find yourself in hand-to-hand combat at every available turn, but it seems to be your only weakness. Getting beaten half to death every operation. If you clean that up…’
‘And I come out of operations unscathed?’
‘The sky’s the limit.’
‘So how long am I here for? Lars never told me.’
‘Because he didn’t know. And neither did I. I wanted time to assess where you were at…’
‘And?’
‘I want you for another month.’
‘Another month?!’ King said. ‘I want to get back out there.’
‘I know you do. You’re young and brash and think you’re running out of time. Relax. You have years ahead of you. Decades, if your health holds up. I know you feel unstoppable … and that’s the most intoxicating feeling on earth. But rein it in.’
‘It’s hard when you won’t stop heaping praise on me. I can’t help but feel like I could do some good.’
‘You can. But when I let you out of here, I’ll be returning to my old life, and I’ll be refusing any more approaches from the U.S. military. This is it. I want to show you everything I know before you go out in the world.’
‘How will you know?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘How will you know about my successes? What if I die on the next operation? Will anyone tell you?’
‘No — and I wouldn’t expect them to. All I can do is hope you use what I’m showing you to the best of your ability.’
‘I can do that.’
‘Then that suits me just fine.’
‘What’s on for the rest of the day?’
Brody smirked. ‘Got a surprise for you. They should be here any moment now. Catch your breath. You’ll need it.’
As if on cue, the low rumble of an engine drifted in through the open warehouse doors. Brody stepped out, leaving King alone to suck in the humid air, composing himself before the arrival of the newcomers.
Who? he thought.
Brody returned minutes later with five Congolese men, all bare-chested and packed with muscle. Their feet were dirty from trekking across the compound barefoot — King guessed they’d arrived in some kind of pick-up truck and left it at the gate. His open-topped jeep still rested idly outside the walls of Brody’s compound. He hadn’t left the place in nine full days.
The men all sported buzzcuts and wore open-legged Muay Thai shorts. King noted the mottled skin along their shinbones and realised they had conditioned their kicks over many years, much like he had when he’d first started training in martial arts.
They were fighters.
‘Bunch of athletes from a gym in Kisangani,’ Brody explained. ‘All wrecking shop across the amateur scene. Hoping to make it pro. They’re hungry. They want to prove themselves. Thought I’d bring them over for some conditioning drills. Live sparring. That sort of thing. What do you think?’
King knew it didn’t matter what he thought. They were going to try and beat the shit out of him regardless, and he had to rise to the challenge. He got to his feet and shook each man’s hand wordlessly, exchanging subtle nods with them one by one.
Brody watched the muted greetings unfold with reserved silence, noting the language barrier.
‘I’m thinking a five-minute round with each of them. Fresh body each round. One minute rest. That’ll test your conditioning, hey?’
King simply shot him a dark look. He tightened the straps around his wrists, securing his gloves. ‘Alright — where? Let’s not waste time.’
20
Night fell on the tenth day of King’s stint in the Congo, and despite the airborne avalanche of insects that descended on the front patio of the lodge-style house, he refused to move.
His muscles ached like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Not just that — the sparring and conditioning drills had sapped every scrap of energy from his bones. The lethargy threatened to consume him, his entire system moaning for relief.
This is what overtraining feels like, he realised.
Brody was somewhere inside, tucking into a pre-packaged meal delivered weekly by an unknown courier. King hadn’t bothered learning the details of how Brody managed to exist so far from civilisation, but he imagined with an unlimited budget, certain arrangements could be made for routine deliveries. Groceries and supplies and all kinds of amenities. Everything had a price.
But it would no doubt be an exorbitant price, given the danger the trip out here carried.
King found himself alone on the deck, surrounded by an absence of artificial light, soaking in the cries of wildlife and distant rumble of Mount Nyiragongo that echoed across the compound. He found it oddly serene, and a certain contentedness washed over him. Extreme physical exertion was hell in the moment, but the drain it left on one’s soul in the aftermath was a strange kind of antidepressant.
At least, for King.
The release of endorphins.
Something like that.
He smiled for the first time in a long time.
In the duffel bag by his rocking chair, the satellite phone shrilled.
Brody had handed it to him a couple of days into the training camp, explaining that Lars would want to get in contact at some point. For updates, and that sort of thing. King had hesitated initially — a certain peaceful detachment came with not having a point of contact on his person. For the first two days, if anyone wanted to reach him, it would have had to go through Brody.
Now, a pit formed in his stomach as he reached down and foraged through his meagre possessions.
He found the phone, stabbed one of the buttons, and lifted it to his ear.
‘Haven’t heard from you in a while,’ Lars said. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘Better than I expected.’
‘Yeah, well…’ Lars said, in a way that could only indicate forthcoming bad news. ‘You’re going to have to take a quick detour. There’s a military official on his way to the Congo in a few days time. He’s awfully keen to meet you.’
‘To meet me? Who is he?’
‘Rex Bernardi.’
‘Should I be worried?’
‘Not at all. He’s an ex-SEAL. One of those no-nonsense sons-of-bitches who goes out and gets whatever he sets his mind to. In this case, it’s meeting you.’
‘Where?’
‘Kisangani. It’s the capital — I felt it was the safest place to find a hotel and keep his head down.’
‘Why? Is he well-known?’
‘Not anymore. He’s transitioned from public office to the secret world we live in. He’s handling it pretty well. But if he were to piss off a few rebels and wind up with his head on the chopping block, there’d be hell to pay.’
‘For who?’
‘For me. I’m granting him approval to head over.’
‘Why is he so desperate to meet me?’
A pause.’
‘Lars…’
‘He thinks you’re some kind of prodigy. Once-in-a-lifetime.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think your lifetime won’t run very long if you keep up your current rate.’
‘Brody thinks I’m making serious progress.’
‘I’m glad. I hope you know it won’t be an instant shift, though. If you get battered on a future assignment … don’t take it too hard.’
‘I’ll be okay. I might wind up dead on my next assignment. Then you’ll feel pretty stupid, won’t you? All this effort…’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time. Sunk costs. We’ll cope.’
King didn’t quite know how to respond to that. Lars omitted a sharp laugh to signify light-heartedness, but King wasn’t so sure. There’d been weight behind the words.
‘Does Brody know about this?’ King said.
‘I’ll tell him. He’ll manage.’
‘I don’t think he wants to leave the compound. You know anything about that?’
Lars dismissed it with an, ‘I’ll talk to him’, meaning he didn’t know anything about it.
‘No, you’re not understanding me. He won’t leave.’
‘You sure?’
‘He’s talked to me about it.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Yes.’
Lars got the message he wasn’t going to be kept in the loop, and abandoned that route of conversation. ‘Any news on how long you’ll be there?’
‘He wants me for another month. Shouldn’t you be talking to him about this stuff?’
‘He’s proving difficult to communicate with.’
‘Has this always been a problem?’
‘Pretty much. I thought he’d ease up after he met you.’
‘He has. To me, at least. He doesn’t trust you lot.’
‘Why?’
‘You’re clearly as new as I am in this game, Lars. Some things Brody wants to keep to himself. I’m not about to share them.’
‘Fair enough. Best of luck.’
Without any further enquiries Lars ended the call — King heard the satellite phone go dead in his hand. He dropped it back into the open duffel and sat still, thinking, ruminating. The news about Kisangani and Rex Bernardi had blindsided him, but ultimately it was no big deal. He hadn’t expected to leave the compound any time in the foreseeable future, and the revelation that he’d be departing in a couple of days set something stirring in his gut.
He couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly what it was.
Then, in the calm of the Congolese night, he realised.
Movement.
Motion.
It had become part of who he was. Ever since he’d stepped foot in the recruiting office four long years ago he’d committed himself to a life of non-stop momentum, whether that had been his intention or not. Deep down he’d always suspected his combination of athleticism and level-headedness would lend itself well to the military structure, but he’d never been ready for the rate at which he’d accelerated up through the ranks.
And here he was, holed up in this place, confined to the boundaries of a small field.
It didn’t feel right.
Especially after Somalia.
He knew the lure of surviving an impossible situation couldn’t be anything but toxic. He’d torn through a party of bent ex-spec ops soldiers aboard a cargo ship on his second operation ever. Being sidelined in this place for too long would send him haywire.
But who could he tell without seeming like a cocky bastard?
He needed to get out. He needed to do something.
Anything.
Maybe the trip to Kisangani would provide a relief. But that was days away. And in all likelihood Brody would shepherd him to the capital city, watching over him like the mentor he was.
No, King needed space, right now.
His mind turned to the tale of the woman Brody had met. He pictured her mowed down in the street, along with dozens of villagers. No consequences, no blame, no guilt. Just another massacre swept under the rug, added to the ever-growing list of similar incidents across the Congo. He thought of Wyatt and his three friends and their smug expressions.
Could shoot up a whole goddamn village and no-one would bat an eyelid.
Brody had spoken of the mining operation rolling in weeks later. King had no doubt about the guilty party. It wouldn’t have been clearer if it was spelled in the sky.
Before he could reflect long and hard on what he was doing, he fished in the duffel bag for the MEU pistol and shoved it into his waistband. He rocketed out of the chair and leapt down into the weeds and choking grass, enveloped by the night in the blink of an eye.
He needed a drive. He needed space to breathe, to think.
It wasn’t his fault if he ran into Wyatt on his short dip out of the compound. Or any of the other South African mercenaries, or anyone at all who could reveal crucial details when put under pressure.
Somewhere deep down inside him, a muffled voice whispered that perhaps his youth and his hot-headedness and his sensitive temperament had consumed his critical thinking, instead of coming to a rational conclusion.
But he ignored that voice.
He’d become consumed by the image of Wyatt standing in front of his massive Ford Raptor, no doubt bought with blood money.
He never should have let the man go the first time they’d met.
He crossed to the perimeter gate and yanked one of the chain-link sheets along the dust, kicking up a plume as it whined on its hinges. Wincing, he glanced back at the house, now nothing but a beacon of dull artificial light amidst a pitch black backdrop.
The lack of human activity had never been more noticeable.
The open-topped jeep rested where he’d left it. He could barely see it in the darkness — there were no floodlights out here, not even a flickering street light. The imperceptible tinge of the hous
e’s porch light illuminated the vehicle ever so softly, sitting in the churned dirt, alone in the night.
King clambered into the driver’s seat, the rational part of his brain demanding a re-consideration of his actions but his impulses drowning out any protests.
He felt for the key in the ignition.
It wasn’t there.
‘You think I’m a good judge of character?’ a low voice said over his shoulder.
There was someone sitting in the back seat.
21
‘How did you know?’ King said.
He and Brody stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, King resting both palms on the cool surface to ride out the shock he’d received moments earlier. He hadn’t even seen the man leave the house — Brody had moved like a ghost through the night, taking up position in the jeep before King had even made his decision.
Brody shrugged. ‘I was like you once. Young and dumb. I figured you’d get the idea.’
‘You figured right.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Physically?’
‘Yeah.’
‘About the same. Overworked, lethargic, tired as hell.’
‘And you thought you could go shoot up a mine, did you?’
‘You don’t know what I was doing.’
‘Going for a nighttime drive?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Spare me. We both know you’re not supposed to leave.’
‘I’m a big boy. I can make my own choices.’
‘And where would that choice have taken you? To the mine?’
‘Maybe.’
‘What would you have done?’
‘Asked around about an incident that happened three years ago.’
Brody moved like lightning. One moment he hovered on the other side of the countertop, his demeanour lackadaisical — the next, he’d darted around to King’s side and bundled him into the nearest wall, gouging a dent in the plasterboard. King pawed at the hand clamped around his throat but even his unbelievable strength was useless against true rage. The veins in Brody’s forearms rippled, and he bared his teeth in anger. The lethargy didn’t help — King’s limbs felt like deadweight.