Savages: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 3)

by Matt Rogers

  He stopped resisting after only a few seconds of struggle.

  ‘Drop the tough guy bullshit,’ Brody hissed. ‘You know nothing about what happened. I told you the barebones story without any of the emotion or decision-making behind it. What do you think gives you the right to go fight my battles for me?’

  ‘Y-you know who did it,’ King said, wheezing, his cheeks turning red. ‘Deny it all you want. You know.’

  Brody quietly looped a foot around the back of King’s knee, the action unnoticeable amidst the confrontation. By the time King recognised the disadvantageous position Brody pushed him sideways, yanking one of his legs into the air at the same time. King sprawled to the floor, smashing the back of his head against the lower half of the kitchen island. He stayed on his rear, panting, fearing that Brody might throw a true strike if he hurried back to his feet.

  He’d triggered something.

  Brody crossed the room, venom in his eyes, and planted himself on a rickety wooden chair resting against the far wall. He stewed in silence, eyes locked on the faded carpet underneath.

  ‘Of course I fucking know who did it,’ he finally said. ‘But what do you expect me to do about it?’

  ‘I know what I’d do,’ King said.

  ‘Because you’re a twenty-two year old child. What do you think will happen if I kill the South Africans? I’m the only person living around here for miles — at least, the only one with those capabilities. The executives will know who did it. They’ll hire more. And more. And it won’t stop. I’ll go down doing the exact thing I swore off when I left the military.’

  ‘You could start again. Somewhere else. Somewhere other than the Congo.’

  ‘I chose this place. I’m sticking to it.’

  ‘But Samantha…’

  ‘If I avenge her, and I leave it at that, then I’m inadvertently saying that no-one else in the Congo is as important. I’d be letting them die, even though I’ve already got back in the game — no matter how briefly. No. I won’t dip a pinky back in. I won’t lay a hand on anyone in this country. No matter what. Or I’m back to the old me, and that’s a downward spiral I don’t want to take part in.’

  King nodded, still planted on his rear. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have tried to leave. I won’t try and pull the rug over your eyes — you know where I was going. And what I planned to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s not personal — I’m not blind to that. You’re trying to satiate your own appetite. Bet Mexico and Somalia gave you a hard-on for vengeance, hey?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘As I was leaving … I heard you got a call?’

  ‘Has Lars spoken to you recently?’

  ‘Not in the last couple of days.’

  ‘I need to go to Kisangani. A few days from now. Inconvenient trip.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Some ex-military official wants to meet me. Thinks I’m God’s gift to the Special Forces.’

  ‘You’re not Special Forces. You’re off the books.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘And he’s coming here?’ Brody said incredulously.

  ‘I don’t exactly know enough about it to comment.’

  ‘Sounds like a ridiculous idea.’

  ‘I agree. But it’s happening.’

  ‘How do I get in contact with Lars? Everything’s been one-way so far.’

  King shrugged. ‘I’m only twenty-two. As you said. Hell if I know.’

  Brody narrowed his eyes. ‘You going to play the victim from now on?’

  ‘I’ll try my best not to,’ King said with a wink.

  ‘What else did he tell you? About the visit? Is it just a cordial greeting?’

  ‘Sounds like it. But that wouldn’t make much sense, to come all the way out from the Congo for a simple hello.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Brody said. ‘You’re not famous, but your first two operations might be the stuff of legend in the secret world. I don’t know how these things work anymore. I’m out of the game.’

  ‘Lars didn’t share much,’ King said upon reflection. ‘Maybe he’s saving the finer details for you.’

  ‘Did it seem that way?’

  ‘He was reserved. Like he thought I was too drained to bother listening. He’s leaving me out of the loop.’

  ‘You probably sounded drained.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But you’re not, are you?’

  King looked at him. ‘Physically? I’m destroyed.’

  ‘Mentally. You’re firing. Lars might think you’re consumed by the physical exertion, but there must be something left in the tank if you were set on taking a trip to the mine tonight.’

  ‘I figured I’d find the reserves. Adrenalin works wonders.’

  ‘You would have got yourself killed. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  ‘Where did you say this meeting is taking place? Kisangani?’

  ‘Yeah. You know it?’

  ‘Of course I know it,’ Brody said, and for a moment his eyes glazed over. ‘A few days from now?’

  ‘Yeah. How far is it?’

  ‘It’s a twelve hour drive.’

  ‘You think you’ll accompany me?’

  ‘I think I’ll be expected to. But I have something in mind.’

  King’s ears pricked up. ‘And that would be?’

  ‘How about we go a day early?’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘You’re restless. I can see it. You’re surrounded by injustice and you don’t know what to do with yourself. Thousands of people dying in this country every single day — how can you possibly sit back and do nothing? That’s why you were leaving tonight. Mexico and Somalia conditioned you to respond with brute force. Am I right?’

  ‘I guess,’ King relented.

  ‘How about we get you a cage fight?’

  King froze. ‘What?’

  ‘In Kisangani. There’s an amateur MMA scene. It’s rudimentary and unstructured, but it’s there. No-one pays it much attention. But it’s an entire subculture, resting just underneath the surface of the city. Young men with nothing else to do but train their entire lives and take out their frustrations within the boundaries of a controlled sport.’

  ‘You’re talking like a man who knows this with certainty.’

  ‘I was a different person two years ago, King. Before the village massacre. Before all the craziness. I’d travel up and down the Congo, trying to convince myself I was simply wandering… but the truth was pretty obvious. I hadn’t transitioned yet. I was looking for trouble, as we all do. As you were doing. If you weren’t conditioned to look for trouble you never would have accepted your first promotion to the Special Forces.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I ventured all the way to Kisangani. Third largest city in the Congo. I burrowed into the underworld, trying to find guilty parties. I gambled and I drank and I satisfied my vices. I beat bad people up. I helped good people. And I found a community in Kisangani that welcomed me with open arms. I even trained a few fighters, for free. Sometimes they’d give me food and drink. Quid pro quo. But not often.’

  ‘Think they’ll still know you? After two years?’

  ‘Someone will recognise me. I can get you a fight, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘Lars will kill me.’

  ‘He doesn’t have to know.’

  ‘Brody, what you’re saying…’

  ‘I know. Stupid, isn’t it? But you’re young and stupid. And I’m old and stupid. It’s a dangerous combination.’

  ‘What if I get knocked out? These guys are training under a specific ruleset. It’s fighting. Anything can happen.’

  ‘Then we chalk it up as a disastrous incident in the training camp and blame your black eyes on a training-induced injury. It’s not hard. You’re fighting here every day.’

  ‘But everything’s controlled here.’

  ‘Exactly. That’s why you need this. You can be as reckle
ss as you want, but there’s no danger. You want that shot to the veins. That pure cortisol. That’s why you were headed to the mines, wasn’t it? You’re addicted. From Mexico. From Somalia. You want a real test.’

  King said nothing, but the silence said everything.

  Brody had nailed it.

  ‘I need confirmation from you,’ Brody said. ‘Before we go through with this. It’ll mellow you out, and I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy the thrill of it. But no-one can ever know. Not your superiors. Not Lars. Imagine the backlash if it came to light that an elite government operative is getting involved in the amateur Congolese cage fighting scene.’

  King nodded. ‘I understand. I’m in.’

  Brody smiled. ‘You can get off the floor now. I’m not going to throw you around.’

  The conversation had seized King’s attention so completely that he forgot he was still lying on the cool kitchen tiles. He picked himself up and crossed over to the faded carpet, shaking Brody’s outstretched hand in a gesture of mutual agreement.

  ‘To secrets,’ Brody said.

  ‘To secrets.’

  22

  Wyatt had been officially in the employ of Barnes & Cooper Resources for the better part of four years now, long enough to seize a coherent grasp on the reality of mining in the Congo.

  He was under no illusions regarding his employers’ wrath — the mining sector was just as ruthless as the civil war raging all around it. He’d seen with his own eyes the staggering amount of natural resources under the ground, lying unprotected, there for the taking. Barnes & Cooper’s ruthless pursuit of profits attracted all kinds of undesirables, from organised militias to opportunity-sensing bandits.

  He and his men had successfully protected their executive overlords from harm for a number of years now, forming enough of a consistent track record to receive substantial bonuses and pay rises.

  It had given him a life he never thought he’d have, even if it took place in a third world war zone.

  Which was why the trip to head office troubled him so much today.

  He strode across the gravel lot, heading for the eight-storey building resting on what amounted to an industrial zone in front of the mines themselves. The giant gashes in the earth were fenced off from the rest of the complex, draped in a web of complicated machinery. Enormous cranes arced hundreds of feet into the sky, and the ominous rumble of ultra-class haul trucks sounded from deep below the earth’s surface.

  Wyatt didn’t concern himself with the day to day operations.

  His business involved ensuring the operations were carried out uninterrupted, tearing precious minerals out of the ground and transporting them under cover of darkness to a private airfield for export. Wyatt had lost count of the number of rules and regulations he’d seen the corporation break.

  But he’d never got rich by following rules, and he wasn’t about to start.

  With a lump in his throat he stepped into a makeshift office building with an unimpressive exterior, blending into its surroundings in deliberate fashion. He took a final glance back at his brand new Ford Raptor through the open doorway before stepping into the air-conditioned comfort of a small reception area.

  Think about what they’ve given you, Wyatt told himself.

  Don’t overreact.

  In all aspects of his life he was a hard man, but that exterior often wilted whenever he stepped into this bleak, soulless corporate world. Here in artificial luxury his ability to dish out punishment and protect a perimeter was useless. Everyone he met in this building controlled his pay slips. They had all the power over him — something he’d yet to grow accustomed to.

  Carol, the same smiling receptionist who had been in the Congo for five months now, greeted him with a fake smile. ‘Morning, Wyatt. How’s your day been?’

  He cast her a dark look, with dead eyes. His insides were chewing themselves up. He’d come to learn that a visit to head office was never good news. ‘They expecting me?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, her red lipstick glowing under the harsh white lighting. ‘Go right on in. Enjoy!’

  He shuffled straight past the reception desk and barged his way into a concrete stairwell, opting to stretch his legs instead of taking the elevator. Movement calmed him, and he took the opportunity to let out a few short, sharp breaths.

  He wasn’t sure why he was so nervous.

  Maybe because of the repayments he owed on his car, and the mortgage on the three bedroom townhouse he’d purchased back in Cape Town.

  If he lost this cash flow, his life was effectively over.

  He moved down a carpeted hallway, recognising how out of place he looked amidst the executive drudgery. He glanced down at his calloused, tanned hands and noted the speck of blood still stained across one of his knuckles where he’d caught a droplet off the battered man’s forehead back in Kisangani. He wiped it half-heartedly against his utility belt and pushed straight through into a sweeping boardroom, the main feature of the office building.

  Eight men sat in leather swivel chairs, each in various states of undress. Not in any kind of depraved sense, but clearly even the air-conditioned luxury had been too much for them. Shirts were open at the collar and jackets had been thrown across the table in dramatic fashion, even though they couldn’t have been waiting long.

  ‘You’re four minutes late,’ the oldest man in the room growled.

  ‘Sorry,’ Wyatt said.

  He couldn’t think of anything else to add. These trips were fraught with the horrifying notion that his words might be taken out of context. The last thing he wanted to do was offend.

  ‘How was your time off?’ another man said.

  A loaded question? Did they know about Wyatt’s side hustle?

  He simply said, ‘It was okay.’

  ‘Get up to much?’

  ‘Not really. Downtime. You know. This job takes it out of you.’

  A couple of the executives raised their eyebrows mockingly, and in that moment Wyatt understood.

  They knew.

  He didn’t know how they’d found out, but they were aware.

  Even though it was his business what he did during his time off the job, he still found himself breaking out in a nervous sweat.

  ‘Got a bit of extra cash lining your pockets, buddy?’ an Australian guy said.

  Western Australia doesn’t have enough minerals for you, you greedy fuck? Wyatt thought.

  ‘Maybe. It’s my business.’

  ‘Don’t get smart with me, boy,’ the eldest growled.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘How much you making on the side?’

  ‘A few thousand per trip. Do you want a cut or something?’

  A few of the executives laughed harshly, indicating that they used a few thousand U.S. dollars to wipe their butts.

  ‘Doesn’t fuckin’ concern me what you do in Kisangani,’ the eldest said. ‘I was just curious.’

  Wyatt masked a literal sigh of relief. He couldn’t look weak in front of these men. Their soft bodies and pale complexions couldn’t be construed for powerlessness. Their wealth bought them all the leverage they could ever desire.

  Everyone in the room understood.

  ‘But…’ the eldest said, and at that point Wyatt recognised that everything was about to go to shit. The old man adjusted the collar of his shirt. ‘One of your men. Ethan. Think he goes by the ridiculous nickname of Crank…’

  Wyatt’s mind wandered to the image of the South African man. He was one of the quietest, but they’d worked together for nigh on ten years now. They’d grown up poor as shit on the outskirts of Cape Town. Wyatt considered him a brother in all ways save for direct blood relation.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, suddenly hesitant, less inclined to please with every word.

  ‘There’s something you might want to see.’

  ‘You sure?’

  A couple of the executives cast him furious glares, offended that he would dare talk back to them. For the thousandth tim
e Wyatt found himself flabbergasted at the temperament of some of these men. They were petulant children, refusing to take even an ounce of disrespect. They wouldn’t survive in ordinary society, amongst ordinary office politics and the like.

  But that’s what they were doing in the Congo in the first place.

  The eldest man opened the laptop in front of him and brought up a file he’d saved to the desktop. He swivelled the portable computer around to face Wyatt, revealing grainy surveillance footage of the office building’s interior. Wyatt recognised the congested clutter of the server room, providing the entire complex with an internet connection in the middle of nowhere. It was crucial to their operation.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘CCTV footage.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m looking at.’

  ‘An empty room. Just wait…’

  On the screen the door opened and a solitary figure shuffled into the server room. He moved with practiced efficiency — he hadn’t ended up there by chance. Wyatt recognised the mop of blond hair and the pale blue eyes, noticeable even though the quality of the footage was poor.

  Oh no, he thought. Ethan, what are you doing?

  The man slipped over to one of the chunky server towers and stretched a cable between one of the ports and a bulky laptop he’d brought with him. He kept throwing glances over his shoulder, nervous about being discovered. Then his gaze fixed on the screen in front of him and his fingers flew over the keyboard, initiating God-knows-what.

  ‘Okay,’ Wyatt said, waving a hand dismissively. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  The eldest executive quietly closed the laptop screen. ‘Your boy’s not very smart, is he?’

  ‘Even I didn’t know there were cameras in that room.’

  ‘But you didn’t go in there. Your friend did.’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘He’s a sneaky one. He pulled a couple of hundred thousand dollars out of our checking account. Billed it as “Equipment Hire.” The passwords were on the server. We wouldn’t have noticed if we didn’t find the footage. All the wages and operational costs get sucked out of that account daily. It would have been another blip on the screen. He would have got away with it.’