by Matt Rogers
‘Oh, and you are? You’re twenty-two…’
‘Don’t belittle me. Listen to what I’m saying. You think you’ll be able to control yourself if one of them triggers you? We’re close to the truth about who killed your girlfriend. Don’t fuck it up now.’
‘And the other reason?’
‘The cage fight was bullshit. It was two men deciding to follow their competitive instinct. We shouldn’t have been there and we both know it. Think of it as a rebellion of sorts. It wasn’t any kind of test of my capabilities. This … this is a true test.’
Brody shook his head. ‘No. There’s up to seven heavily armed men in that truck. That’s not a test. That’s suicide if it comes to fighting.’
‘I’ve dealt with worse.’
‘Somehow I don’t doubt that. But I’m not letting you die on my property.’
‘Why?’
‘Firstly, Lars will—’
‘Who gives a shit what Lars thinks? You don’t work for them anymore. You can disappear. You’ve done it once.’
‘They’ve always known where I’m staying. That’s how they got in contact in the first—’
‘So go somewhere else, and don’t tell them where. You probably need to relocate anyway.’
Brody flashed a glance back at the warehouse. ‘I definitely need to relocate after all this.’
‘Then it doesn’t matter what happens to me. And in all likelihood they’ll throw us Rex Bernardi in exchange for Thorn and we can forget any of this ever happened.’
Brody was already on the move, satisfied with King’s line of reasoning and humble enough to take the suggestion of a man twenty years his junior. As he strode across the hot earth toward the distant warehouse, he pointed a finger back at King.
‘This is on you,’ he said. ‘I’m not responsible for your safety. This is your choice.’
‘I never said it wasn’t.’
‘Good luck. Hope you sort it out. It’s my head otherwise.’
‘You’ve already thrown the first punch, Brody,’ King said. ‘Back in that warehouse. You let your dark side out for the first time in a while. I think … if I end up dead … you’ll take care of the problem.’
Brody flashed an intoxicating grin. ‘I’m sure I will.’
He continued along the field and fell out of sight, ducking back into the cavernous warehouse on the other side of the compound. King took a deep breath, soaking up the thick air, getting as much oxygen into his lungs as he could. He couldn’t deny his nervousness, but he had taught himself years ago to go directly toward fear.
What scared him inevitably had to strengthen him.
So he turned to face the approaching vehicle with all the confidence he could muster, leaving his MEUSOC pistol in its holster while he waited patiently for the Ford Raptor to arrive. Even when it pulled up in a choking plume of dust and the doors flew open, depositing five men all the same size as him onto the hot dirt track, King didn’t flinch.
He watched them move as a cohesive unit to the entrance, leaving their massive pick-up truck unceremoniously by the side of the road.
Confrontation bristled in the air.
King took a final breath and wondered how on earth he was going to defuse the tension.
37
Rex Bernardi knew he was in a world of trouble.
He’d been through the ringer over the course of his life — there was no denying that. After all the adversity he’d faced and the challenges he’d overcome, he considered himself something of a tough man.
He knew he would need every ounce of fight in him to survive the coming hours.
He had been manhandled into a vehicle back in Kisangani and a bag had been thrust over his head. Then a continuous marathon of travel had followed — hours and hours had passed, excruciatingly slow, as Bernardi wriggled around the trunk of a large vehicle and tried to control the sweat dripping out of his facial pores. It had been stiflingly hot in the compartment and every drop of perspiration that left his forehead or cheeks ended up staining the bag draped over his head.
By the time they’d arrived at their destination, Bernardi felt as if he’d been in the trunk for years.
His throat dry and cracked and his head covered in damp cloth, two men had led him blindly into some kind of building — he could sense the change in atmosphere as they stepped through a set of doors. The coolness of artificial climate control washed over him.
An hour ago, he’d been dumped in this tiny server room and chained to the wall via a set of rusty handcuffs and a steel ring built into the concrete. A thick chain stretched between them.
Bernardi was going nowhere.
Towers of CPUs and other high-tech gear ran along each of the walls, complete with an array of blinking lights in various reds and greens. They were the only form of illumination — the overhead LEDs hadn’t been switched on for Bernardi’s pleasure.
He sat on his rear in the humid box, soft glowing lights flickering on and off in intervals that lasted a fraction of a second, sweating freely, questioning his brazen decision to venture into the Congo and expect no resistance.
He didn’t know who had taken him.
But now they were coming.
The door opened and a powerful-looking man stepped into the room, closing it behind him with enough verve to highlight his authority. He silently crossed the room, staring at Bernardi with a piercing glare. He looked to be in his thirties, with pale skin and a thick jawline. He crouched down by Bernardi and spoke in the kind of soft-natured way that anyone recognised as menacing. ‘What’s your business here?’
Bernardi wasn’t the type to be easily intimidated. ‘Dunno what the hell you’re talking about, kid. Got nothing to help you with.’
‘Why are you in the Congo?’
‘Not telling you a thing. You can try to beat it out of me if you want. Good luck with that. I’m no use to you anyway. Don’t know why you bothered throwing me around like this. I’m nobody.’
The man — who spoke with a thick South African accent — smirked. ‘You’re trying a little too hard, my friend. You should have played up the victim role. Thrown me some crocodile tears. Then I might have believed you.’
‘I’m telling you — I don’t know a thing.’
‘You carry yourself in a certain way. Military. I can sense it. You’re somebody. I want to know what business you have with the two Americans. They’re causing me a great deal of problems lately.’
‘Ain’t telling you shit, boy.’
‘Why don’t we start with names? I’m Wyatt.’
‘Pierce,’ Bernardi said.
He had enough experience in tense situations to remain level headed. There was no telling who these men were, and why they had kidnapped him. If it came out that he was an important figure in the U.S. government, the price for his safe return would skyrocket.
He had to play the fool.
‘That’s probably not your name,’ Wyatt said, then shrugged. ‘Ah, semantics. What does it matter?’
‘Let me go.’
Finally, Bernardi’s nerve affected the man squatting across from him. He rolled his eyes, scowling at the sheer idiocy. ‘And why the fuck would I do that?’
‘Because I don’t know anything.’
‘You know those two Americans. I heard you call one of them by name. Jason King, was it?’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘You’re not a very good actor, Pierce.’
‘I’m not trying to act.’
‘I’ll give you five seconds to tell me what you know about Jason King and his friend. Because they’re a real problem for me lately, and I’d rather they fucked off somewhere else. Unfortunately they have one of my men in their possession.’
Bernardi raised an eyebrow. ‘The guy in the back of the jeep.’
‘So you do know them.’
‘Not well. I was here to meet them.’
‘And do what?’
‘I’ve said enough.’
‘You’d bett
er say a whole lot more.’
Bernardi perked up. ‘Or what? They’ve got one of yours. You’ve got one of theirs. You need me for a swap.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Just the nature of the beast.’
‘This is the Congo. Plenty of ex-military types looking for work. What makes you think my guy’s that important?’
‘Why bring it up?’
Wyatt shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you might be more inclined to share information with me seeing that my guy’s probably being worked over there for everything he knows.’
‘Everything he knows about what? I don’t know what the hell is going on here. Honestly. I’m not involved with whatever you’re doing. I’d rather just leave.’
‘I’m sure you would.’
Under the surface, Bernardi felt the tendrils of panic creeping in. He’d done a less than stellar job of convincing Wyatt of his innocence — in fact, he’d probably made things more frustrating by implicating himself in King’s business without actually having any idea what the man was doing.
‘I promise you,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what he’s up to.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I can’t tell you that. But it has nothing to do with you. You should leave them to their own business.’
‘It is my business, because they’re deliberately interfering with my operation.’
‘What operation? Who are you?’
Wyatt paused for what felt to Bernardi like an hour, but couldn’t have been more than half a minute. ‘You really don’t know anything, do you?’
‘No.’
‘And what little you do know … you won’t share with me?’
‘No. I can’t.’
‘You think you’ll be able to resist interrogation?’
‘I know I will.’
‘Then I have no use for you.’
For the second time, Bernardi said, ‘You need me for the swap.’
‘I’ve lived thirty-six years of my life doing things my way, and I’m not about to change that. I don’t need you for anything, brother.’
‘How are you going to get your man back?’
‘My way,’ Wyatt said.
Bernardi saw the massive Desert Eagle pistol arcing in his direction, roaring into view where previously it had been hidden behind Wyatt’s frame. He opened his mouth to shout a protest but the gunshot drowned out any inkling of sound that escaped his lips. He didn’t hear the report, or see the muzzle flare, because the bullet took the top half of his head off in a grisly explosion of blood and brain matter.
Rex Bernardi thought no more.
38
King squared up to the five men, alone on the track.
Two of them brandished Kalashnikov assault rifles, either AK-47s or something cheaper, and the rest had black-market sidearms sitting in holsters at their waists. None of them had their weapons pointed in King’s direction. King sensed hostility in the air, but it wasn’t the kind of stress where conflict was inevitable. He got the sense these men were loosely connected to Wyatt — operating in the same field, but keeping their distance.
Taking orders from someone more important.
One of the other perimeter crews, no doubt.
He didn’t think he would die in the next few seconds.
But this was a dangerous world.
There was no way to know for sure.
‘What do you lot want?’ he said, his tone firm.
One of the men stepped out of the pack, taking initiative. ‘You have something that belongs to us.’
‘So do you.’
‘Whether or not you get your friend back comes down to how compliant you are right now.’
‘Is that so?’
The two men with the rifles tightened the grips on their weapons. King noticed the motion out of the corner of his eye, and he readied himself. He was within reach of the first armed man — the other stood a few feet behind him. It would be a brazen move, but it had a chance of success if shit hit the fan.
‘We know you’ve got a friend back there,’ the leader of the pack said. ‘He shouldn’t be a problem. After we’ve dealt with you.’
‘So how’s this going to play out?’
‘We’ll accompany you to wherever you’re keeping our man. Then we’ll leave with him. And we’ll be in touch at a later stage to let you know whether we’re good-natured enough to deliver your friend back to you.’
‘I’m going to have to turn that offer down.’
‘You don’t have a choice.’
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Are you blind?’
‘Altogether. In the entire complex.’
‘That’s none of your concern. Why?’
‘Just wondering how much clean up I’m going to have to do.’
‘That’s a threat, is it?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Where are you keeping him?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’d guess the warehouse.’
‘I’m not accepting anything other than a straight-up swap.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘I get it,’ King said.
The leader raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
‘I get that you’re paid for this job. And you need to do whatever your employers think is important. Which, in this case, is coming here. But I’m telling you right now — you don’t want to get involved with this. You might kill me but there’s a man back there who is something of a legend in his field. And his field isn’t a pretty one. So just turn around and say you found the compound deserted. I’m giving you an out.’
‘It’s five on one, you thick fuck.’
‘Your choice.’
That kicked things off.
King sensed imminent movement, and sure enough a second later the closest Kalashnikov rifle swung on an upward trajectory, moving from the dirt underfoot to aim at King’s temple. Before it moved even halfway along its path it met two-hundred pounds of charging muscle. King batted the rifle away like it weighed nothing — for a half-second he made a snatch for the weapon in mid-air, but came up short. It spiralled off the trail.
No matter, he thought.
He was within a foot of the previously-armed mercenary, so instead of continuing the charge and taking the guy off his feet he formed a right angle with his elbow in one fluid motion, like a hinge with the pointed end lined up squarely with the guy’s torso. He threw the slicing elbow at an upward trajectory with reckless abandon, where it clattered off the underside of the guy’s chin and dropped him with a noise akin to two rolling pins smashing together.
The other man with the Kalashnikov was raising the gun — up close, King recognised it as a stock-standard AK-47. Rudimentary, but effective at such a short range.
It would only take one quick pump of the trigger to render all his elite training and reflexes useless.
But, thankfully, having one of the fastest reaction speeds on the planet helped in such a volatile situation.
King ran through angles and trajectories in the blink of an eye and snatched out a hand, catching the unconscious mercenary he’d just elbowed. The guy had been in the process of crumpling to the ground, but King wrenched him back up to his feet and hurled him in the direction of the second mercenary, two quick movements that combined together into a lightning-fast motion.
The guy with the Kalashnikov didn’t have time to react.
He just saw a blur of movement in front of him and tightened his grip on the trigger, failing to understand what was happening in the half-second of action. Three rounds tore through the first mercenary’s body as he arced unconsciously toward his comrade.
That froze the armed man to the spot, the blood draining from his face, his eyes widening as he watched exit wounds tear his friend’s chest to pieces.
Exit wounds he’d created.
King took advantage of the narrow window, leapfrogging the dead man and wrapping
the second guy up in a standard double-leg takedown. He was helpless to prevent it. King picked up him and dumped him into the earth on his head, rotating him a half-revolution in the air. He came down on his neck — not a comfortable landing to say the least.
Altogether, three seconds had passed since the confrontation initiated.
King snatched up the second guy’s AK-47 and rolled over his stunned body, coming down on the other side of the trail, kicking up a plume of dust in the process. Mind racing, senses reeling, he twisted on the spot to meet the oncoming resistance — sure enough, three seconds was enough for two of the remaining three mercenaries to charge forward, fumbling at their belts for their semi-automatic weapons.
But now King had a gun.
Which didn’t pose a healthy outcome for his adversaries.
A quick glance at the charging handle in his peripheral vision confirmed that the AK-47 was live and ready for use. They weren’t the most accurate weapons on the battlefield, but they were reliable as all hell, and this was a dirt trail with only a few feet separating the opposing parties.
King shot both approaching mercenaries square between the eyes with a quick tap of the trigger in each direction.
Fire. Aim. Fire.
Done.
Then madness broke out.
One moment the two bodies were crumpling, both sporting cylindrical bullet holes in their foreheads, their legs giving out and their eyes glazing over as their momentum died with their souls. The man on the left followed the natural path King anticipated, pitching forward face-first into the dirt. But the guy on the right suddenly surged forward, his corpse covering an extra foot, limbs splaying in all directions…
…and his body crashed into King hard enough to throw him drastically off-balance.
King stumbled, one heel sliding out on the loose gravel, and he took a giant gulp of air as he sensed each leg sliding in a different direction. It jolted the muscles around his groin with enough force to send a stab of nausea spearing through his chest, and as if fate had intended to force him to rely on his bare hands he felt the AK-47 tear out of his grasp.
For a brief millisecond in time he froze up, stunned at what happened, wondering if some malevolent force had wrenched the gun from his grip. Then he realised the shoulder strap had caught on one of the body’s arms as it fell past him, ripping the AK-47 free.