by Matt Rogers
King didn’t know where this path would lead him.
But he was committed to it.
‘One-two-two,’ Randall yelled. ‘Last minute … come on.’
Randall was a kickboxing instructor from one of the mega-gyms out in Florida, where hundreds of professional mixed martial artists trained in the intense humidity for their upcoming bouts. He had been flown out by the U.S. government, all expenses paid, to hone King’s skills for an upcoming, yet-to-be-announced operation.
Randall had embraced his new role with determination and discipline.
He had put King through the meat grinder for seven consecutive days.
King felt the sweat dripping off his frame in fat droplets, splattering across the damp canvas underneath his feet. He was bare-foot and bare-chested, dressed only in Muay Thai shorts with the traditional split down the sides to provide maximum range of motion. His muscles rippled underneath the dim warehouse light, accentuated by the downward-facing glare.
A result of shedding away what little body fat he’d already been carrying.
His hands were taped up in traditional boxing wraps, covered by four-ounce gloves that were common in MMA.
Randall stood opposite him, just as sweaty, holding out two pads at shoulder-height that he used to absorb the power of King’s blows. A timer on the far wall slowly ticked down, currently at “0:58.”
The pair flowed smoothly around the boxing ring. The only audible sounds were King’s vicious exhales and the distinct thwack-thwack-thwack of his punches ricocheting off the leather. As the round reached its final ten seconds, he unleashed a volley of straight shots that detonated off the pads at an unbelievable rate, pushing through the lactic acid that had built up in his arms from the intense workout.
Two punches per second, then three.
King clenched his teeth, stomached the pain, and continued to deliver staggering blows to the pads.
Randall relented, taking a step back as the momentum thrust him away from King.
Finally, the timer shrieked, signalling an end to the five consecutive rounds of live sparring.
King sucked in air and dropped his hands to his hips, wincing in order to ride out the sheer physical depletion that had descended over him. The day’s training had come to an end, and he had begun to think that he needed a day off. Overtraining was a serious risk, and threatened to render him useless if he needed to be deployed at short-notice.
He yanked the four-ounce gloves off his hands and dropped them to the sweat-stained canvas beneath his feet. Randall stepped through the ropes and returned with a pair of steel scissors, which he used to hack through the hand wraps that King had bound tight between his fingers. They prevented any broken bones, which would spell disaster given the nature of his line of work.
It seemed that — for now — he was the division’s sole operative.
Randall retrieved a gallon jug from the side of the ring, full to the brim with pale-blue liquid. It had been King’s go-to beverage after every hard sparring session — a concoction of Randall’s that had been approved by King’s superiors before he was allowed to consume it.
He didn’t ask what was in it.
For all he knew, Randall had assembled a cocktail of designer drugs that aided in the recovery of elite athletes. He had no qualms with the steroids, if that’s what they truly were feeding him. He recognised that without artificial assistance, his body would have worn down days ago, simply breaking apart under the sheer stress it had been subjected to. He was here to do good, and serve his country. He wouldn’t object to a little help, if that’s what his superiors decided was necessary.
Steroids were met with abject disdain in professional sports, for good reason. In King’s world, it meant that he had a slightly greater chance of survival.
He gulped down half the gallon, feeling the cool taste of the beverage on his lips. Then he dumped the half-empty jug at his feet and stepped out of the ring, leaning against the side of the canvas floor to recover.
Across the warehouse, the entrance door slid open and Lars strode inside.
He came and went as he pleased. King imagined that the man’s life was chaotic — at least for this turbulent period in which the division was being created. King hadn’t had much time to get to know Lars, given his frequent trips to God-knows-where. The fact that King was training out of a rundown warehouse in the backwoods of Wyoming signified that everything had not been painstakingly prepared.
They were reacting to something.
‘How long are you here for?’ King said as Lars dropped a leather bag filled with documents and a laptop onto the table in front of him.
‘A few days,’ Lars said.
‘That’s an eternity.’
‘Compared to what I’ve been doing lately — yes, it is.’
‘Things are sorted?’
‘Somewhat. The foundations have been laid. We can almost stop and take a breath. Almost.’
‘I still have no idea why we’re rushing.’
‘We’re still deciding the extent to which we want to act,’ Lars said. ‘Black ops are muddled. I’m sure you can understand.’
‘I’m calm in the chaos,’ King said.
Lars smirked. ‘Poignant.’
Outside, King heard the sharp mechanical beeping of a truck reversing up to the double doors. Behind it, another large vehicle rumbled into the clearing, visible through the slight crack in the doors that Lars had entered through.
‘New training gear?’ he said.
Lars nodded. ‘That’s what I’ve been working on acquiring. A lot of my work at DARPA was based in the field of reflexes. It’s something of my specialty, and it’s why I was so excited to form a new division. Basically, I believe that reflexively-gifted individuals are hindered by working in groups. If you can react at the speed of light, then why would you want a team weighing you down?’
‘You think I’m that gifted individual?’
‘Everything I’ve seen so far seems to indicate as much. But we’ll find out exactly how gifted you are shortly. That’s what the new equipment is for. King, tell me about Iran.’
The statement threw him off completely. King had dropped his guard, sinking deeper into the conversation and relaxing as the talking progressed. He hadn’t been expecting the sudden change in topic — and it was a subject he would much rather not discuss.
‘Uh…’ he said.
‘You don’t need to be nervous,’ Lars said. ‘Don’t think of me as a military official. I’m simply asking as a friend.’
‘I barely know you.’
‘And I barely know you either. But what happened in Ramadi was not normal. I’ve been told that it caused something of a rift between you and your fellow Delta Force operatives.’
‘You know what happened,’ King said. ‘It would have been detailed in the mission report.’
‘I want to hear it from you.’
King paused. He thought back to the hot, dusty streets of Ramadi, to the chaos and confusion that had unfolded. It was the first time he had ever branched away from official orders, and he was still surprised that he had lived to tell the tale.
‘It happened in December last year,’ Lars said, prodding further.
Attempting to facilitate conversation.
‘It did,’ King said.
‘What were you there to do?’
‘Clearing houses that we believed were home to insurgents. Delta had been called in to ensure everything unfolded with minimal civilian casualties.’
‘Insurgents?’
‘There were groups believed to be training Iraqi insurgents and importing weapons for use against the coalition forces. We targeted hotspots that we believed were home to clusters of these radicals.’
‘What happened on the day in question?’
‘We raided a two-storey house on the outskirts of Ramadi.’
‘Standard procedure?’
‘Standard procedure.’
‘How did it go?’
&n
bsp; ‘Disastrously,’ King said.
‘What happened?’
‘The man in front of me — Brad — got shot in the face.’
‘Died instantly?’
‘Yeah. And gruesomely. The bullet destroyed his nose and went through into his brain. He was one of the kindest people in the Force. One of my few friends.’
‘What should you have done?’
‘Fallen back to regroup with the rest of my unit, who were still on their way into the property.’
‘What did you do instead?’
‘Charged into the house, abandoned all procedure, and killed the four insurgents who were firing on me.’
‘That’s what I’m interested in, in case you didn’t realise. Tell me about it.’
King found that the breath had caught in his throat. He had barely spoken of the incident since it had unfolded. He had disobeyed all orders and taken matters into his own hands, in what could only be described as a vigilante act instead of a measured effort in co-operation with his fellow operatives.
He was still surprised he hadn’t been dishonourably discharged from the military for such reckless actions.
‘I saw Brad drop. His blood coated me — from the exit wound. I don’t know how to describe it, but I felt this sudden clarity. Like whoever was in the house had just given me permission to kill them. It was like everything was happening in slow-motion. I sized up exactly who was armed — all of them. I charged straight in, used one of them as a human shield, shot two of them through the head, then beat the other man into unconsciousness and killed both him and the human shield with rounds to the head.’
‘I know the details,’ Lars said. ‘Like you said, that was in the mission report. I want to know how you felt in the moment that you made the decision to act.’
‘Like I was unstoppable,’ King said.
‘Oh?’
‘It didn’t feel real. Everything felt so … simple. I saw what I needed to do, and I did it. I’ve never been in a situation like that before, so I can’t really relate it to anything else.’
‘Did you think about your fellow operatives?’
‘No. They weren’t in the line of fire.’
‘You didn’t think of relying on them for help?’
‘Not one bit.’
‘You shut everything out, basically?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I think you entered a different state, a more reactionary state. I’ve done a lot of research into this. I think your normal consciousness shrank away and was replaced by something else. Like the performance-enhancing chemicals that flood your brain in a life or death situation seized hold of your senses and went into autopilot. An instinct to survive, which can be lethal when combined with a skill-set such as yours. I think you’re one of the fastest-reacting operatives on the planet when you enter that kind of state — like an unstoppable force who ignores everything else. And I don’t think it correlates with working in a team.’
‘Possibly,’ King admitted.
‘If you don’t mind,’ Lars said, gesturing to the two trucks that had come to a halt outside the warehouse, ‘I’d like to see just what this state looks like in your brain.’
8
The house was modern, with smooth edges and sweeping glass windows looking out over a stunning infinity pool. Ramos had purchased it — with cash, just how he had bought almost everything he owned — under a false name three months ago. That was the first sign he’d received that what he was doing was working. Before then, it had all been a pipe dream — an online drug empire bringing in hundreds of thousands of dollars a week in cold, hard profit.
When he’d handed over eight hundred thousand USD in freshly-printed bills for a property in one of Tijuana’s most prestigious neighbourhoods, it had demonstrated that hard work had its rewards.
He still used the same Toyota pick-up truck in his day-to-day business dealings. A man as hated as he was required a certain level of discretion when conducting his duties. He had a Lamborghini Aventador Coupè, but reserved it exclusively for tearing through the arid foothills of the neighbouring mountains on warm summer nights.
Everything else required acting like a regular citizen.
Now he sat poolside, dressed in swimming trunks, stretched out on a sun lounge next to a gorgeous Spanish brunette lying in the nude on an identical chair. She charged a sizeable fee, but it was worth every peso. A month ago, he’d been informed by one of his men that she was an international model, and would be happy to offer her services to Ramos for a price.
He’d complied.
Sitting up, he slapped her on the rear and made his way inside the mansion. It was cooler indoors, and despite the scene straight out of a magazine cover, his nerves were set on edge.
They had been ever since he’d killed the two men in the café one week prior.
He hadn’t anticipated such a response. The Draco cartel had hit back with unbridled fury, targeting anyone who was rumoured to be involved with Ramos’ dealings. Eight of his men had been killed in shootouts since, along with nearly a dozen members of Draco and a handful of innocent bystanders too. The skirmishes were threatening to break out into all-out war, and Ramos was determined to ensure that didn’t happen.
In terms of sheer manpower, the Draco cartel outnumbered his own forces ten to one.
He preferred to operate with clinical precision.
Destroy the high command of the rival cartel, and they’ll implode.
He had triggered a nerve with the slaughter of the two men in the café, but now he was plotting to hit them where it really hurt.
He slid a Motorola Razr flip phone out of his pocket and pressed a single key, activating speed dial.
The call was answered immediately.
A good sign.
‘You intercepted them?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ the voice on the other end of the line replied. ‘Eight Draco thugs, split between two trucks. They’d come from Guatemala, just as you said. How’d you know?’
‘That’s where one of our production facilities is,’ Ramos said. ‘I figured Draco were using the same area. The Usumacinta region is chaos with all the cartels vying for territory. Anyway, how much supply did you get?’
‘There’s at least two hundred kilograms of cocaine here,’ the man said.
‘They’re all dead?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did we take any casualties?’
‘Two.’
Ramos shrugged. He would take those results.
‘What do we do with the supply?’ the man said.
‘Destroy it.’
‘We’re not going to use it?’
‘We don’t need it. I don’t know what the hell it’s tainted with. For all I know, Draco anticipated that we would hit them on their supply chain, and poisoned half the stash. I don’t want anything ruining our reputation. The online trade relies on it.’
‘You sure? This is a lot of coke, boss.’
‘Destroy it,’ Ramos repeated. ‘We have more than enough.’
He ended the call.
The ensuing silence set him on edge. He wasn’t sure what it was — either the water gently lapping at the edge of the infinity pool outside, or the sheer emptiness of the high-ceilinged kitchen in which he stood. It was quiet.
Too quiet.
As if on cue, the phone in his hand shrieked, signifying an incoming call. He checked the display and noted the “No Caller ID” plastered across the top of the screen. Tentatively, he swiped across the lower half to answer the call. He didn’t usually take unsolicited inquiries, but something about this one told him it would be worth his while.
Something about this one told him he needed to answer.
There had been all too much calm in the aftermath of his attack on the Draco henchman.
It was about time shit hit the fan.
He pressed the receiver to his ear and a voice exploded into life, speaking in thickly-accented English. Perhaps they knew where Ramos was, but
not what language he primarily spoke.
‘Did you think you could hide forever?’ the voice boomed.
Male.
Likely in his fifties or sixties.
Someone who possessed a distinct air of superiority.
Ramos smirked. ‘I haven’t been hiding. Where are your men? I’ve been waiting for weeks.’
‘You think you are safe?’
‘Nothing about this business is safe. Come on, old man. Where are your forces? I’ve been waiting patiently.’
Ramos flashed a glance to the AR-15 resting on the marble kitchen countertop — the same weapon he’d used for his murderous spree in the Playas café. It was fully loaded. The safety was off. He had never been more ready to use it.
He thrived in the chaos.
Sooner or later, Draco would break.
He was sure of it.
‘I know what you want,’ the old man said. ‘You want this to become a dogfight, eh? You want us to come charging in through your front door.’
‘All I hear is talk,’ Ramos said. ‘I’m ready for anything.’
‘I doubt that.’
‘I’ll keep up this madness until you back off.’
‘How can you keep up anything when you have no system to sell your product? It amuses me that you thought you could hide your little tech-house forever.’
An artificial beep signalled that the man on the other end of the line had killed the call. Ramos stood poised in the centre of the kitchen, frozen in time. The cool touch of the phone stayed pressed firmly against his ear. He didn’t want to move. If he did, it might be confirmed that this was reality.
He did his best to suppress a wave of panic that rolled over him in concentrated bursts of horror. All the potential consequences slammed their way into the forefront of his mind, causing him to break out in an uncontrollable sweat. If the Draco member hadn’t been bluffing, then it was entirely possible that the framework of his operation had just been torn out from underneath him.
With all the ramifications still pressing down on him like a thousand-pound deadweight, he tucked the phone into his back pocket, snatched up the AR-15, and ran for the front door.
He didn’t consider the fact that there might be scouts lying in wait.