by Matt Rogers
But King was out here by his own doing.
And he wasn’t psychotic.
So these men wouldn’t know what they were in for.
He pulled up alongside them with a nod of greeting, a placid, weary expression on his face, as if he were a labourer checking in for work. Neither of the pair reached for their weapons. They stepped out of the guard booth and approached the driver’s side with twin masks of confusion — they hadn’t been expecting anyone, but this newcomer seemed like no threat.
King considered himself particularly adept at looking like he belonged in a place he had no business in.
So they didn’t snatch their Kalashnikovs off their shoulder straps.
They just stared at him.
King then wrenched the Glock 17 off the seat between his legs and had it pointed at the forehead of the closest man before either of them could blink.
‘English?’ he said coldly.
They both shook their heads. In the soft moonlight King could make out their features more clearly, now that he’d assumed control of the situation and had the time to take in superficial details. A few seconds earlier he’d just seen two shapes, two body types, two pinpoints of uncertainty that needed to be restrained and bent to his orders. Now he saw they were both natives of Mali, with deep brown skin and sickeningly thin physiques. But there was clarity in their eyes — they weren’t stupid. They recognised the threat of a highly trained enemy and weren’t making any overt moves to lunge for their AK-47s.
They knew better.
So King breathed a sigh of relief as he figured he wouldn’t need to kill anyone else tonight.
‘Take me to someone who speaks English,’ he said. ‘Someone who might be interested in making a deal.’
12
In a tiny meeting room haphazardly thrown together in one corner of the largest hangar in the compound, King sat opposite two men who seemed like they could snap him in half just by looking at him. At six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds, that wasn’t a sensation he experienced often.
They were Australian, introducing themselves as ex-SAS who had retired from active duty and turned their focus to the world of international cargo transportation. It was suitably lucrative, and their builds and general demeanours meant they could navigate their way through the murky web of bribes and intimidation with enough confidence to get what they wanted.
In their own words, they’d leased a Boeing 777 Freighter three years ago, loaded it up with anything that needed transporting to the most dangerous locations on earth, and put their fucking heads down and got to work.
Now, King found himself defending against a wide range of accusations. The pair sat there, firing off barbs in his direction, and he couldn’t tell whether it was simple Australian humour or genuine scorn.
‘What do you mean you can’t tell us what you’re doing here, mate?’ the larger of the two said.
He’d introduced himself as Clint, and he stood six-foot-six tall with the thick build of a powerlifter. King figured he had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. He had his hair tied back in a ponytail and sported a full black beard flecked with grey.
‘It shouldn’t matter what I’m doing here.’
‘Better be a bloody good reason for it,’ the smaller guy said.
He was certainly smaller than Clint, but still far larger than King. Six-four, two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. His name was Rob.
‘You’re not in bad shape,’ Clint said. ‘Private security? Mercenary work?’
‘Let’s call it mercenary work and leave it at that,’ King said, even though he knew there wasn’t a chance in hell of that happening.
Rob raised his eyebrows and laughed. It sounded forced. ‘Mercenary? That’s scary stuff, hey? Is this the part where you say you could kill us with your pinky finger?’
‘I’m not in the mood for talking about anything other than what we both want.’
‘And what is it you think we want?’ Clint said. ‘You came to us.’
‘Yeah, you came to us,’ Rob said, entirely unnecessarily.
King made up his mind and locked gazes with Clint. ‘You seem like the more mature one. Could you tell your parrot friend to shut up and let us discuss business?’
Rob angrily shot to his feet and bunched up a fist, and like a bolt of lightning the Glock 17 appeared in King’s hand, as if he’d conjured it out of thin air. Both the Australians stiffened at the sight of the weapon — reacting more to the fluidity with which King wielded it. This was a man who was perfectly comfortable pointing a loaded firearm at anyone who dared threaten him.
The atmosphere in the room tightened considerably.
‘Sit down,’ King said, gesturing with the gun barrel to the seat Rob had launched off.
Rob sat down.
King lowered the Glock straight back to his lap, and caught an icy stare from Clint.
‘I think we’re done here,’ the man said. ‘We don’t do business with crazies.’
‘I’m not crazy.’
Rob almost scoffed. ‘You honestly think we’re going to help you now?’
‘I know you will.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Well, I could go on about my qualifications and how quickly I could leave the two of you here in pools of your own blood just for saying no to me. But something tells me you two are fairly accustomed to confrontation, so I won’t bother going down that path. I respect the pair of you enough to accept that you won’t get intimidated easily. But you’re businessmen, and more than that you’re ex-military businessmen. Which, if you break it down to the fundamentals, is exactly what I am right now. So we’re on the same page here.’
‘You really are a mercenary?’
‘I’m not in the military. But I’m still contracted to the government.’
Rob shook his head. ‘Americans, man. Fucking crazy. What are you, black ops?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Then what do you need us for?’
‘I don’t trust the people I work for.’
Clint went pale. ‘Nah, man. I’m not getting wrapped up in this shit. I don’t want to get assassinated as soon as I get home.’
‘All I need is a lift out of the country. You two are due to fly out tonight, yes?’
Clint paused. ‘That’s really all you want? Why the theatrics?’
‘Well, there’s something else I need, too.’
‘And that would be?’
‘You have a 777 Freighter, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a long-range aircraft?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I need you to change the flight path from wherever you’re headed to Dulles International Airport in Virginia.’
This time, Clint did scoff. ‘Now I know you’re full of shit.’
‘No, I’m realistic. I’m not oblivious to what goes on in this world.’ King waved a hand at the hangar around them, a sweeping gesture that covered both runways and the mountains of cargo pallets across the airfield. ‘I know how much is ignored. Swept under the rug. Call it whatever you want. But I know for a fact that men of your capabilities can make things happen without attracting attention.’
‘Maybe. For the right price. But we don’t have that kind of money.’
‘I do.’
‘Your government pays you well?’
‘They do.’
‘And now you’re going to use that money to get to Washington without them knowing about it?’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you want us to go through with this willingly?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You really are crazy.’
King shrugged. ‘It’s a crazy world. This isn’t even the most psychotic thing I’ve done today.’
Clint held up a hand, instructing King to say no more. By now, the big man completely assumed responsibility for the conversation. Rob had withdrawn into himself. He seemed to sense that Clint and King were going ba
ck and forth in a manner he wouldn’t be able to keep up with if he tried. King knew his type. The jokester. The confidence man.
They always hesitated, sooner or later.
But Clint was a man used to making complex decisions on the spot.
So King kept pressure on him.
‘When did you retire from the SAS?’
‘A few years ago.’
‘You enjoying your new career?’
‘It’s way more stressful, if you can believe that, mate. And now you’re asking me to do this. I won’t be able to sleep at night. You don’t fuck with the American government. Especially not people like you and whoever the hell you work for.’
‘But it’s a business, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It puts food on the table.’
‘It certainly does.’
‘And you know how easy it is to change a flight path, don’t you? Especially in this world. The world we both know exists.’
‘I can do it. I just don’t want to.’
‘I’ve got fifty thousand reasons why you might want to.’
Clint let the silence elongate, rubbing his palms together, hunched over the rickety card table erected between them. He tugged at loose hairs in his beard, his brow furrowed, concern plastered across his features.
Rob leant forward and said, ‘Mate, I don’t think—’
Clint silenced him with a glare. Then he turned his attention back to King. ‘Fifty thousand?’
‘Cash.’
King didn’t feel the need to enlighten them to the fact that he’d looted close to eighty thousand dollars from the terrorist compound earlier that evening, so he’d ultimately come out ahead. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
‘Dulles International Airport?’ Clint said.
King nodded.
‘You’ll be gone as soon as we land?’
‘Like I was never there in the first place. You can get it done?’
‘I’ve got connections. I can make it happen. But there’s only one reason why I’ve needed to change destinations in a hurry in the past.’
‘And that is?’
‘A quick profit.’
‘And the authorities understand that?’
Clint nodded. ‘They’ll take a bribe.’
‘How much?’
‘Twenty thousand, usually, if the cargo’s worth three hundred. And I don’t want to take that out of what you’re paying me.’
‘I’ll give you seventy total,’ King said without the slightest hesitation.
Clint sighed, slapped the table, and shot to his feet. ‘Let’s get moving. Fucking Americans…’
13
King clicked the four-point seatbelt into place over his barrel chest and settled back into the hard plastic seat, figuring he wouldn’t get much more comfortable for the eleven-hour flight. The spare seat was skewered into the wall behind the modified cockpit — Clint and Rob had specially adjusted the pilot and co-pilot’s seats to accommodate their giant frames and make the flights more bearable.
The three of them hadn’t exchanged a word since they’d agreed on the details.
It would seem downright hostile to some, but King relished the matter-of-fact nature both men possessed. He could relate to them — they existed in a world that wouldn’t show mercy for a second. If they ruined a cargo drop to lawless stretches of Africa or the Middle East, they might catch a bullet for their troubles. All their dealings had to be undertaken with the utmost seriousness — nothing else was acceptable. If they allowed themselves to be pushed around, their competitors would eat them alive.
And all it took was an unhinged airfield worker to mistake one of their interactions as an insult and unload an AK-47 into them, so they had to remain vigilant at all times.
King drew parallels to his own life as he watched them go about their business.
Clint made a series of phone calls to various contacts, none of which King listened to. They were none of his concern. But there was no mistaking the gravity of his tone. He knew what he was requesting was blatantly illegal — an unscheduled touchdown at Cargo Building #6 in Dulles International Airport for reasons Clint didn’t feel the need to disclose. Thankfully, he was telling the truth about his connections. Thirty minutes of debate and discussion later, he killed his headset and flashed a thumbs-up signal out the cockpit door.
‘All clear, mate,’ he said. ‘But if anyone sees you sneaking out I’m fucked. The States are all over that kind of thing. You’re lucky I was able to reroute without much fanfare.’
‘How’d you do it?’
‘Pull the right strings at the right time. It’s all a matter of timing. You know how big this industry is? You know how much shit people get away with?’
King remembered an ultra-class haul truck in Somalia filled to the brim with close to a billion American dollars in undeclared tax savings. His second official operation. He remembered Bryson Reed, and how close the Force Recon Marine had come to fleeing the continent as an unofficial billionaire.
‘Actually, I think I do,’ he said.
Just one of a thousand suppressed memories of times that had ended in bloodshed.
It seemed like all of King’s life had become nothing but bloodshed.
He waited until the Boeing 777F was in the air before leaning into the cockpit doorway and interrupting the pair.
‘Clint,’ he said.
The pilot looked over his shoulder. ‘Eleven hours to Dulles, mate.’
‘You ever killed anyone?’
A pause. ‘What?’
‘In the SAS. You too, Rob. The pair of you ever take another person’s life?’
Clint stewed in silence, maybe debating whether to be truthful or not, and then a wry smile spread across his features. ‘Not in the military. Never made it to an actual war zone. But in this business, yes. It happens. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. And I won’t pretend it’s legal. But you get a guy sticking a gun barrel in your face in a foreign country with no law enforcement around who are going to do anything about it. And they’re telling you to hand over your plane to them, which will leave you destitute in a third world war zone with no way back home and debt up to your eyeballs. And then when you’re trying to think of a way out of that, he starts getting even more agitated. And you know someone’s going to get shot, or beaten to death. And it’s either you or him…’
King said nothing. He just listened.
‘Yeah,’ Clint said. ‘I’ve killed people. More than I care to admit.’
‘Does it bother you?’
‘Not yet. Maybe it’ll hit me later in life. But this is a job, and it needs to be done, and you need to strong-arm people in this business. And if that escalates to violence, and guns, and murder, well … it’s never me who takes it that far. So I don’t eat myself alive for retaliating.’
‘Fair point,’ King said.
‘What about you? You killed people?’
Now it was King’s turn to smirk. ‘I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I hadn’t.’
‘You’re one of the best, then? If they send you to places like this on your own.’
‘I’m pretty good.’
‘How long you been doing this?’
‘Five years now.’
‘You take many vacations?’
‘A few.’
‘How many in five years?’
‘A couple.’
‘That must be hard to deal with. That schedule would break anyone.’
‘Hasn’t broken me yet.’
‘You think it will?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ King said, dropping his head to his hands. ‘It’s madness, but I’ve always had the foundations in place. My superiors. My handler. That’s always been structurally sound. That’s my last resort, someone I can turn to when shit hits the fan. And then he can calmly talk me through what I need to do next.’
‘And now that’s gone.’
‘Now that’s gone.’
‘Y
ou know what you need to do when you get to Washington?’ Clint said.
‘Not a goddamn clue.’
‘Well, you’ve got eleven hours to think about it. Try and get some rest.’
‘Fly straight,’ King said.
‘Always.’
King settled back into the firm plastic, closed his eyes, and tried not to think about the labyrinth of chaos that would surface as soon as he touched down on U.S. soil without anyone in Black Force knowing his true whereabouts.
He got the sense he was about to make very powerful, very dangerous enemies.
Something told him he should have stayed in Northern Mali.
He would be safer there, in a region collapsing before its occupants’ eyes, than haunted by the ghosts of his organisation.
They were one entity he didn’t want to mess with.
But he had no choice.
14
Dulles International Airport
Virginia
Amidst a sea of workers in high-visibility vests and towering swathes of cargo pallets that dwarfed everything in sight, a lone man with a duffel bag over one shoulder kept his head down as he slunk between the shadows.
It was three in the morning local time, and King had barely slept a wink on the flight. But the exhausting half-day he’d spent confined to a spare seat had given him more than enough time to think, to dissect, to make estimated guesses and weigh his options. He’d gone over every conversation he’d had with Lars since the man had ordered him to Mali.
He remembered the urgency in Lars’ tone, and the foggy confusion of the details, and the constant deflections, and the undertones of stress as his handler thought, Please, King, don’t push this. Just do as you’re told.