Isolated: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 1)

by Matt Rogers

  There were a million questions he needed answers to.

  CHAPTER 7

  'I’m sorry, mate, but there’s nothing I can do.'

  'This is urgent,' King said.

  'I can see that. But it’s about privacy. I can’t ruin the integrity of the store.'

  The man behind the counter was unrelenting. King spun in a circle, surveying the occupants of the post office. There were none.

  'All I need is one glance at the security cameras,' he said. 'There’s no witnesses. You can pretend it never happened.'

  The man — whose nametag read “Billy” — visibly stiffened. 'I’ve said no, buddy. And you won’t change my mind on that. You’d better quit talking about witnesses and the like. I could ring the police.'

  King pressed a pair of fingers into his eyeballs. 'Look, I know what you’re thinking. Big imposing guy who you’ve never seen before asking to look at tapes. Sounds bad. Looks bad. But I can assure you I’m doing the right thing.’

  ‘Alright, mate.’

  ‘You don’t believe me.’

  ‘Why would I?’

  'Because you saw two men who you’ve never seen before in your life collect a package from that postal box yesterday.'

  King pointed to the empty box.

  Billy paused a beat. 'How’d you know that?'

  'You were suspicious. You’d never seen them before, but they had a key. Someone had given them a key. But they were in and out before you could react. Correct?'

  'How the hell did you know that?'

  'I’m a private investigator. I just talked to an old lady called Suzanne — I take it you know her — who told me all about two men collecting a package. Now I’m assuming they didn’t rent the box; firstly, because they were collecting something, and secondly, because I know for a fact they’re involved in some shady business. So unless you want to take the blame for withholding evidence, I suggest you show me the tapes so I can find out who put the package there.'

  It was a long spiel, filled with authority and impatience, designed to confuse. It was the most King had spoken in months. But it worked.

  'Alright,' Billy said. 'Let’s go out back—' He turned. 'Nicole!'

  A girl strode out of the back room. She was young. Maybe only just turned eighteen. She sported dishevelled hair and a drab, mousy complexion. She wore attire that matched Billy’s. A faded pair of jeans and a polo whose logo read “Jameson Post!”.

  'What, Dad?' she grumbled. 'Stop fucking yelling.'

  'You’re up front for half an hour. I need to look at some tapes in the back room.'

  Nicole looked King up and down. 'Who’s this?'

  ‘A private investigator.’

  Her eyes widened. 'Bullshit. The fuck have you done?'

  'Nothing. Just stay here.'

  What a pleasant relationship, King mused.

  He followed Billy behind the counter and through a narrow doorway. He crouched to avoid smacking his forehead on the doorframe. This building was obviously constructed decades ago. The back room was old and dilapidated. Paint peeled off the walls and paperwork lay scattered across three trestle tables, each with some variation of broken appendages. King eyed one of the tables, sporting three legs taped firmly with multiple layers of duct tape. Clearly a post office made just enough money to get by. There seemed to be a budget of zero for repairs.

  Billy collapsed into a tattered leather armchair and wheeled it up to an ancient computer. A few clicks of the mouse and the screen displayed a grid of four separate security cameras, two on the exterior of the building and two inside. The lower left screen showed Nicole behind the counter, absent-mindedly chewing gum. Billy squinted at the monitor and perused slowly through the different options. Pause, rewind, skip. He clearly hadn’t found the need to study security footage in years.

  'Now it’s here somewhere…' he tutted under his breath.

  King waited patiently. He took the time to scrutinise his surroundings. Trying to get a sense of how Billy lived.

  Frugally, he concluded.

  The whitewash bleakness of the decorum suited the contents of the room. Nothing — save stacks of paperwork — was there that did not need to be. There was no room for trivial possessions.

  'Here we are,' Billy said, leaning so far forward on his chair that his nose hovered barely a centimetre from the screen.

  King stepped closer, studying the footage. Billy had pulled up a replay, about thirty seconds long. It appeared to be from two days ago, judging by the timestamp along the bottom. He touched a single finger to the space bar and the clip began.

  For the first five seconds, there was no movement. Just a continuous shot of the row of post office boxes. Then, a brief blur of activity on the side of the screen. Someone walking past the frame. Another five seconds of nothing.

  Then a figure stepped into frame, heading for the box King had found empty. A woman. She appeared to be in her late twenties. The cameras were ancient, meaning the footage was blurry, but he could make out her long brown hair and lithe frame even through the horrid resolution.

  'She’s cute,' he said.

  'Oh, gosh, that’s Kate Cooper,' Billy said, shaking his head. 'What’s she doing getting herself into this mess?'

  'Who’s Kate Cooper?' King said. 'Because this could turn out very, very bad for her.'

  'She’s a nobody. Definitely not one to get wrapped up in all this shit. She’s lived around Jameson for maybe a year now. Runs odd jobs, that sort of thing. I think she’s from England. Got a bit of an accent. Nicest person you’ll ever meet…'

  'You got an address?'

  Billy paused. 'You’re not going to hurt her?'

  'I’m a private investigator,' King said. 'I’m just trying to find out what’s going on.'

  Billy scrawled on a scrap piece of paper. 'If you do find out, be sure to let me know.'

  'Will do.'

  ‘Will you give me a call later? To fill me in?’

  ‘I don’t have a phone. At least, not for now.’

  A pause. Billy looked at him. He looked back.

  Billy said, ‘You’re the weirdest private investigator I’ve ever met.'

  'You meet a lot of private investigators?'

  'No. But you’re still strange.'

  Billy motioned to hand King the scrap of paper, then recoiled, then leant forward again. Contemplating something.

  'Spit it out,' King said.

  ‘I don’t quite know how to put this.’

  ‘Put it however you want.’

  ‘Well, I feel like I have an opportunity here.’

  ‘An opportunity?’

  ‘To fix a problem. I feel like you’re the man to help.’

  ‘Elaborate.’

  ‘Look, it’s not exactly legal. I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  'Don’t worry. I’m not working with the police.'

  ‘No shit. You’re not a private investigator, either.'

  King shrugged. There was no point continuing to lie. He had everything he needed. 'Name’s Jason King.'

  'Who are you, Jason King?'

  'Someone who has nothing better to do than snoop around when they see something fishy.’

  'You’re American.'

  'You’re observant.'

  'You’re some kind of soldier. Or were, at least.'

  'How’d you know that?'

  'I overheard you talking to Suzanne.’

  'Good hearing.'

  ‘I’m not deaf. It’s a quiet place. Listen, mate, I’m willing to help you out with all this investigative stuff. I can tell you’ve got no ill intentions. I’ll give you Kate’s address. And I have a lot of money saved up. I can give you that, too.'

  'What do you need?'

  ‘You told me you’re trying to do the right thing.’

  King raised an eyebrow. 'If you’re suggesting I’m some kind of hero, I’m not. I’m just curious.'

  'Look around,' Billy said. 'What do you see?'

  King glanced left and right. 'A
shithole.'

  Billy smirked. 'You’re honest, too. Anyway, I’ve got nothing. It’s taken me years to save what I’ve got hidden away without anyone finding out.'

  'How much?'

  'About twenty grand.'

  King whistled. 'Not bad.'

  'Yeah, well, it’s yours if you can help. You heard of the Iron Rangers?'

  He shook his head.

  'Then you’re definitely not from around here.'

  'They sound like bikies.’

  'You bet. Batshit crazy too. They’ve got a clubhouse a couple of dozen k’s out of Jameson. And the little police station here has either been paid off or doesn’t give enough of a shit to try and intervene. They make every small business around here pay them a wage each week. They call it protection, but everyone knows what it really is.’

  ‘They’ll beat you up if you don’t pay?’

  ‘To say the least. They’re a toxic bunch.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Are they tough?’

  ‘They seem so.’

  King paused, trying to think of another way to put it. ‘Are they from around here?’

  He nodded. ‘All local boys. Fell in with the wrong crowd.’

  ‘Small town thugs,’ King said, nodding.

  ‘All the minuscule profits I make go straight to them. The money I’m offering you is all I’ve managed to store away.’

  King remained silent.

  'You’re a strong guy,’ Billy said. ‘I bet you could kill me with one hand.'

  Still no response.

  'I need you to make them stop.’

  'You think I can scare an entire motorcycle gang by myself?'

  ‘Like you said, they’re local thugs. I feel like you’re something else.’

  King raised an eyebrow. ‘Am I? That’s a wild assumption.’

  'Look, just go have a look around. You said yourself that you’re curious. I can see it. This postal box shit has nothing to do with you. You could be out of here in a heartbeat, but you’re hanging around.'

  'This is some action-hero crap you’re asking me to do, Billy.'

  'Just rough a couple of them up, mate. It’s twenty thousand dollars. I bet you did a hell of a lot more for a hell of a lot less in the past.'

  ‘You’re just full of theories.’

  ‘And you’re not stupid. You can see when an entire town is getting fucked over.'

  ‘At the moment I can’t see anything.’

  ‘They’re horrible people, man.’

  'I’ve got no evidence.'

  'Ask anyone around here. That’s your evidence.’

  A pause. King weighed up what he had heard. It was time to make a decision.

  'I’m not promising anything,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want you to promise me shit,’ Billy said. ‘Just go ask around. You’ll see something needs to be done.'

  King waited a few moments. 'You going to give me that Kate girl’s address?'

  'You going to help me out?'

  He could feel the stress leaching out of Billy’s bones. The man was gaunt, plagued by exhaustion. There were deep rings under his eyes.

  Someone had to do something about this.

  And who else was going to?

  He made up his mind to act a second before he decided he wasn’t going to go about it in a half-assed way.

  'Stay here,' he said. 'Tell me exactly where these Iron Rangers are. Keep Kate’s address until I get back. I’ll have a look around.'

  Billy’s eyes lit up. The despair dissipated into excitement. 'Thank you!'

  'Don’t thank me yet. Like I said, no promises.'

  'Fine by me.'

  King looked at his watch. 'I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Around lunchtime. If I’m not, call the cops.’

  ‘Don’t talk like that, mate, you’ll make me nervous,’ Billy said. ’What are the odds of something bad happening to you?’

  ‘To be honest,’ King said, wrenching open the door, ‘very slim.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The battered old sedan drifted to the left unless he battled to control it.

  At least it was better than walking.

  King kept one hand on the top of the faded steering wheel. The other clutched a rudimentary map Billy had drawn on a scrap of paper. It led him out of Jameson and down a winding road to the bottom of a gully. He was halfway there. The thick forest flashed past on either side, stirring eerie memories of the previous night. It was approaching high noon. The sun battered down on his forearms, glaring in through the open windows.

  He knew Billy was desperate. A man had been driven to his wits end if he decided to lend a total stranger his car. Billy had zero reassurance that he would get the vehicle back.

  But he would.

  The gesture made King trust him. For better or worse.

  Up ahead the forest cleared on one side of the road, making way for a small inlet packed full of buildings. The main clubhouse stood out amongst the group. A long low shack, positioned in the centre of the inlet. An enormous garage sat adjacent to it. The roller door had been raised, revealing several gleaming motorcycles propped up undercover. On either side of the main complex there were a scattering of small houses, each no bigger than an apartment flat. The whole place looked rundown and dirty.

  Just from assessing the exterior of their complex, he knew there would be no reasoning with these men. He’d seen their type before. Sheltered thugs, blissfully unaware of the outside world. Wrapped up in the fantasy that they were the toughest sons-of-bitches around. He pulled the sedan softly into the lot. The tyres crunched under the gravel, but even from this distance away he could hear heavy metal music blasting inside the clubhouse. They wouldn’t hear him.

  Good.

  He got out of the sedan and looked around. No sign of life. Two pairs of motorcycles in the garage, meaning everyone was home. Four-on-one. Not the worst odds he’d ever faced.

  As he stood completely still, inhaling deep lungfuls of air, an inkling of his past began to surface. The adrenalin. The shivers. The unsettled stomach.

  Signs of approaching conflict.

  He had no evidence that these bikies were involved in any kind of wrongdoing. Therefore, massive overwhelming force was not justified. Not yet. After pondering for a few seconds, King realised he looked like a fool loitering in front of the building. He decided to simply knock.

  He walked up onto the wooden deck. Faded planks creaked under his feet, but the din from inside only increased in volume as he got closer. A mixture of pounding drums and heavy guitar riffs pounded out of what sounded like an expensive sound system. One of the windows facing the front of the clubhouse lay ajar. The smell of weed and booze and tobacco seeped out. All the curtains were closed. He couldn’t see in. There was no knowing what he was up against.

  He knocked. Three sharp raps, loud and firm. Then he waited. The seconds ticked by. There came a grunt of exertion from somewhere inside. But no response.

  He knocked again. This time louder. Hard enough to rattle the doorframe. Still no answer. The music was deafening, drowning out all other sounds. They wouldn’t be able to hear him.

  Screw it, he thought. He didn’t have to be here.

  And he didn’t have to be polite.

  The door was made of flimsy wood panelling, with hinges that had rusted in their brackets long ago. Paint flaked off the frame. It was an old, rickety thing. Weak. King took a single step back, pinpointed the exact spot where the most force would be applied liberally to each support, and rammed a boot into the door.

  It was weaker than he had anticipated. With a snap like breaking bone the entire door ripped from its hinges and fell inward. It hit the dusty floor of the clubhouse and came to rest, surrounded by a halo of splinters.

  King stepped back again and waited patiently for a response.

  It didn’t take long. The music stopped instantly. At the same time, a cacophony of swearing echoed out onto the patio.

&nb
sp; ‘What the fuck…’

  ‘Fucking—!’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  But surprisingly, still no response. No-one barrelling out onto the deck, pumped full of aggression.

  They were hesitating.

  King had a strange feeling. Something wasn’t right here. He leant forward and stuck his head round the now empty doorframe.

  Bare skin. A flash of movement. A slight figure running into an adjacent room. Four beefy men scrambling for clothes. The musk of testosterone.

  He took one glimpse at the situation and saw blistering, flaming red.

  Someone was about to get hurt, and no-one was going to stop it.

  First, he had to confirm his suspicions. He strode fast and hard into the clubhouse. At six-foot-three he was an imposing figure to most, and right now there was unmistakable fury plastered across his face. It made all four men freeze up. He was in their midst before one of them could react. He made to move past them, to check the room he had seen someone enter.

  Suddenly a barrage of reactions, all at once.

  ‘Who the fuck do you think you are, mate?’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  King wondered who would make the first mistake. Then the man closest to him got in his way. Blocking his path to the room.

  Without breaking stride, King reached out and seized him by the throat before the poor guy even had time to assess the situation. With the other arm he wound up and thundered a fist straight and fast, like a whip being released. It slammed directly into the man’s forehead, a crushing blow that rattled his brain around inside his skull and knocked him instantly unconscious. King released him and he fell back, hitting the ground like a limp sack of shit. This wasn’t the movies. The guy’s head would not stop throbbing for the next week.

  He made it across the length of the clubhouse without any further confrontation. Shocked by a stranger interrupting their private matters and effortlessly incapacitating their friend, the other three stayed frozen to the spot. He took one look around the doorframe of the adjoining room and saw all he needed to see.

  A young girl, no older than thirteen, desperately wiggling into a pair of jeans.