by Matt Rogers
King crossed the space in front of the cave quickly, before the man inside had time to regroup and fire back. Hopefully, his warning shots had made the shooter recoil, abandon his aim. He made it safely to the lip of the cave and ducked behind one of the boulders, creating cover between them. He pressed himself against its wet stony surface and waited.
It made for a tense and difficult situation. The woods lapsed into silence, all wildlife scared off by the gunshots traded between the two men. King listened for any kind of noise from the cave, breathing heavy.
He thought he heard a noise. Footsteps on the rock, approaching fast. He stuck an arm around the boulder and pumped the trigger of the Beretta, once, twice, three times, firing blind. He continued to unload the clip. He lost count of the shots. He knew the Beretta M9 had a fifteen-round box magazine, but he had no idea when it would expire.
Finally, the gun clicked. King waited a moment, allowing the ringing in his ears to settle. Then he stuck his head around the corner, searching for any sign of a body near the lip of the cave.
Nothing visible.
A cacophony of heavy gunfire came back at him. He felt the displaced air all around his head and ducked back behind cover. The noise of the automatic rifle was deafening. The shooter had planned to overwhelm King with a swarm of bullets as soon as he stuck a limb out of cover. King heard the rounds continue to whizz past and knew aggression was taking over. The man was spraying and praying, hoping he had hit King.
Hoping it would all be over.
When King heard the unmistakeable click of another empty magazine ring out from the cave entrance, he didn’t hesitate. Now was his chance. It may be the only one he got.
He raced around the corner and charged headlong into the cave. At first he saw nothing but darkness. Then his heart skipped a beat as a figure came rushing out of the shadows. He hadn’t been expecting such a sudden response. He got one look at the man’s outfit — expensive khakis, a brand new bulletproof vest, jet black gloves, a woollen balaclava covering his face. A professional version of the last two men. This guy had experience. He moved with the agility of someone who kept themselves in impeccable shape. King began to regret adopting such a foolhardy approach, but by then it was too late.
The pair collided and sprawled out across the rocky floor of the cave. They had met just inside the entrance, before King could sink into its dark recesses. Enough light spilled into the space to make their surroundings visible. King knew he had potentially met his match, and an urge to gain the advantage early overtook him. He scrambled to his feet and charged at the man, dropping his shoulder low, attempting to crash-tackle him into the opposite wall.
The guy reacted explosively, faster than King thought possible, and swung a knee hard and fast. It caught King on the forehead. He felt the sharp crack against his skull and his neck whipped back and he spun away, shocked by the impact. Not concussed, but close. He slammed into the rocky wall and blinked hard. Seeing stars.
The man sensed he was shaken and moved in for the kill. He came charging in and lashed out with a strong uppercut, putting everything into it, searching for King’s chin. King sidestepped just in time and the punch whistled through the air near his head. Now they were too close to each other to rely on technique.
The fight quickly became a rabid brawl.
King swung with everything he had, loading up on all his punches, hunting for the knockout blow just as hard as the other man was. Pure, unbridled energy crackled in the air. The energy of two men trained in combat, knowing that it only took one shot to land to ensure they would live, knowing that one of them had to die. King felt something primal in him break through, lending him extra speed and strength. He simply had to land the blow.
It came in a flurry. He ripped a body shot into the man’s stomach, below the vest, twisting his torso as he swung and driving his fist into the soft spot with everything he had. A powerful right hook grazed off the top of his head but did not faze him. He felt the guy begin to double over, all the breath knocked out of him, accompanied by a grunt of exertion. A single moment of much-needed recovery. Which, as always, was all King required. With his other arm he cracked the guy in the jaw. It gave off a grotesque sound, which he knew translated to a concussion. The man’s brain rattled inside his skull, dazing him, rendering him useless.
King surged forward, gritting his teeth in anger, and wrapped his big hands around the back of the guy’s neck. He pulled him down, using all the fire in his muscles, all the chaotic adrenaline of a life-or-death brawl. The guy’s head dropped without resistance, still affected by the flash knockout seconds earlier. King guided his face on the correct trajectory and met it with a vicious knee straight to the nose. The sound of breaking bone rang off the mossy walls and the man’s legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor of the cave, out cold.
As silence descended once again, King began to feel the effects of the fight. During such a brawl, one became almost superhuman, able to withstand any shot that didn’t lead to unconsciousness. He’d been cracked across the chin and the neck several times. He knew they were blows from a trained fighter because they hurt like all hell. His head pounded, his eyes ached. He felt the warm sensation of blood on his lips and knew he’d been cut bad by a grazing punch. It might not have taken much more to finish him off.
If he hadn’t landed the perfect combination, he had no doubts that the man lying unconscious in front of him would have out-struck him. Then beat him to death. He’d got a glimpse of the guy’s eyes during the fight. They were much like his.
Cold. Emotionless.
He’d killed before.
King knew that much.
He also knew that concussions were nothing like the movies. The guy would be awake in seconds. Perhaps not fully aware, but awake nonetheless. If he stayed out for hours, like in films, it would mean permanent brain damage.
Sure enough, his limbs began to twitch and he came to with a groan. King made eye contact and knew he was helpless. Spaced out. Defenceless. King squatted, wrapped a hand around the top of the guy’s balaclava and ripped it off. He wanted to get a look at the face of the man who had almost got the better of him.
At first, he didn’t realise what he saw. Close-cropped hair, blue eyes, a steely expression, a scar on the left cheek, chapped lips. He stared at the features, and knew that he recognised them, but for some reason he failed to process the man in front of him. A wave of sheer disbelief crashed over him.
‘You can’t be serious,’ he whispered, finally accepting what he was seeing. ‘Cole?’
He knew this man.
Which changed the entire dynamic of the situation.
Somehow, some way, his past had followed him across the planet, to a small country town in the middle of isolated Australian woodland. An old friend from years ago had just tried to murder him violently. He had spent a full year with Cole Watkins in the Delta Force before being offered a more secretive, more specialised position.
This man had been his friend.
A wave of crippling nausea almost buckled him. He came to the realisation that he hadn’t just stumbled upon a random conspiracy in the town of Jameson. This entire ordeal had something to do with him. He was no closer to the truth, but now he knew that whoever was behind this had intended his involvement from the beginning. None of this was random.
He was trapped in some kind of sick game, and it didn’t matter whether he left Jameson behind, because this would follow him until he discovered how he was connected. Or died in the process.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ King said. ‘What is this?’
Cole stared at him with blank, cloudy eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was the effects of the concussion, or if the man was drugged, or if he simply did not care to answer the question. What came next certainly answered that.
Cole reached back with a shaky hand and ripped a combat knife out of his belt. He swung it low, aiming the tip at King’s stomach. King reacted fast, outstretching both hands, searc
hing for Cole’s forearm, finding it, reversing the swing of the blade, slamming it home into his old friend’s throat.
The man died spluttering in a pool of his own blood, and in that moment King knew his best chance at getting answers had died with him.
CHAPTER 22
The slow trek back to the main road passed in a haze.
King left Cole’s body in the cave, too deep in thought to bother attempting to hide it. He continued up through the verdure. Stepped over the two men who had ambushed him on the way down. They remained as dead as ever. He left them there too. At that moment, nothing mattered but the revelation that he was being hunted by people he knew. He had no idea why, or how many of them there were. It had skewed his perspective on the last few days, to the point where he questioned every encounter he’d made since stepping foot in Jameson.
He approached Billy’s sedan in a daze, uncaring as to whether it was still drivable. He opened the door and got in. Started the engine. Reversed out into the middle of the road, thinking how lucky he was not to be stranded miles from any town without a working vehicle. It seemed the crash had missed most of the important mechanics, but he wasn’t sure the car would last much longer. The smoke creeping out of one side of the bonnet threatened to shut the engine down at any moment. King knew he had to get to Queensbridge, to the Discount Inn, but his mind was far from concentrated on the task at hand.
He covered the last few miles to Queensbridge in record time, keeping his foot all the way to the floor. The wind battered his face as he drove, but that’s what he wanted. Anything to mask the anger and confusion. It didn’t take long to see the familiar buildings on either side of him, signifying that he was approaching the town centre. He’d passed through Queensbridge two mornings before. It felt like an eternity ago. So much had happened in such a short space of time. And this fresh revelation had shaken him to his core.
He rolled the battered sedan into the parking lot of the Discount Inn and got out. The place lived up to its name. It was a two-storey building with paint flaking off the exterior walls and cheap plastic chairs littering the tiny spaces outside each room. Even from outside King heard a crying baby in a downstairs room and a couple arguing at the top of their lungs directly above. The whole place smelt of stale cigarette smoke. He spotted reception, which was all he needed.
By now the sun had almost fully risen. It shone over the horizon, blinding him, making his head ache more than it already was. In a terrible mood, he slammed the car door, drawing the attention of a pair of women jogging past. Early morning exercise. They took one look at him and gasped in shock. As they continued running, King swore that their pace quickened.
He wondered why.
It didn’t take long to find out. As he approached reception, one of the tinted windows displayed his reflection. He studied the image, and even he felt like gasping. His nose had run rivulets of blood down the lower half of his face, caking his lips. A large gash at the top of his head had opened up, and that too was bleeding. One cheek was in the process of swelling. Judging by its rapid development, most of his face would be completely purple by tomorrow.
The absolute chaos of the morning had numbed his injuries. It had acted as a masking agent, hiding just how battered he truly was. He knew he had come close to unconsciousness in the fight with Cole. Now he realised just how dangerous of a position he’d been in. He looked down at his hands. One looked like it had been covered with red paint. The stab wound had bled heavily all up his forearm.
He was a mess.
But it was too late to turn around now. He pushed the reception door open and stepped inside.
The receptionist looked up from a stack of papers and visibly paled. He was a balding man with a rotund belly and wire bespectacled glasses. Probably in his mid-fifties. His face was full of warmth and kindness, but that began to dissipate when he saw a bloodied, beaten stranger heading for the desk.
‘Uh, can I help you?’ he said, stumbling on his words.
‘I know how I look,’ King said. ‘And I’m sorry. I don’t want to scare you. I just need your help.’
‘What happened to you?’
‘I can’t really explain much.’
‘You’d better, or I’m not going to help you at all.’
‘A couple of guys stayed here last night,’ he said. ‘They probably seemed a bit off. A bit different to everyone else that comes through. Do you know who I’m talking about?’
The man nodded.
‘Well, I need access to their room.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
‘Please.’
‘I can’t just go around handing out room keys to strangers. Especially those that look like you.’
‘That’s flattering.’
‘Sorry. Nothing I can do.’
‘Okay—’ King glanced at the man’s name badge, ‘—Ronald. Here’s the thing. I have had a very, very bad morning. Those two men have done a lot of terrible shit that I unfortunately can’t go into detail about. I’m not a cop, but you need to treat me like one. I need access to that room. It’s for the right reasons, I promise you. And if you don’t give me a key, I’m just going to kick the door of Room 32 off its hinges and find what I’m looking for anyway. And I don’t want to do that, because you seem like a nice guy. Now you might call the police if I do that, but by the time they get here I’ll be gone and you’ll have a broken door that will probably cost you a hell of a lot of money to replace. And you won’t sue me for it, because you’ll never see me again. So either give me the key or pay for repairs.’
A pause. ‘You’re not giving me much of a choice.’
‘No, I’m really not.’
‘I’m calling the police the second I hand this over.’
‘Go right ahead. I’m beyond caring.’
‘I hope you’re doing the right thing.’
‘I am.’
‘Is there anything I can do to avoid either one of those two situations you listed?’
‘Not really.’
Ronald handed over a key. ‘Fucking asshole.’
King nodded his thanks, then turned on his heel and left reception. He walked down a narrow corridor which opened out into a spacious courtyard with a small water fountain at its centre, surrounded on all sides by motel rooms.
He tried to ignore how much pain he was in and located Room 32 after a minute of searching. It was a small single room, the brick exterior painted white to match the other fifty rooms in the Discount Inn. All bland, monotonous, cheap, nondescript; the qualities of a standard motel room. King unlocked the door and stepped inside.
It was immaculate. By the look of the rest of the Discount Inn, he guessed it had not been cleaned by staff. They would not give each room this much attention. Which meant the killers were men of habit, who kept everything neat and orderly at all times. They were hitmen, after all. A field where organisation and routine were of the utmost importance.
A pair of black duffel bags lay side-by-side on the kitchen table. Their belongings. King crossed to them and spent the next five minutes scrutinising their contents for anything suspicious, anything that could possibly lead to the people at the top, to answers. By the time he’d rifled through each possession twice he had to conclude that the bags were clean. Nothing but clothes, toiletries and a pair of passports that were almost certainly not their real identities. Seasoned professionals. They didn’t leave anything to track them to their employer.
King stopped.
Unless they didn’t know who their employer was.
Suddenly everything clicked. If they’d known who was paying them, then the post office activities were entirely unnecessary. They would have simply been supplied with the information in some clearing in the middle of nowhere, away from prying eyes. Kate had served as the bridge between the two parties, to ensure the people in charge remained anonymous. She was the fall girl. On all the cameras. Vulnerable. She would have taken the blame after this was all over.
Whatever
this was.
Then King had approached her at her home. A mysterious stranger, full of questions, right after their two contract killers had vanished off the face of the earth. They’d decided to eliminate both of them. Clear up loose ends. Hence the sniper at the landfill site, and the imposter at the police station.
It still didn’t explain the package. There was something more to it than just a phone. On the security footage, Buzzcut had extracted the phone from the top of the box, but it contained something else. King was sure of it. Therefore, it was here somewhere.
He looked up at the ceiling. It was made of gypsum boards, all square and white and identical. He wondered if they were fixed into place. He climbed onto the bed and reached up, prodding at one. It gave way. He slid it to the side, revealing a dark space above the motel room. Empty space. A decent storage area for a package.
He glanced around the room. There was no better vantage point to reach the boards than from on the bed. Hopefully, the package would be where he thought it was. He stuck a hand into the space and patted the other side of the gypsum all around the hole. Nothing but dust. Then, at the very edge of his reach, his fingers brushed something. He clawed at the object until it rolled over and he was able to tug it down from the space.
A brown paper package, torn open at one end.
With a smile of relief he dropped it onto the kitchen table, alongside the hitmen’s bags, and tore the remaining paper off. It was a briefcase, not locked, simply secured by a pair of clasps. King unlocked it and swung it open, revealing a customised foam interior. There were three outlines carved into the material. Two were in the shape of handguns, now empty. Weapons, supplied by the employer. Probably necessary after a quick flight to Australia. The final outline was small and square and still held its contents. A note. Folded immaculately. Old school. It read: