by Matt Rogers
The actions always calmed him. He’d been powerlifting his entire career. Even when the world had seemingly fallen apart around him, the weights were still there. When every ounce of effort in your body is primed and focused on heaving hundreds of pounds off the floor, there’s not much room to mull over past memories.
It helped keep his mind in the present.
A task he’d been trying to accomplish more and more with each passing day.
He loaded another plate on each side and stared at the weight before him.
Six hundred pounds.
It had taken him years of training to reach this point. He dusted his hands with chalk, settled into position, took a deep breath and tapped into something primal. Something animalistic. He grit his teeth and wrenched at the bar, activating each muscle simultaneously. It rose. He locked out his legs, then lowered it, then raised it one more time.
Two reps. Face crimson, veins pumping.
He let the weight crash back down and took some time to recover.
The rest of the workout passed quickly. He followed the deadlifts with a range of accessory movements, then thirty minutes of steady-state cardio. All the power in the world was useless if he couldn’t keep aerobically fit at the same time.
Sweating from seemingly every pore at once, he crossed the room and spent a short gruelling stint in the sauna, flushing out his body. It was therapeutic. He let droplets of sweat cover the floor below. Hunched low. Head bowed. Exercise was just that.
Temporary discomfort for long-term benefit.
A cold shower cooled him down and closed up his pores. He dried himself and dressed in the spare clothes he’d brought. A casual T-shirt with a cut in the neckline and jeans. The sports bag went into one of the empty lockers and he took the elevator back to the ground floor.
An hour of gruelling exercise. Yet now he was refreshed and invigorated for the day ahead.
He had no particular destination. No pressing matters of concern. It had taken some time to become accustomed to such a lifestyle. Years upon years of following orders had taken their toll. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice told him there were responsibilities he was avoiding.
You should be at war.
He shrugged it off, and stepped out into the humid glow of a late morning in Venezuela.
Diamanté Resort stood out against its surroundings, shiny and vast against the dusty, dilapidated buildings around it. It was situated right near the beach, making it a prime tourist destination. King figured he would get away from its lure. See Maiquetía for what it really was. That meant no tourists. No fake luxury. He needed a break from the unrelenting niceties of such an expensive hotel.
He crossed the busy street, weaving between traffic. He passed tourists weighed down by bags and seaside convenience stores complete with roller security shutters. It seemed in this area there were CCTV cameras on every corner. Food trucks lined the promenade facing the Caribbean Sea, all painted in an array of bright colours to attract the eye of potential customers.
A local man at the bar the night before had told King of a bazaar just a ten-minute walk from the hotel. He’d spoken of steaming native food and ice-cold drinks. The recommendation had come with a demand that King try something called tequeños. He wasn’t one to turn down a good meal.
Besides, he had nowhere else to be.
Overhead, clouds formed on the horizon, threatening to roll in later in the day. For now it was sunny. The humidity hung thick in the air, drawing sweat from his pores again. It was seemingly impossible to avoid such a dilemma in this country. He didn’t care. The conditions were pleasant when he contrasted them with a previous life.
A few local pedestrians shot him quizzical glances as he headed further away from the main tourist district, wondering what a foreigner was doing moving away from relative safety. Many ignored him. They probably figured that — given his stature — he could handle his own.
They were right.
He found the bazaar easily enough. A chaotic babbling rose from one of the streets branching off the main road. He turned down it and found himself in between two long rows of rickety wooden stalls, all covered in various forms of fabric. Most had been faded by the sun long ago. Enthusiastic vendors spruiked their deals to the crowd, comprised mostly of locals. The customers haggled back. It resulted in a cacophony of shouting and gesticulating that would have scared away many tourists unfamiliar to the sights and sounds.
King had seen enough of the world. He was unperturbed. He started wandering along the street, glancing at stalls on either side.
Then he saw three men heading for him.
No, not for him. Past him. They strode purposefully, coming from the other direction. There was something important on their minds, that was for sure. They moved with the confidence and the wide gait of a trio that exerted control. Customers in the bazaar hurried out of their way. A few nearby civilians made sure not to come into contact with them.
The men weren’t used to taking shit from anyone.
One was short and fat. He wore an open singlet and a faded tracksuit. His rosy cheeks had reddened under the morning sun. He walked in front, striding with an exaggerated swagger, chin up, beady eyes flicking over the crowd, searching for anyone who might have the gall to initiate a confrontation. The other two were a few inches taller. Similar dress. Similar demeanour.
From where he stood, King realised he was in their path.
Without giving it a second thought, he decided not to move.Something about them already irritated him.
He pretended to browse one of the stalls, keeping himself firmly rooted in place. The stocky guy in front came within range. He went to brush past, expecting King to scurry out of the way.
King did not.
The stocky guy sensed this a second before they touched and took the effort to drop his shoulder down and drive it into King’s torso, adding power to the shove. Sending a message. Don’t get in my way, asshole.
It didn’t work.
The thug simply bounced off King’s frame, unable to shift him even an inch out of place. The guy had to take an awkward step to the side in order to correct his footing and save himself from toppling off-balance. He hadn’t expected to run into a brick wall.
Which made him look like an idiot.
Something he certainly didn’t appreciate.
CHAPTER 2
He squared up to King, eyes wide, temper flaring. ‘Got a fuckin’ problem, extranjero?’
King peered down at the little man. ‘Don’t think so.’
‘American!’ the guy said, cackling. ‘Ey, boys, we got ourselves an American! Do you know where you are, gringo?’
‘I do.’
‘You clearly don’t. Otherwise you would have got the fuck out of my way.’
‘I’m in a market,’ King said.
The guy paused for a second. Confused. The smile disappeared. ‘What?’
‘See? I know where I am.’
‘You think you’re clever?’
‘Reasonably.’
‘Not clever enough. You didn’t recognise me. You’re loco.’
‘Am I supposed to be scared of a circus midget?’
‘You cut that shit, gringo. You don’t know who I work for.’
‘I really don’t care.’
The guy glared at him. King could tell he would shortly resort to blows. A ball of anger had been building over the course of the conversation — and now it would finally culminate in a swing, or a shove, or something along those lines. He kept himself primed, ready to react to any sort of explosive movement. The thug was an angry little ball of rage.
Napoleon complex in full effect, he thought.
‘You want us to hurt you?’ the fat guy said.
‘Not really. I don’t like getting hurt.’
‘Then apologise.’
‘Apologise for what?’
‘For bumping me. And calling me a midget.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘B
ecause we’ll fuck you up otherwise.’
King raised two eyebrows and smiled like he’d been told the funniest joke in the world. ‘And how are you going to do that?’
The guy let out a loud, sardonic laugh. ‘You just wait and see.’
King was done with conversation. The trio could attempt to intimidate him as much as they desired, but it wasn’t going to work. So they would either try something — or they would move on. He was prepared for either option.
The fat guy decided on the former.
He swung a balled fist in a wide uppercut, charged with the fury of a man who had been provoked. A big looping haymaker. King saw it coming from a mile away. He simply leant back on his heel and moved his chin back a few inches. Even if he’d stayed put, the impact would have been nothing more than a glancing blow. It went swinging past, almost in slow-motion. Barely any effort was involved in the evasive manoeuvre. King knew he had the speed and dexterity to avoid pinpoint-accurate shots from trained martial artists. The man in front of him was nothing of the sort.
The fat guy in question went stumbling past, dropping his head low. He’d overcompensated. Thrown himself off balance for the second time in a minute. King wrapped two hands around the guy’s singlet and used brute strength to heave him along, adding an abundance of forward momentum to the stumble. The guy’s feet scuffled against the dusty ground and he tripped and slammed head-first into the brick wall between two of the stalls. Vendors on either side watched in quiet bemusement as he slumped to the ground and sat there, staring up at King.
Dazed and disoriented and confused all at once.
King turned around, expecting adrenalin-fuelled confrontation from the other two. He found none. They stared at him, hesitant to make a move. Their feet remained firmly planted on the baked asphalt. He registered the look in their eyes and knew he would face no further issues. They were angry, sure. Furious, even. But behind that mask of fake aggression there was shock and awe.
Not many people reacted to violence the way King did.
‘We’re done here?’ he said simply.
They did not respond.
‘We’re done,’ King said.
He turned his back on them and set off down the bazaar — the way he’d been heading in the first place. Little had changed. The incessant drone of chatter had not dimmed during the confrontation. Clearly the locals couldn’t care less about a minor scuffle. They’d seen worse.
As he strolled he took a final glance behind him and saw the fat guy still on the ground, arms on his knees, staring at King. His face sported an expression somewhere between disbelief and embarrassment.
Not a good combination, King thought.
He figured they would come for him. For a few reasons. When confronted, the fat guy had instantly highlighted his own importance. Meaning the trio were probably part of some kind of gang. And several passersby had witnessed the altercation. These men could not be made laughing stocks. They prided themselves on their reputation. Which meant they would need to make an example out of the man who had just made them look like fools.
King figured if further action was necessary, it would do good to get it out of the way quickly.
So he turned left at the end of the bazaar and made for the quieter streets of Maiquetía.
He spotted an alleyway running between two high-rise apartment buildings, both shoddily constructed, seemingly on the verge of collapse. He paused at the entrance and assessed its contents. The narrow lane reeked of urine and garbage. He saw dried puddles of vomit on the ground and overflowing dumpsters lining the walls. It was uninhabited.
Perfect.
He strode into the alley, and there he waited.
It didn’t take long.
The three of them rounded the corner less than a minute later. This time, they were armed. King spotted the shiny glint of knife blades and he felt his body react accordingly.
Instantly his adrenal glands released the hormone cortisol. He experienced this sensation through the usual symptoms — a churning gut, a dry mouth and cold hands. He knew that the sole purpose of cortisol was to tap into the body’s energy reserves. Recognising a life-or-death situation was imminent, he felt an unnatural vigour. He knew things were drastically more serious given the emergence of weapons. The instinctual fight-or-flight mechanism kicked in.
Usually he gave leeway to thugs and common criminals who wanted nothing more than a fight. He showed mercy, because most of them were too dumb to know any better.
But not when weapons capable of fatal wounds were thrown into the mix.
Now he would respond with everything he had.
The two taller men brandished traditional box cutters, probably extracted from their pockets. The fat guy had something a little heftier. His porky fingers were clasped around the handle of a sizeable machete, more than likely picked up from one of the stalls on the way to the alley. It looked devastating. Sharpened to perfection. Probably on sale for an exorbitant price.
The three of them advanced simultaneously. Smart, King thought. They could certainly overwhelm him if they attacked all at once. He had to break their formation.
For the first time in months, he felt true fear. It didn’t happen often. Usually the odd confrontation he found himself in — like the altercation in the bazaar — quickly resolved itself without any sort of real threat to his wellbeing. A long and violent career had conditioned him to embrace physical incidents as nothing more than an ordinary part of life. He thought nothing of them. He’d moved on from the scuffle in the market seconds after he walked away.
But now the atmosphere had shifted. His pulse increased. His hands were clammy. The natural physiological response to fear reared its ugly head. He welcomed the sensation. It provided a sort of tunnel vision as he responded cognitively to the threat. He zoned in, ignoring the behavioural instinct to escape. It was human nature to run away from a threat when faced with one as dire as this.
King’s life experiences had allowed him to almost completely eliminate that sort of natural reaction.
He grit his teeth and forced himself to fight.
The response came as if it were second nature.
Back-pedalling down the alley, he snatched one of the fat garbage bags off the top of a dumpster and hurled it like a fastball at the fat guy. It hit him in the torso, which caused absolutely no damage. But that wasn’t the point. Upon impact the bag squelched and its material slit open. The contents erupted from the gash. Garbage juices splashed across the man’s singlet, covering his bare arms. Droplets sprayed over his mouth.
One of two things would now happen.
Either the fat guy would fall back, recoiling away from the disgusting occurrence. Or he would be blinded by rage and charge forward. He didn’t possess the discipline or experience to ignore the provocation and concentrate solely on the task at hand. King knew enough about human nature to be aware of that.
The guy sprinted at him.
Perfect.
He ducked under the first machete swing, a maximum-energy horizontal slash aimed at his throat. As he dropped and felt the blade whisk through the air above the back of his neck, he couldn’t help but feel relief. The first shot was always the most dangerous. Once again the man had put all his effort into a single action. Perhaps he would never learn. Perhaps he would continue to suffer the consequences of such behaviour for the rest of his life.
Whatever the case, he wouldn’t forget what happened next anytime soon.
Now well in range, King thundered an uppercut into the guy’s mid-section, targeting the soft tissue on the side of his torso. Searching for the liver. If he placed it perfectly, he knew the guy would be incapacitated for hours.
At least.
The liver was a solid organ coated in a tough fibrous membrane. This membrane did not like to be stretched in any way. King’s balled-up fist landed with all the upper body strength he had. And he had plenty. His knuckles crunched into soft pudgy skin, shooting a vicious amount of power into th
e guy’s liver, resulting in one of the most painful sensations the human body could experience.
The guy dropped his hands and his legs buckled and he collapsed to the dirty alley floor, moaning and crying. His body reacted without his brain’s approval. An instinctive response. He curled into a fetal position and let out a sob, paralysed by the pain.
By then King had already stepped over him. His eyes darted left and right, scouring the expressions of the two remaining men. Both were shocked by the sudden turn of events, yet the man on the left seemed to have his focus still locked on King. The man on the right stared past him, observing the fat guy’s agony in disbelief. Distracted.
King had a split second to deal with the more focused man.
The guy swung the box cutter, fast. King shot out a hand and wrapped it around his slight wrist, halting the momentum of the swing. Now the strength advantage came into play. He pushed off one leg and drove the guy back-first into the alley wall. The action was accompanied by a brutal thud, knocking the wind out of the man’s lungs. King kept a vice-like grip on the guy’s wrist, preventing any more opportunities to stab out with the knife. With the right he swung an elbow. He twisted his body into it. It crashed against his adversary’s chin, breaking bone. Elbows were short and sharp. It didn’t take long to throw one. He wound back and hit the guy with another pair, each knocking teeth loose. Three total, rapid fire. Bam-bam-bam.
When he let go, the guy dropped like a rag doll.
King spun. Eyes wide, veins pumping. Searching for the last guy.
Just in time.
The man had come to his senses and charged head-long, his knife hand outstretched, looking to drive the blade into him. King used the length of his legs to his advantage. He lashed out in a front kick. Two fluid motions. Bring the knee up, leg bent. Then extend it, pushing off the other leg, driving power through the hips. The heel of his foot met the guy’s chest with enough force to stop a bull. The man had been sprinting full-pelt, so the change in momentum sent him skittering away. He let out a surprised wheeze, suddenly clawing for breath.