Imprisoned: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 2)

by Matt Rogers

  ‘This isn’t the prison?’ he said to Tomás.

  The man laughed cruelly. ‘Far from it. If you think this place is bad, you don’t know what you’re in for if we throw you in El Infierno.’

  King knew enough rudimentary Spanish to translate the name of said prison.

  Hell.

  He certainly hoped he didn’t make it there.

  The officers frog-marched him to the largest cell and stopped outside its door. Tomás roared a command at the screaming men within. They withdrew from the doorway, shrinking away. Completely insane, yet obedient to authority.

  As Tomás unlocked the door, King sized up the situation. At least twenty men inside the cell. All twitching and shivering. Most hopped up on some kind of narcotic. They would all want a piece of him. They’d want to prove themselves to their fellow miscreants.

  He knew what needed to be done. It would mean lashing out in an unprovoked attack, but it was necessary to preserve his own wellbeing. At the end of the day, he had to put his own safety first.

  They pushed him in and slammed the door shut behind him. None of the men inside moved. They stared at the congregation of officers outside with vacant glassy eyes and twitching lips. When the policemen turned their backs and made for the processing room they’d come from, King knew that it would be seconds before one of his cellmates attacked.

  They were itching for a fight.

  He watched Tomás lead the three other policemen back down the hallway. Then he spun and shot out both hands, seizing the nearest man by the collar. This guy had the look of a meth addict. He was skinny and gaunt and aggressive as all hell. King activated his muscles and lifted the guy off his feet before he could mount any kind of offence. He kept him elevated with a single arm, and with the other wound up and crashed a fist into his nose. Blood spurted from both nostrils. The guy let out a cry of pain.

  King let go and he fell to the ground in a heap.

  The animalistic grunts and screams ceased. Everyone stared at the aftermath in awe.

  ‘You see that?!’ King roared, loud enough for every cell to hear. He pointed a finger at the curled-up addict. ‘The next person to fuck with me gets exactly that! Do not fuck with me!’

  The speech had its intended effect. Instantly the atmosphere inside the cell shifted. The undercurrent of aggression faded away. He assumed none of the men spoke English, yet they had received the general tone of his message well enough. They dispersed, breaking the formation of the group, turning their attention back to whatever it was they’d been doing before he arrived. Some sat on the rusting steel benches lining the cell walls. Others sat on the ground, lighting cigarettes. They’d seen enough. They knew he meant business.

  Not an easy target — which was all they seemed to be interested in.

  When the crowd cleared, King saw a man sitting on a bench in the far corner. He had his legs up on its surface. His head rested against the concrete wall. He was European, dressed differently to all the other thugs. They wore tattered clothing, covered in stains and full of holes. He wore an expensive polo shirt and a pair of designer jeans. The clothing had started to turn filthy from his time in the cell. But it was still a considerable step above the other men.

  King crossed the room and sat down next to the guy.

  ‘I’m Jason King,’ he said. ‘You speak English?’

  The man turned his head and made eye contact for the first time. He had tanned skin and defined cheekbones. His long black hair was tied back. He stared vacantly at King.

  ‘I guess not,’ King said.

  ‘You guess wrong,’ the guy said, affected by only a slight trace of a Spanish accent. ‘Name’s Roman.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Roman.’

  ‘Pleasure’s all mine.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Taking a vacation.’ Silence. Roman’s expression remained dead-faced. Then he laughed. ‘What the fuck do you think I’m doing in here, buddy?’

  ‘I meant — what are you in for?’

  Roman didn’t respond. He withdrew a long cigar from the pocket of his polo; a fat Cuban. He placed the head between his pearly white teeth. Pulled out a silver lighter. Lit the foot. Took a long puff. Exhaled a cloud of smoke and rested his head against the wall once again. A nearby cellmate noticed the scent and looked up from his position on the floor, eyes wide. Roman shook his head and the thug bowed back down.

  Defeated by a single gesture.

  ‘They do what you tell them?’ King said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Roman took another long draw on the cigar. ‘I think the real question is — who are you? They know me around here. I know them. None of us know you.’

  ‘I’m new in town.’

  ‘I know. You’re either new, or not important.’

  ‘You know everyone important?’

  Roman nodded. ‘Almost.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I’m in the import-export business.’

  King nodded his understanding. ‘So what are you doing in here?’

  ‘Got into a fight. They weren’t happy with me. Threw me in for the night.’

  ‘You can’t pay them off?’

  Roman shrugged. ‘Usually I can. Not today, it seems. Caught them on a bad day.’

  ‘Unlucky.’

  ‘So who are you?’

  ‘Nobody,’ King said. ‘I’m retired.’

  ‘Terrible way to handle retirement. What’d you get arrested for?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘No. I’m hoping that will come out soon enough.’

  Roman exploded in laughter, a bellowing cackle from somewhere deep in his stomach. He coughed from the cigar smoke and slapped his knee. ‘My friend, nothing comes out in here.’

  King stared at him. ‘What?’

  ‘There doesn’t have to be a reason,’ Roman said. ‘That’s how this place works. “Murder” is bullshit. You’re in here because someone wants you in here. Simple as that.’

  ‘And when will they let me go?’

  ‘Impossible to say. From how angry the captain looked — I’d say never.’

  ‘They can do that?’

  Roman smiled. ‘Welcome to Venezuela.’

  CHAPTER 6

  A long row of dirty glass windows were built high into the opposite wall. They showed nothing more than a sliver of sky, but a quick glance out revealed that it was approaching late-afternoon. King had sat in silence for the best part of an hour, observing the cell. Staying wary for any signs of danger. Mulling over his options.

  He had few.

  He quickly realised that an escape attempt in the lobby of Diamanté Resort would have been the smartest move. A public space, with plenty of variables. A lot of room for error by the police. A vicious elbow to the left, a headbutt to the right, a thunderous kick into Tomás’ groin — and he would have bought a few precious seconds to disappear into the crowd. It might have worked. Probably not. But a bullet in the back was preferable to whatever awaited him in El Infierno.

  There was nothing to do now but play their sick game.

  He turned to Roman, who had drifted into a doze. ‘Hey.’

  The man opened his eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘What happens to you?’

  ‘They’ll probably let me go in the morning. My business partners will contact the station. Might pay a bribe. Whatever the case, it shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Can I pay a bribe?’

  ‘You got a lot of money?’

  King shrugged. ‘I have enough.’

  Roman raised an eyebrow. ‘What brings a rich man like yourself to a place like this?’

  ‘The travel bug, I guess.’

  ‘Well, to each their own. What business were you in?’

  ‘I was a soldier.’

  ‘A rich man and a soldier are mutually exclusive.’

  ‘Not the case for me.’

  ‘Ah — you
were specialised?’

  ‘I won’t go into details.’

  ‘It’s pretty clear from the way you demolished Hector. The guy’s got a bit of a name for himself out in the streets. Would be embarrassing if people found out he got manhandled by a tourist.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  The cigar flared as Roman touched it to his lips. ‘Retaliation might be in order.’

  King sighed. They looked across the cell at the man he’d attacked on the way in.

  Hector, apparently.

  He sat with his arms wrapped around his legs on the other side of the cell. Blood had caked dry under his nose, covering his lips. He rocked back and forth, muttering under his breath, staring at them from afar. Scrutinising King.

  ‘If he tries anything, it won’t be pretty,’ King said.

  Roman looked across. ‘What are you telling me for? You think I care?’

  ‘I’m worried the police will care.’

  The man laughed. ‘No-one will give a shit. Anything can be bought in this place.’

  ‘Except my freedom, apparently.’

  Roman raised a finger. ‘Fair point. Except your freedom. Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Were you looking for drugs in Vargas?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Drugs. It might be why you’re in here. If you were too intrusive.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you get any requests? To carry out favours for anyone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A man of your skill-set … might be appealing to some of the criminals in this state.’

  ‘That’s a wild assumption.’

  ‘Is it correct?’

  King cocked his head, taken aback by the barrage of questions. ‘No, Roman. Stop asking.’

  Roman shrugged and settled back against the wall. ‘Fair enough.’

  They lapsed into silence once more. The sky outside darkened and the air seemed to grow thicker. It was stifling in the cell. The stench seeped into everything. King’s shirt had long ago been soaked through with sweat. He saw some of the thugs peeling off their clothing in an attempt to cool themselves. He did the same, removing the shirt so he just wore jeans. He draped the wet shirt over the bench.

  ‘Do we get dinner?’ he said.

  ‘If you have money,’ Roman said. ‘Do you?’

  King nodded. ‘In my pocket. I’m not sure about pulling it out in front of these guys.’

  ‘Smart move, my friend. Wait for one of the guards to walk past. Then let him know what you want. He’ll get anything for the right price.’

  It didn’t take long for a man to stroll down the hallway, throwing a brief glance into each cell. Checking that no bodies needed removing, King presumed. He got up off the bench and powered through the crowd of resting thugs. A few grumbled as he brushed past, but no further action was taken. They’d clearly decided he was too much trouble to bother antagonising.

  ‘Hey,’ King said.

  The guard stopped. Turned. His dishevelled thinning hair had been matted to his forehead by the heat. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Can you get me some food?’

  ‘Food?’

  His accent was thick. King guessed he spoke barely any English. He made a gesture with both hands, miming eating from a bowl. He nodded at the same time.

  ‘One hundred bolivares,’ the guy said.

  Ten dollars. Not a bad price for a meal, all things considered. King shoved a hand into his pocket and withdrew a cluster of twenty-bolivar notes. He handed five over and shoved the rest back into his jeans. The guard turned on his heel and walked back the way he’d come.

  A low hum started in the cell. It began with a pair of men chattering to each other in Spanish, gesticulating at King. Then more joined in, until it seemed every man in the cell was discussing him.

  They’d seen the money.

  Bad news.

  He stared at Hector, who had a newfound glint in his eyes. Now — if the man decided to attack — he would not just be motivated by revenge. He could get rich in the process. A tantalising thought, no doubt.

  King leant against the wall. He glared at anyone who dared to make eye contact. They quickly averted their gaze, yet it seemed the atmosphere had once again changed. Tension and nervous energy crackled in the air.

  The guard returned five minutes later, carrying a plate heaped high with potato gnocchi. King had seen the same meal in several bazaars since landing in the country a week ago. It seemed to be a popular dish in these parts. He took the plate through a small opening in the cell bars and the guard left once again. No cutlery. No clean dishes. He didn’t care. He was more accustomed to this way of life than Diamanté Resort’s lavish buffet breakfasts.

  He wolfed the food down, drawing the attention of every man in the cell. No-one spoke. They just watched him. He finished quickly and tossed the plate out into the hallway, his hunger satisfied.

  Roman stared at him as he made his way back to the bench.

  ‘They won’t like that,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care,’ King said.

  ‘You should. You can’t stay awake forever.’

  ‘I’ll kill anyone who tries to rob me.’

  ‘You might need to. I’m not sure if you’ve entirely proven yourself yet.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘If I were you, I’d go rough a few of them up.’

  King shook his head and sat down on the bench. ‘I already proved my point. I’m not going to attack anyone else without provocation.’

  ‘That’ll get you killed.’

  ‘What will?’

  ‘Being noble. No room for nobility in a place like this.’

  ‘It’s not noble. Just fair.’

  ‘Nothing’s fair in here. Get used to that. You might be here a while.’

  With nothing further to be said, the two men settled into somewhat comfortable positions. King sat upright, leaning against the warm concrete. He felt sweat run down his bare chest. His hair was soaked. His face was soaked. The skin of his back stuck to the wall. The conditions were unpleasant, to say the least. Nevertheless, the food began to settle in his stomach and he felt his eyes grow heavy. It had been a rough day. When he’d first risen out of bed this morning, he had never anticipated events would unfold this way.

  From the luxuries of life to this hellhole.

  He closed his eyes and slept fitfully, interspersed with brief periods of waking up bathed in sweat. He would look around the room, note each cellmate’s position and drift back into unconsciousness.

  Sudden movement pulled him awake in the early hours of the morning.

  He heard the slight rustling of a body passing through space, brushing their feet against sleeping thugs, heading rapidly in a certain direction. He opened his eyes and saw it.

  Hector running across the cell. Headed straight for him. Eyes hard and determined and cruel.

  He clasped a homemade knife in his hands, sharpened from some kind of household object.

  He would reach King in a couple of seconds.

  CHAPTER 7

  King darted to his feet as soon as he saw the weapon, instantly awake. The sensation brought back memories of the alley the previous day. It also stirred feelings from years past. All these situations were the same.

  Another human being would try everything in their power to end his life in gruesome fashion, and he would try everything in his power to save it.

  Hector came in swinging with the knife. Short, sharp, scything. Much more effective than the wild attacks from the amateurs in the alley. King knew he needed every bit of his reflexes to survive what came next.

  The blade sliced through the air inches from his neck. It would have connected had he not thrown his head back just in time, slamming the rear of his skull into the concrete wall. It hurt. But a bruise did less damage than a slit throat.

  He used the near-miss to power away, juking to the side like a wide receiver dodging a defender. Hector crashed in
to the wall and spun around, righting himself after the momentum-filled charge. King sensed a few thugs behind him scrambling to their feet, but they would do no harm. They would simply watch the conflict.

  He knew he had to end it quickly. The longer Hector drew the confrontation out, the higher the chance he would sink the blade into King’s vital organs.

  King burst forward.

  He stayed within range of a blade swing for less than a second. Just enough time to land a kick. He placed the blow well, targeting Hector’s knee. The joint was locked in place, meaning it would take less effort to bend in the other direction. He put two-hundred-and-twenty pounds of bodyweight behind the impact, pushing hard for a single moment. Then he back-pedalled violently, darting out of range just as fast as he’d entered it.

  Hector’s screams highlighted the damage done.

  His leg buckled and he started to collapse to the putrid floor. King assessed the nature of the injury in the blink of an eye and knew ligaments had been torn. The pain would be significant enough to impair his reaction speed for the next few seconds. King rushed in and seized the knife hand. Yet disarming Hector would not end the conflict. An attempt had been made on King’s life, which sent shivers of fury down his spine. He squeezed his massive forearms and used all his strength to send the knife plunging into Hector’s abdomen. He targeted the blow with precision. Aiming for the intestines, not the liver.

  Enough to wound him, but not to kill him.

  Hector collapsed to the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

  ‘Keep pressure on it,’ King said to Roman.

  The man raised an eyebrow. ‘You just broke his leg and stabbed him and you want me to tell him everything’s going to be alright?’

  ‘He’s in pain. Which he deserves to be in. But he’ll live. Which he also deserves.’

  ‘Pretty sure he tried to kill you.’

  ‘There’s a slight difference in experience here,’ King said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If a young toddler tried to stab you, would you kill them in return?’