Hunted: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 6)

by Matt Rogers

  He was going nowhere.

  He settled back against the thin pillow behind his head and closed his eyes, compartmentalising the tickle of claustrophobia that washed over him.

  Memories came rolling back.

  Each one unsettled him a little more.

  The abandoned mine in the Russian Far East. The hulking ex-KGB killer — Vadim Mikhailov — who had beaten him to within an inch of his life. The three female health workers lying dead in a deserted outpost halfway up a mountain along the Kamchatka Peninsula…

  He gulped back unease, recalling his first glance at their lifeless bodies. They would have died terrified, waiting for Mikhailov to put a bullet in their skulls.

  King would remember their faces for the rest of his life.

  Failing an operation never grew easier. Sure, he had made it out of the Kamchatka Peninsula alive and rescued five innocent civilians in the process, but the other half hadn’t made it.

  Sarah. Carmen. Jessica. Seth. Eli.

  He wouldn’t forget their names.

  There was movement in the doorway to his left. He rolled his head over and watched a Navy medic step tentatively into the room. The guy was young — King would have guessed late-twenties. He carried himself with the nervous gait of a recruit who had been assigned a task well above his capabilities.

  ‘You’re awake,’ the man noted after an uncomfortable silence. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Never been better,’ King said. ‘What about yourself?’

  ‘I’m…’

  ‘Kid.’

  The guy halted mid-sentence.

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit,’ King said. ‘Go get me someone who can explain why I’m strapped to a bed.’

  The man nodded his understanding and spun on his heel, leaving the infirmary not ten seconds after entering it.

  King waited in reserved silence. With each passing second, the ramifications of the situation steadily dawned on him. He was a prisoner of the United States Navy, along with Will Slater and Isla Grasso. The operation in Russia had been a disaster from start-to-finish, yet he felt like his problems were only just beginning.

  At this point, he imagined spending the rest of his days in an offshore CIA black site, at the mercy of the sick souls who took up employment in those remote locations.

  Anything else would be a pleasant surprise.

  Even death.

  A quick and painless demise would be preferable to a whole range of grisly possibilities.

  It took almost an hour of tense quiet for someone to appear. King knew it didn’t take that long to locate a superior, which meant whoever was responsible for him had elected to deliberately take his time.

  A power play of sorts.

  Letting him know who was really in charge now.

  A grizzled forty-something man in official uniform strode purposefully in through the doorway, regarding King with a dismissive glance. He crossed to the foot of the bed and folded his arms across his chest. His long hair — a strange sight on a military official — didn’t have an ounce of grey in it. King wondered if it was dyed. The thick black strands had been slicked back away from his forehead. His eyes were a stark blue, piercing in their scrutiny. He analysed King, as if coldly observing an experiment.

  ‘Remember me?’ the man said.

  King nodded. ‘Long time no see. I don’t think I got your name the first time.’

  ‘Call me Ramsay.’

  King had first met the man on board a CH-53K military chopper that had extracted them from the Russian Far East. Ramsay had revealed himself as an important member of Black Force’s hierarchy — one of the faceless upper echelon members who toiled away in the shadows, responsible for managing the operatives from a distance.

  ‘Just Ramsay?’ King said. ‘What’s your rank?’

  ‘I don’t have a rank,’ Ramsay said. ‘Officially, I don’t exist. Neither do you, or Will Slater, or anyone involved in the organisation formerly known as Black Force.’

  ‘Formerly?’

  ‘Thanks to your actions in Russia, Black Force is dead. I’m sure you were aware that the unit had been on shaky legs for some time. You were the straw that broke the camel’s back.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that.’

  ‘Seems kind of abrupt.’

  ‘Things had been tense for quite some time. I don’t think you understand the ramifications of what you did in Russia.’

  ‘I understand perfectly,’ King said.

  ‘Then if I were you,’ Ramsay said, his eyes cold, ‘I’d be a little more stressed.’

  ‘I’ve got a bed. That’s enough for me.’

  ‘I’m sure…’

  King adjusted himself against the restraints, using all his willpower to remain composed. If he went through a moment of weakness, the man in front of him sure as hell wouldn’t be the one to see it.

  ‘Where’s Isla?’ he said.

  ‘In a cell. Under twenty-four-seven surveillance. Same as Slater. They’re not going anywhere. Neither are you.’

  ‘She was communicating with us,’ King said, squinting as he tried to remember through the haze of painkillers. ‘In Russia. What was that about?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ramsay said. He nodded slightly. ‘Given the fact that we believed U.S. citizens were in danger, we permitted her to be the one to deliver you instructions.’

  ‘She was in custody the whole time?’

  Ramsay nodded.

  King said nothing.

  The man smiled wryly. ‘You wondering why she didn’t tell you to run?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I personally assured her that if you didn’t make it back to this carrier, I’d put a bullet in her skull. Besides, she was still clinging onto hope that her sister was alive.’

  King let the resulting silence reach an uncomfortable length. He stared at Ramsay with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. ‘You were responsible for Black Force, you said?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Just like Lars?’

  ‘He had more of an all-encompassing role,’ Ramsay said. ‘Handler and planner. After his death, we split things up.’

  ‘It’s just interesting.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘How this organisation manages to attract sociopaths so effortlessly…’

  Ramsay scoffed. ‘You think I’m a sociopath?’

  ‘You sure sound like one.’

  ‘Because I was willing to kill Isla?’

  ‘I thought we were above things like that,’ King said.

  ‘That’s why you’re the foot soldier,’ Ramsay said. ‘A division like Black Force can’t run without ruthless decisions. The sooner you realise that, the better.’ Then he paused, staring at the floor, and smirked. ‘Not that it matters what you realise. You’re done.’

  He spun on his heel and made for the door. King squirmed against the leather across his chest and winced as he rolled awkwardly on his broken wrist.

  ‘Ramsay,’ he said.

  The man stopped.

  ‘Don’t you want to know about what happened in Russia?’

  Ramsay turned and stared at King for a few measured beats. ‘I don’t care what happened in Russia. None of it matters. It was your personal crusade, and I hope you succeeded with it. Now I’m responsible for sorting out the aftermath.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You heal up,’ Ramsay said. ‘The medics will tend to you until you’re in decent health.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Then you’re off to the brig while I sort out the mess you left behind. I’m working on it, but I’m dealing with a furious Russian government who’ve cut off communication with us. Things were already tense before your little escapade. It’s my job to resolve it.’

  He left without another word.

  King was left alone in the infirmary, listening intently for any sign of life. The time passed in excruciatingly slow fashion. Every now and then he bucked against the leather straps, releas
ing the pent-up stress that came from being held against his will. He battled down a thick ball of claustrophobia and settled into a more comfortable position.

  The brig.

  It sent a tremor through him. It was the name for a United States military prison aboard a Navy vessel. He had never anticipated that he would be spending time within one of its cells, awaiting an uncertain fate.

  How times have changed, he thought glumly.

  After a full hour of expecting someone to come for him, his senses dimmed and he drifted into a restless sleep. He dreamt of dark tunnels and sharp bursts of pain and deafening gunfire.

  He came to hours later, to the sight of the same young medic checking the heart rate monitor by his bed. The man nodded approvingly and slid a thick syringe into one of the intravenous catheter tubes attached to King’s arm. When the drugs kicked in, King dropped back into unconsciousness.

  His last thought was of Will Slater.

  Slater had dropped everything to come to his aid. Without him, King would have died in the depths of the Russian Far East — there was no doubt about it. Slater’s reward for such a selfless act had been imprisonment at the hands of the organisation he had fled from over a month previously. Because of King, he was locked away somewhere in this aircraft carrier. He would suffer the same fate.

  King closed his eyes and muttered a silent apology.

  Then he sunk into darkness.

  3

  The Laptev Sea to the north of Russia churned restlessly below a stormy sky. Even though it was early afternoon, one could have mistaken the time for dusk.

  Everything lay shrouded in a haze of murky grey.

  The GAZ Tigr all-terrain military vehicle roared down the track, heading for the town of Tiksi. Sleet and mud ran thick on the sides of the gravel road.

  Sergei sat behind the wheel, the sole occupant of the infantry-carrier. It had been his personal ride for many years now — gifted to him by one of his employers after a particularly dangerous task had been completed. The Russian Armed Forces had enough of them. They didn’t miss it.

  He enjoyed the respect that the armoured beast demanded.

  He hated this part of Russia almost as much as the Kamchatka Peninsula. It dripped with misery and poverty and rot. Tiksi had a population of roughly five-thousand — except for a single resident residing on the outskirts of the town, who was worth more than the rest of them combined.

  More than half of Russia combined, in fact.

  Sergei hadn’t visited his employer in person for quite some time. He set the wipers to a faster speed in order to combat the rain and turned onto a winding driveway. The enormous tyres sloshed through the muck, powering toward an opulent mansion in the centre of the grounds.

  He pulled the Tigr to a halt in front of the giant building. Through the downpour, he made out vast stained-glass windows and sweeping marble balconies. Twin columns had been constructed on either side of two grand entrance doors set into the front of the mansion. Sergei remembered the last time he had walked through them — four long years ago. It had taken place in the aftermath of a brutal task he had been elected to carry out.

  It had also been the first time he had been paid seven figures all at once.

  A monumental occasion, considering where he’d come from.

  He pushed open the heavy steel door of the Tigr and dropped into the mud. He powered his way through the sheets of falling rain and stepped up onto the grand entrance portico. The doors lay wide open. It didn’t concern him. He knew of the two paramilitary snipers who would no doubt have their weapons trained on him as he strode through the doors.

  They were there to ensure that their employer remained unharmed.

  A certain level of wealth attracted all kinds of undesirables.

  Sergei strode into an entranceway four times the size of his apartment in Moscow. The space was decorated lavishly, the walls adorned with expensive European artwork. Despite that, the mansion felt intensely empty. Hollow, even.

  Like all this space was only utilised by a single man.

  Which it was.

  Sergei knew his employer preferred solitude.

  He crossed to a smaller door made of polished oak and pushed it open. It led into a high-ceilinged office with wood-panelled walls and a large fireplace on one wall. The sole occupant of the room was in the process of stoking the fire. Orange flames flickered in the dim light.

  As Sergei entered, he turned.

  ‘I assume you bring bad news,’ the man said.

  He was in his sixties, still sporting a full head of hair which had long ago turned grey. After all these years, Sergei still didn’t know the man’s name — or what he did officially. He was a titan of industry, one of the oligarchs who had been handed certain privileges during the privatisation of Russia in the nineties and had used a cunning business acumen to turn those privileges into an empire of riches. Aside from that, Sergei knew little else.

  The man paid well, though.

  ‘I do,’ Sergei confirmed. ‘The American made it out of the mine.’

  ‘He has my personal information? The others’ personal information?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘He must. What else would he have come for?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘What do you know?’

  Sergei paused. ‘Certain members of the fishing village helped him out — as you suspected. They gave him a used trawler which he took out to sea. He was extracted by U.S. military not long after.’

  ‘Just him?’

  ‘There were others. Seven, in total. It seems he rescued some of the hostages that Mikhailov had taken.’

  ‘How many of our men did he kill?’

  ‘Over thirty.’

  ‘We cannot tolerate that.’

  ‘That’s not the issue, is it?’ Sergei said. ‘If he’s in possession of the files in the mine, you will be exposed. Who knows what kind of dealings will be brought to the surface?’

  The man nodded. ‘Everything I’ve worked for will be stripped from me.’

  Sergei could see the spark in the man’s eyes. He was charged with the kind of nervous energy that came when a powerful man was backed against the wall. He wanted to act brazenly. Sergei could sense that.

  ‘Where is he now?’ the man said.

  ‘We located him with a ninety-percent probability,’ Sergei said. ‘The only military vessel he could have been extracted to is a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier a few hundred miles off the coast.’

  Silence.

  ‘Sir,’ Sergei said. ‘I highly recommend we do not—’

  ‘We are a private force,’ the man said. ‘We are not Russian military. Our actions will not start a world war — they’ll be seen as a brazen act by an unknown mercenary force, correct?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Our men are sworn to secrecy. They have all served me well for a decade.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We must act if we are to survive.’

  Sergei didn’t respond.

  ‘You are fully aware of what I’m asking you to do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You will do it?’

  ‘For the right price.’

  ‘What is the right price?’

  ‘Enough to keep me at a certain level of wealth for the rest of my life,’ Sergei said. ‘This is my last job.’

  He had been contemplating the request for some time, but had only committed to it on the drive to Tiksi. He had assumed what his employer would ask him to do — given the ruthless nature of his actions in the fishing village the night before. The man wanted his identity kept hidden at any cost. Exposure would mean humiliation, poverty and death.

  Sergei had walked into the mansion expecting a request to attack a U.S. Navy aircraft carrier.

  It seemed that was what he had received.

  ‘Done,’ the man said. ‘I’ve had my fun. The mine was a costly mistake, but it provided the entertainment I desired. Eliminate this man at whatever c
ost — I don’t care if you have to sink that carrier. Use everything in the arsenal. Then I’ll spend the rest of my days in comfort, and you’ll spend the rest of your days as a rich man. How does that sound?’

  Sergei couldn’t lie. ‘It sounds good.’

  ‘Of course it does,’ the man said. ‘When I receive confirmation that he is dead, you will be rich beyond your wildest dreams.’

  Sergei nodded.

  ‘Get to work, boy,’ the man said.

  Sergei didn’t move. He paused, then folded his hands behind his back and stared across the room at the old man. ‘Sir…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We could have had this conversation on the phone.’

  The man shrugged. ‘You’re right. But I couldn’t have given you this over the phone.’

  He reached under the broad oak desk and lifted a rectangular black box off the floor. He thudded it down on the surface of the desk, gouging a pair of dents in the pristine surface. Scowling, he brushed a scattering of wooden splinters away from the box.

  It was made from an amalgamation of metal and hard plastic, with various panels and cables covering the rough exterior, seemingly at random. It looked like some kind of high-tech battery box. Cyber-terrorism wasn’t Sergei’s specialty, so he regarded the device with a mixture of confusion and apprehension.

  ‘What is it?’ he said softly.

  The old man raised his eyebrows — keeping both hands firmly planted on top of the device. Like he was hesitant to part with something so precious. ‘It will let you deal the first blow unimpeded.’

  ‘To the carrier?’

  A nod.

  ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Contacts. Powerful contacts, at the forefront of technological advancement. That’s all I’m comfortable with divulging.’

  ‘I’d like to know more about it if I’m going to use it effectively.’

  ‘You don’t need to know anything about it. It’s already been calibrated. Take it with you in the chopper … and they won’t see you coming. No matter how advanced their detectors are.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I paid three million U.S. dollars for it,’ the old man said. ‘Only three exist, and no government has any knowledge of their existence. I thought it would do me good. Now, it will.’