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

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Whatever gets the blood pumping,’ Slater said. ‘I’m not complaining.’

  ‘I am,’ King said under his breath, staring out at the clouds below.

  ‘I’ll start the descent,’ Slater said. ‘Wake Isla up.’

  King reached back and shook Isla by the shoulder. She jolted awake all at once. For a moment, her eyes showed fear. Then she injected the composed demeanour of an operational commander back into her veins and straightened up. ‘We’re landing?’

  ‘We’re landing,’ King said.

  They dipped through a layer of cloud, and the coastline of Dubai opened up below them like a picture-perfect postcard. The stark turquoise waters were still at this time of the morning, melding into a sweeping desert that stretched as far as the eye could see. Dubai itself was visible even from his height — a bustling hive of royalty and lavish indulgence. Everything had been taken to the extreme, from the towering Burj Khalifa to the two artificial islands created in the shape of palm fronds that crept out into the bright blue sea.

  The city looked like a single connection hub amidst a roiling wasteland of isolation. Everything about it reeked of artificiality, even from eight thousand feet above sea level.

  ‘It all seems fake,’ King muttered.

  ‘Wait until you see where we’re landing,’ Slater said.

  The Harrier droned on, passing over Dubai and heading into the desert. King shielded his eyes from the sun as it rose in the east, casting a tinged orange glow over the land below.

  ‘There it is,’ Slater said.

  As they descended toward Dubai South, King stifled his awe. He couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer scale of the construction project. They were building an eighty-square-mile city in the middle of a never-ending stretch of yellow sand. From their position in the air, the skyscrapers and residential neighbourhoods and industrial warehouses were all inter-connected in a way that made them appear alive and bustling. It was incomprehensible that barely anyone populated the city yet. There would be no working infrastructure. Water, electricity, all of it had to be installed.

  King pondered the size of the megacity.

  ‘Incredible,’ he said.

  Slater went through the motions of preparing for landing. King let him be, opting instead to scrutinise the empty city as they approached Al Maktoum Airport in the centre of the sprawling complex. He spotted the runways — devoid of any traffic at this time of the morning — and shook his head in disbelief.

  The Harrier swooped down to the asphalt and Slater slowed the jet to a hover just above the runway. The G-forces turned King’s stomach, but by then he had digested all of its contents.

  His stomach growled with hunger.

  He couldn’t imagine how Isla felt.

  Slater touched down vertically, thumping the wheels into the tarmac. He killed the engine and a dull silence settled over the cockpit. After the chaos on the supercarrier and the constant roar of the flight, the sudden calm felt odd.

  King sat restlessly in his seat and waited for whatever came next.

  ‘I’ve been told that we should wait in the jet,’ Slater said. ‘He’ll fetch us straight from the runway to prevent any eyes on us.’

  ‘He’s pulling out all the stops for you,’ King noted.

  ‘Like I said,’ Slater said, ‘he owes me.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s a man of his word.’

  On cue, an enormous vehicle appeared on the horizon, roaring toward their location from the vast terminal in the distance. As it drew closer, King recognised it as a Mercedes-Benz G63, one of the most expensive four-wheel-drives on the planet. This model had been highly customised, with windows tinted the darkest shade possible and its entire hull coated in a matte grey wrap. It was a beast of a vehicle, with six wheels instead of four.

  It drew closer to the Harrier, chugging ominously toward them.

  ‘Is this Abdullah?’ King said softly, sliding the headset off his ears.

  ‘Not a clue,’ Slater said. ‘But I sure hope so.’

  They sat with baited breath as the G63 pulled up alongside their jet and a pair of enormous bodyguards stepped down onto the tarmac.

  18

  King sized them up as they approached the Harrier.

  The pair were dressed in identical black suits — both of Middle-Eastern descent, with neat trim beards and shaved heads. They carried themselves with an air of importance, but above that they were awash with the overwhelming sense that they had never truly been tested. They controlled everything, and it had always been that way.

  Briefly, King wondered if he would need to enlighten them to the other end of a beatdown.

  Then he reconsidered. This man, Abdullah, was doing them a tremendous favour. King’s default setting was to treat all newcomers as potential hostiles. It was ingrained into his subconscious. He forced his instincts to relax and unbuckled his seatbelt as Slater lifted the exit door to the cockpit.

  The heat punched King in the chest, washing over him like a warm blanket. He felt the sweat start to seep from his pores within seconds. He hadn’t prepared himself for the furnace that was Dubai’s climate.

  Slater went first, clambering down the side of the Harrier jet, using the handholds to lever himself to the tarmac. He dropped with the agility of a pro athlete, landing like a cat. King watched his descent, then mimicked it. He was larger than Slater, but his athleticism proved a match. He joined the man on the runway and waited for Isla to squeeze her way out of the cockpit’s rear compartment.

  The trio shook hands with the bodyguards in turn — wordlessly greeting each other one by one. King gripped each man’s hand and noted the vice-like hold that each of them possessed. Maybe nothing.

  Maybe trying to assert dominance.

  King understood what was happening. He imagined that Abdullah employed these men merely as a precaution, and there was seldom need for their services to be utilised in any way other than standing around looking mean. Escorting secret guests into the city via a largely unused airport was likely the most excitement they would experience this year.

  ‘Is he here?’ Slater said.

  One of the bodyguards — the taller one — shook his head. The guy must have been at least six-foot-six. He towered over King, complete with a giant frame and chunky fingers.

  The muscle.

  King would have preferred Abdullah himself to greet them at the airport instead of sending his hired goons.

  ‘He has important business to attend to,’ the bodyguard said. ‘Phone calls — that sort of thing. We’ll escort you there.’

  ‘I appreciate this,’ Slater said.

  Three words — together they killed the subtle tension entirely. Both bodyguards warmed to them instantly, smiling and nodding imperceptibly.

  ‘It is our understanding that our boss owes you a great debt,’ the second bodyguard said.

  Slater shrugged. ‘I helped him out, some time ago.’

  ‘He does not do this sort of thing for friends,’ the first bodyguard said. ‘You must have done him a large favour.’

  ‘I did,’ Slater admitted.

  ‘He will be more than happy to repay it.’

  They were escorted into the row of rear seats in the G63. Isla slotted into the middle seat between Slater and King. The bodyguards slipped into the driver and passenger’s seats and they set off back toward the terminal.

  ‘What will happen to the jet?’ Slater said.

  ‘Would you and your friends like to keep it?’ the driver said.

  King shook his head. ‘We need to distance ourselves from that thing as much as possible.’

  ‘Understood. It will be locked away in one of the storage facilities we have here.’

  ‘No-one will find it?’

  ‘No-one who understands what it is.’

  King nodded in satisfaction.

  The G63 passed through a security checkpoint without being stopped. They were waved out onto a main road without a single vehicle in sight, diving into t
he residential sector of Dubai South. King shook his head as he stared out at their surroundings, fascinated.

  He had only ever seen a couple of skyscrapers under construction simultaneously — never an entire city. It seemed like everything in sight was half-complete, from the roads to the housing to the towering frameworks of soon-to-be lavish hotels and office buildings.

  All empty, for now.

  They coasted through the ghost town, the only car in sight. It felt eerie. When Dubai South melted away and was replaced by empty desert, King felt a little calmer. He saw Dubai itself looming ahead and wondered to what extent Abdullah would protect them.

  He was plagued by uncertainty — he had been ever since being detained after the semi-successful operation in Russia. For years and years he had identified himself as a lethal special forces operative, and felt a certain sense of satisfaction for serving his country in such committed fashion. He had lost that identity during his brief retirement, a time in which he had struggled to form something new. Getting back to work — first in Egypt, then in Russia — had felt like he was back where he belonged.

  Now, he didn’t know what the hell would happen.

  He and Slater and Isla were outcasts from their own government, wanted by Ramsay and the secret world, hunted by faceless mercenaries sent from Russia. Every time his mind wandered to what lay ahead in the future, uneasiness washed over him.

  Where would he go?

  What would he do?

  Was he destined to live on the run forever?

  The G63 merged with the Dubai traffic — a welcome sight after the empty hollowness of the construction project they had driven through. They passed mega-fountains and towering skyscrapers. Every second car on the road seemed to be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars — it reminded King of Zamalek, the affluent district in Cairo that had ended up pushing him to his limits during his brief time there.

  He felt the same type of sensation now — that Dubai would not be a simple hideout while they sorted out their next move. On top of that, he felt vulnerable. He hated relying on others for charity. It was fortunate that Slater had leverage, but it would have been preferable not to have to utilise it.

  King now found himself relying on the goodwill of others.

  Always a recipe for disaster.

  Someone would come for them, too. Ramsay, or Mikhailov’s employers, or whoever.

  They had too many enemies to count.

  The driver pulled into a ring of towering hotels and skyscrapers built adjacent to an enormous sprawling complex that dwarfed everything in sight.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Slater said, gesturing to the network of buildings to their right.

  ‘The Mall of the Emirates,’ the driver explained. ‘Largest mall in Dubai. It is an impressive tourist attraction. Abdullah owns the penthouse level in this tower in front of us.’

  Next to the Mall of the Emirates — almost connected to it, in fact — rested a shiny glass tower twisting into the sky. It was bordered by the mall on one side, and lush green gardens on the other. Between the gardens, a path led to the front of the building where valets waited patiently to park the residents’ luxury vehicles.

  ‘We don’t need to go that way,’ the man in the passenger seat said, gesturing to the valets. ‘We will head straight up to Abdullah’s private garage.’

  Slater whistled softly. ‘The guy wasn’t kidding about living in style.’

  The driver smirked. ‘Sir, you have not seen anything.’

  He let the G63 rumble along in a tight semi-circle, taking a narrow path barely wide enough to fit the enormous vehicle. They drove down the track and stopped by a double-garage with the roller door planted against the floor.

  The driver touched a finger to his ear and spoke a fluid sentence in Arabic into the cuff of his wrist. A moment later the door lifted off the ground, giving space for the Mercedes to pass through. The giant 4WD rolled through into a starkly-lit ramp ascending into the core of the tower.

  As they left the sunshine behind and climbed toward an unknown destination, King’s reflexes heightened.

  Now would be the time to do it, he thought.

  Stop the car. Surround it in seconds. Hurl them out of the rear seats — the three of them were unarmed, so would offer little resistance to a party of trained militants — and detain them away from any prying eyes.

  He shifted nervously in his seat, on edge.

  In the end, none of that happened.

  They pulled into a long, low private garage and King looked out at one of the more impressive collections of vehicles he had ever laid eyes on.

  19

  ‘This is Abdullah’s personal collection,’ the driver said, gesturing out at the rows of gleaming supercars.

  First they passed a LaFerrari, one of the rarest vehicles in the world. This one rested in pristine condition — unused and preserved for appreciation. A collector’s item. It was worth at least a couple of million dollars.

  Next came a Lamborghini Huracan, and a Pagani Zonda, and a Bugatti Veyron, and an entire fleet of luxurious off-road buggies. It was a car collector’s dream.

  King barely even drove, yet he couldn’t help but be impressed.

  ‘What are they for?’ he said, pointing to the dozen buggies arranged in two parallel lines along a row of car spaces.

  ‘He enjoys spending time with friends in the sand dunes south of Dubai,’ the driver said. ‘They are Polaris RZR Jagged X Editions. This collection was purchased for close to a million U.S. dollars. They have all been highly modified to suit Abdullah’s needs. He is a man of adventure.’

  The driver spoke like he had to impress his guests at all times.

  They parked at the very end of the garage in a space reserved for the Mercedes. King disembarked, helping Isla out after him. When she stepped down, her ankle rolled. She staggered, righting herself. King glanced at her face and noticed it had paled even more than before.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the second bodyguard asked, skirting around the hood of the G63.

  Isla nodded slowly — her eyes were wide and unfocused.

  ‘She needs food and water,’ King said. ‘She wasn’t treated well where we came from.’

  ‘Where did you come from?’ the driver said.

  Slater threw a dark look at the man, and he shut up instantly, aware that he should not push his guests for information.

  ‘I apologise,’ the guy said. ‘This way, please.’

  They strode down the length of the garage. King found it hard to take his eyes off the supercars, but eventually he turned his attention to what lay outside the floor-to-ceiling windows running across an entire wall.

  He guessed the garage rested on the seventh or eighth floor of the building — the view from the long room looked out over the Mall of the Emirates just a dozen feet below. The roof consisted of a maze of power hubs, stained-glass ceilings and air conditioning units. King imagined it took millions of dollars worth of electrical bills to keep the mall running. It was one of the largest complexes he had ever seen in person.

  The bodyguards escorted them into a spacious elevator that seemed to exist solely to transport Abdullah and his private detail up to his penthouse suite and back. King got the sense that the man enjoyed the privacy that came with his level of wealth.

  King turned his mind to a different train of thought as the elevator doors whispered closed and they ascended toward the penthouse level. One that he hadn’t even considered until now. It made him feel sick.

  ‘I need to get in touch with Klara when we get up there,’ he whispered to Isla.

  She nodded, suddenly realising the same thing. ‘She’s vulnerable. They know where she lives. We had to keep tabs on you during your vacation before Russia.’

  King grimaced as he considered what might lie ahead. When he’d met the Swedish model during his time in Corsica, he had never expected it would blossom into a full-blown romance. They had kept in contact after he’d returned to Black Force, and he�
��d spent a happy week with her while recovering from a particularly violent task in Egypt.

  He had admitted that he loved her before he left for Russia — and she had echoed his sentiments.

  If the government were adamant to recapture him, they would use her. He was sure of it. They knew her address in Stockholm — part of the contract he had signed with Black Force enforced the requirement that his superiors should have knowledge of his whereabouts twenty-four-seven.

  Now that he had focused on that train of thought, he struggled to think about anything else. Klara could be in significant danger.

  What about his father?

  He thought long and hard about the potential ramifications, but in the end it seemed his father was in the clear. No-one in Black Force — including Isla — had any knowledge that Ray King was living out the rest of his days on the island of Corsica. King had reunited with his old man before reclaiming his old government position.

  But Klara … she was exposed.

  He liked the situation less and less with each passing second. He didn’t underestimate the lows his superiors would sink to in order to get him back.

  He had zoned out by the time the elevator reached the top floor and the doors opened onto an impeccable living quarters facing out over the Dubai coastline. The crystal-clear window panes took up the entire far wall. King followed the bodyguards out of the elevator, and Slater helped Isla into the lavishly-furnished room.

  His boots — still specked with the blood of the mercenaries he had fought aboard the supercarrier — sunk into the carpet, muffling all sound of his footsteps. The little details tipped him off to the fact that the owner was obscenely rich; the expensive throw rugs and pillows, the million-dollar artwork covering the walls, the electronic panels displaying the room temperature and various mood lighting options. Soft classical music filtered through the entire suite from hidden speakers built into the ceiling.

  Despite the silence with which they arrived, a tall thin man rounded the corner ahead moments after they stepped out of the elevator. He had impeccable posture, with impossibly straight shoulders covered by a simple but expensive long-sleeved shirt. His hair was cut short and his beard was neatly trimmed — much like his bodyguards.