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

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Will,’ the man said, nodding to Slater with a warm smile.

  Slater stepped forward and offered a hand. The two embraced, slapping each other on the back twice in quick succession.

  ‘Roudha,’ Slater said. ‘Been a few years.’

  ‘Far too long.’

  ‘You’ve been busy?’

  ‘Always,’ Abdullah said. ‘And I haven’t touched a casino chip since the last time we saw each other. I stuck to my word.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I think that gave me the wake-up call I needed.’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Slater said. King watched him survey the room, taking in the opulence all around them. ‘You seem to have bounced back from those days.’

  Abdullah shrugged. ‘There is plenty of opportunity out here. Dubai South takes up most of my time. Construction is a nightmare, as you’d imagine.’

  King stepped forward, intent on introducing himself. He also offered a hand. ‘I’m Jason. Slater’s friend. Thanks for helping us out.’

  Abdullah switched his gaze off Slater for the first time and looked King up and down, hovering on him for a second too long. Uncomfortably long.

  King imagined the man spent little time socialising with new faces. Dubai seemed to consist of a small party of obscenely rich residents, and a small army of minimum wage slaves.

  ‘Not a problem,’ Abdullah said, clasping King’s hand with a strong grip. ‘It was the least I could do.’

  Isla introduced herself next, putting on a strong face. King knew better. As soon as she had shaken hands with Abdullah, King pointed to her. ‘Isla’s been through hell these last few days, thanks to someone she trusted. She needs rest.’

  ‘King, I’m fine…’ she began.

  ‘You’re too tough for your own good,’ he muttered.

  Abdullah bowed his head. ‘Of course. I’ve had your rooms made already. She can get as much rest as she needs. A meal first, perhaps?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, yes,’ Isla said, her stomach audibly growling.

  Abdullah signalled to his bodyguards, who led her out of the room, showing her into the adjoining kitchen.

  Abdullah turned back to King and Slater. ‘I’m glad you thought of me, Will. Honestly. I’m happy to help.’

  ‘It’s incredibly generous,’ King said.

  Abdullah glanced at him. ‘Truth is, what your friend did for me has been on my mind for years. I was hoping I would have the chance to repay it one day.’

  ‘What exactly did you do?’ King said, turning to Slater.

  ‘Maybe it’s best we don’t discuss that,’ Slater said.

  Abdullah smiled. ‘We can discuss what we like. This penthouse is a digital fortress. Nothing will be overheard, I can assure you that.’

  Slater nodded, seemingly out of relief. ‘We could use a place like that right now.’

  ‘What is it you’re running from, exactly?’

  ‘It’s best we don’t discuss that, either,’ King said. ‘Nothing personal. Just some highly sensitive information that we’d do well to forget all about.’

  ‘Understood,’ Abdullah said. ‘Well, this place is yours for as long as you need. No-one will come knocking. I can assure you of that.’

  Something shifted in the atmosphere — like an internal mechanism releasing. King realised he and Slater had been living on edge for as long as he could remember, always vigilant and searching for threats — even when there were none. Abdullah’s lavish penthouse lent them something they both sorely needed; relief.

  Slater dropped onto the nearest couch in exuberant fashion, oblivious to the state of his attire. ‘Goddamn, that feels good.’

  King remained standing.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it?’ Slater said. ‘An actual break.’

  ‘Not for me,’ King said.

  Abdullah and Slater both raised their eyebrows at once.

  ‘I think I need to go to Sweden,’ he said.

  20

  Twenty minutes later, after showering, changing clothes, and wolfing down plates of shawarma meat, the three of them took positions around the vast dining room table looking out over Central Dubai.

  Isla had consumed a pre-prepared three-course meal brought up to the penthouse by room service, then retired to her room for what King imagined would be the longest sleep of her life.

  He glanced out the floor-to-ceiling windows to his left and saw the Burj Khalifa in the distance, piercing into the sky like a beacon amidst the rest of the city.

  The tallest tower on earth.

  He looked back at the two men across from him, who were both watching him intently.

  ‘You want to take a commercial flight?’ Slater said. ‘After everything we just did to stay in the shadows?’

  ‘I don’t see another option,’ King said. ‘Abdullah?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend. There’s nothing I can do to get you into Sweden undetected. I have no control there. It’ll have to be the civilian route.’

  ‘Why haven’t you called her yet?’ Slater said.

  ‘Because then it becomes real,’ King said. ‘I need to talk to you two first. Make sure I have the all-clear. Because I’m either going to never contact her again, or commit all the way.’

  ‘How romantic,’ Slater muttered.

  King cast him a dark look. He sealed his lips straight away.

  ‘If Ramsay made it out of the supercarrier,’ King said, ‘I have no doubt he’ll go after Klara. It’s the only link they have to me. I spent my vacation there — they have the address.’

  ‘Your dad?’ Slater said.

  King shook his head. ‘It’s just her. No family, no friends. Her alone.’

  ‘You honestly think she’s in danger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’d risk getting recaptured to get her out of harm’s way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then do it.’

  King smirked. He and Slater were on the same wavelength — they were men of few words. Decisions were made quickly and ruthlessly.

  Just the way he liked it.

  Abdullah nodded his approval. ‘In the end, it’s up to you. I’d recommend against it, but I hardly know you — or the situation the pair of you are in. Do what you feel like you need to do.’

  ‘Would he use the same airport?’ Slater said.

  Abdullah shook his head. ‘It’d have to be Dubai International. In terms of commercial flights, Al Maktoum is a ghost town, I’m afraid. Suits the three of you — it means no-one was looking when you arrived. But I imagine flights to Sweden are few and far between.’

  King nodded his understanding.

  ‘Passport,’ Slater said, realising almost at the same time King did.

  King bowed his head and cursed. He had no personal belongings on him of any kind. He had tried his best to shut out the insurmountable odds of retrieving Klara successfully, but now reality began to set in.

  This was a fairytale. It wouldn’t work.

  Abdullah sighed. ‘My private plane is at Al Maktoum.’

  ‘That’s a lot to ask,’ King said.

  ‘You care about this woman?’

  ‘More than anything,’ King admitted.

  Abdullah waved his hand. ‘Use it.’

  ‘There’ll still be passport control?’

  ‘I don’t have people there, but I can influence them all the same,’ Abdullah said. ‘A small bribe goes a long way.’

  ‘You’ll do that?’ King said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, of course. You should go as soon as you can.’

  King couldn’t help but be taken aback by the intense gratitude. He wondered just what exactly Slater had done for the man, then shook it off. He would take all the help he could get.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ Abdullah said. ‘I mean it too.’

  King snatched the satellite phone Abdullah had fetched from a spare room off the table in front of them and headed into the
kitchen for privacy, leaving Slater and Abdullah to catch up about old times in the dining room. He leant against the counter and reluctantly dialled a number he knew off by heart.

  He wanted Klara involved as little as possible in this part of his life, but he couldn’t sit back and let her be used to lure him in.

  She answered almost immediately. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, Klara,’ he said, unable to suppress a smile.

  She gasped as she recognised his voice, piercingly loud through the receiver. ‘Holy shit. It’s you?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Where have you been?! It’s been over a week. I thought…’

  She trailed off, stifling emotion.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘It was my fault getting involved with you. I drew you into this.’

  ‘Drew me into what?’

  ‘Certain … situations have unfolded. I’m a wanted man.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘The people I used to work for.’

  ‘Fuck…’

  He bowed his head. ‘This is the last thing I want to do, but I think I need to come get you.’

  ‘Get me?’

  ‘From Sweden.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know what the people who are after me will do,’ he said. ‘It could be anything. But they know that I spent a week with you. They know where you are.’

  ‘King,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t tell me that.’

  He paused. ‘Why — what’s wrong?’

  ‘There’s been Swedish police milling around the apartment complex all morning. I didn’t think anything of it. Are they waiting for…?’

  Ramsay, King thought.

  He would have called ahead, instructing the authorities to ensure that Klara stayed in her apartment until he could muster a task force to extract her.

  ‘Jesus…’ he muttered.

  ‘Should I run?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet. I can be there in a few hours.’

  ‘Should I fight back if they try to arrest me?’

  ‘Barricade the door. Put up a protest. Do anything to stop them from carting you away if they move in. Hopefully it takes some time for him to get to Sweden.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My old boss.’

  ‘What the hell…’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

  ‘What have you got me into?’

  ‘I feel terrible,’ King said. ‘I never should have committed to you. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry for that. I made the decision too. I knew who you were.’

  ‘You’re not furious at me?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s a relief to hear your voice.’

  ‘I’m coming,’ he said. ‘If anyone tries to fuck with you, give them hell.’

  ‘Is this … is this going to be like what happened in Corsica?’

  King thought of Slater’s mad rampage through a horde of hired thugs back in the Bay of Calvi.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘If you’re in danger, maybe…’

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ she said. ‘I can handle this on my own. It’s just police. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  King recalled the manic glint in Ramsay’s eyes as he had demanded that King be returned to his cell. He couldn’t fathom the extent the man would go to in order to successfully detain the prisoners he’d let escape.

  Just doing my job.

  Ramsay’s voice echoed in his ears.

  ‘It’s not just police,’ King said. ‘Sit tight, Klara. I won’t let them lay a goddamn finger on you.’

  Suddenly charged with anger at the circumstances, he hung up the phone and powered back into the dining room. Maybe it was the fact that his old employers would have the gall to use his loved ones to make him surrender.

  Fuck Ramsay, he thought.

  ‘Get that plane ready,’ he said. ‘I might have to smash a few heads together when I get there.’

  21

  Off the east coast of Russia, a fast combat support ship in the possession of the United States Navy led a spearhead of similar vessels through the churning sea.

  Hours earlier, they had been called to a certain location in the Pacific Ocean. The Military Sealift Command took care of logistics and support issues within the ranks of the Navy.

  They had never been more needed — the fleet had been instructed to respond to an extreme emergency.

  Ramsay sat on a cold bench in the corner of an elongated mess hall aboard one of the support ships. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders to ride out the shivers.

  He had spent almost an hour struggling to stay afloat in the arctic waters before the first naval transport vessel to arrive at the scene had plucked him to safety.

  By that point, he had been on death’s door.

  Hypothermia had set in twenty minutes into treading water. He’d barely managed to snatch up a lifejacket and dive overboard before the entire supercarrier sunk to the ocean floor.

  He wasn’t sure how many of his men had survived.

  He didn’t want to think about that right now.

  He knew he needed to appear outwardly strong — even in the face of such a horrific disaster — but he forced himself to spend some time composing himself before setting into action.

  He knew that when he decided to act, it would be with ruthless intention.

  He despised the three prisoners he’d been holding on board the supercarrier with every fibre of his being.

  He wanted all three of them executed. Preferably tortured first. Their shockingly foolish actions had culminated in the attack on the warship — an attack that should never have taken place if they had simply followed orders.

  He wondered if his superiors would share his sentiment.

  A stern thirty-something woman in official uniform approached him tentatively, shuffling across the mess hall.

  ‘How are you holding up, sir?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said.

  She didn’t respond — he understood why. He made them nervous. It had been the same on the aircraft carrier for the last week — everyone understood he came from somewhere in the upper echelon of government, but no-one had the clearance to know exactly where. He was a mystery man to all the Navy personnel — someone they were required to serve with no knowledge as to what he did or his official rank.

  Hell, he didn’t know his official rank.

  He didn’t even know if he had a job anymore.

  ‘I was ordered to tell you that there’s a call waiting for you in the media centre,’ the woman said. ‘Via video link, I believe.’

  Ramsay nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  The woman left, having satisfied her orders and unwilling to spend a second longer than necessary with the mystery man.

  Ramsay shrugged it off and headed for the media centre.

  He was directed down cramped passageways by Navy personnel, all of them in the midst of hurrying between several different things at once. Bedlam had descended over the support ship in the wake of the rescue operation. Rooms had been cordoned off and converted into makeshift infirmaries when the official quarters reached maximum capacity. Ramsay passed rooms filled with Navy soldiers and crew in varying states of shock, many of them gruesomely injured.

  He wondered if any members of the paramilitary force had been apprehended.

  He was awfully curious to get some answers for what had occurred.

  He made it to the media centre — a small lecture theatre with a direct connection to the White House on board — and was ushered inside by a Navy crew member.

  The door shut ominously behind him.

  He was alone.

  Ramsay imagined the following conversation held the highest security clearances possible. He crossed to the front row of seats curving around a large flat-screen television set into the wall.

  A familiar face took up the entire screen via satellite feed.

  The General of the Arm
y himself.

  ‘Sir,’ Ramsay said, nodding.

  ‘You look like hell.’

  ‘I feel like it.’

  Ramsay’s relationship with the General could only be described as tense. At the level they operated at, there was little time for anything other than business. Black operations were volatile and highly ambiguous. Ramsay couldn’t remember the last time he had shared a casual conversation with the man on the other end of the video feed.

  The General hunched over a sheet of paper in front of him, hard lines creased into his forehead from decades of unrelenting stress. ‘Jason King. William Slater. Isla Grasso.’

  ‘What about them?’ Ramsay said, irritated that he had let this situation unfold.

  ‘I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I assume they had something to do with what happened today.’

  ‘I think the attack was intended to eliminate them,’ Ramsay said.

  ‘Was it successful in that regard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They went down with the ship?’

  Ramsay paused. He knew the truth, but was hesitant to divulge it.

  There was no other option.

  ‘They fled,’ he said. ‘I saw a Harrier II take off as I made it to the top deck. It’s yet to be accounted for. I can only assume it was them.’

  The General grimaced. ‘All three made it?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  On the screen, the man bowed his head and gripped the edge of his desk with white knuckles. Ramsay could see him struggling to keep composure. ‘I didn’t like what you were doing with them — you know just as well as I do that they should have been eliminated. You were trying to appease the Russians by keeping them alive.’

  ‘I thought we could mend the tension that way…’

  ‘Look what it caused.’

  ‘I’ll get them back.’

  ‘I want them dead.’

  Ramsay nodded. The world of black operations was ruthless — it left no room for niceties. Slater, King and Isla were now considered rogue operatives, and anything other than elimination would prove too much of a risk. If they were left to their own devices, he couldn’t be sure that private mercenary forces or rival government agencies across the globe would snatch them up for an obscene price.