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

by Matt Rogers

  ‘That’s my ride?’ he said.

  The co-pilot nodded.

  King crossed to the Gulfstream’s exit door and waited patiently as the jet powered down. When the engines had finally quietened, the co-pilot worked a control panel on one wall and the door swung outwards, revealing a small flight of stairs in the process of descending to the ground with a mechanical whir.

  King studied the approaching car from his elevated position — it was a BMW M3, almost brand-new. He guessed it was one of the most expensive vehicles in the rental car company’s fleet, subtle enough not to stand out in a crowd but powerful enough under the hood to provide a quick getaway.

  ‘Your boss is sparing no expense,’ King noted.

  The co-pilot shrugged. ‘If you knew what we are paid to sit around at Al Maktoum waiting to fly him anywhere on short notice, you would not be surprised.’

  ‘He’s got a lot of money?’

  ‘More than you can imagine.’

  ‘Legally, you think?’

  The co-pilot flashed a wry smile. ‘I’m not one to judge.’

  ‘Wait here,’ King said. ‘I’ll be back as fast as I can.’

  He took the steps two at a time and dropped onto Swedish ground for the first time in just under two weeks. It felt like an eternity since he had been here last. Compared to Dubai, the temperature was arctic. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and headed for the stationary BMW.

  A short, rotund man in a neatly-pressed shirt got out of the driver’s seat and smiled warmly as King approached. King imagined the man had received a hefty tip for going to all this trouble. He handed over a set of keys.

  ‘Thank you for your generosity, sir,’ the man said in accented English, confirming King’s suspicions. ‘Please bring it back in one piece.’

  King took the keys and smiled warmly back. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.’

  24

  The M3 purred as it twisted through industrial zones on the way to the borough of Sodermälm. King kept one hand on the leather wheel and the other wrapped tightly around the satellite phone Abdullah had given him, expecting a call at any moment. He still hadn’t heard a thing from Klara.

  Worst case scenario — she had been taken before she had the chance to get to the phone. If all was well, Ramsay and his men were still en route and King would have the chance to snatch Klara unimpeded before the Swedish police stationed around her apartment complex could receive the support of U.S. Special Forces.

  Despite his best efforts to remain calm, his hand shook on the wheel.

  He recalled the saying instilled into him during SEAL training, used to represent the improvisational nature of live missions — VUCA.

  Volatile, Uncertain, Complex and Ambiguous.

  This situation represented every aspect of that term.

  He had no idea how many men were stationed outside Klara’s apartment. For all he knew, he could run into a literal barricade of police, all intent on satisfying the request of their U.S. allies. He had to somehow get her out of the apartment and back to Stockholm Bromma without anyone firing on them. If Klara got caught in the crossfire, he would never be able to forgive himself.

  Gradually, passing buildings became recognisable. He drove through the archaic streets of Gamla Stan, the old town of Stockholm. He recalled Isla surprising him here some time ago, revealing that a new problem had cropped up in Russia that required his service.

  Her problem.

  Not her government’s.

  That’s what had started all of this.

  He shook off the thoughts of blame. It was no-one’s fault. If Ramsay hadn’t been such a sociopathic bastard, the operation in Russia would have been tucked under the rug and King and Slater would have been thanked for their role in saving the lives of five health workers doomed to a torturous fate.

  Instead, they’d been vilified.

  Such is life, King thought.

  He crossed the bridge connecting Gamla Stan to Sodermälm, blending into the mid-afternoon traffic. It was close to two in the afternoon here in Sweden — the two-hour time difference between here and Dubai accounted for that.

  Weaving in and out of traffic, he felt truly tense. Scared not for his own life, but for Klara’s. He didn’t care if he had to die to get her to safety. It was his fault that she had become a target, and he would do everything to ensure that he took the fall instead of her.

  She deserved a hell of a lot better than him.

  He spotted the turn-off a hundred feet ahead, leading into a street that twisted through a luxurious residential area and ran all the way up to the Mariatorget city square. Klara’s apartment complex was at the far end of the square, one of two large buildings that overlooked the pleasant park. He pulled up a rough map of the area in his head, recalling the setting from the week he’d spent here.

  There was a wide trail running straight through the square, curving around a dark statue of the Viking god Thor. It connected to the street at the far end, which ran between the twin apartment complexes. It would be the fastest way to reach Klara’s place, and would avoid any roadblocks that the police might have set up on the narrow laneways.

  He would just have to be careful not to hit any pedestrians walking through the Mariatorget.

  As he coasted to a halt behind two rows of banked-up Stockholm traffic, the phone in his hand vibrated sharply.

  King grimaced as his heart rate spiked.

  That could only mean one thing.

  He answered with the press of a button. ‘I’m one minute away.’

  Her voice came back, panicked, breathing hard. ‘King, they’re here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Seven or eight men in dark military gear. They pulled up in an armoured truck in the street outside. They’re talking to police now. Oh, God…’

  ‘You think they’re American?’

  ‘It seems like it… oh, no.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some of them are running. They’re … shit … King, hurry!’

  He didn’t need to hear anything else. He threw the phone into the passenger seat and stamped on the accelerator, twisting the wheel hard to the left. The BMW’s engine screamed as it mounted the sidewalk, bypassing the line of stationary vehicles waiting for a green light in the distance.

  Thirty feet ahead, he saw the turn-off. He swerved violently around a row of nature decorations adorning the sidewalk — clusters of small trees and fern bushes — and slammed back onto the asphalt. He wrenched the wheel again and the BMW shot around the corner, tyres squealing.

  As soon as he made it back onto the road he gave the engine all it had, climbing up to sixty miles an hour as he tore towards the city square. His pulse raced and he felt his cognitive abilities tighten up, focusing single-mindedly on the task at hand.

  He spotted the Mariatorget a hundred feet ahead, surrounded on all sides by towering residential buildings. The square seemed tranquil at this time of day, almost entirely devoid of civilians.

  Good, King thought.

  Without a second thought he jumped the BMW onto the gravel track cutting through the square, feeling the suspension shudder underneath him as it fought to handle the off-road terrain. The other side of the park exploded into view — King took in the sights in an instant.

  It looked grim.

  First he noticed the barricade of police sedans parked end-to-end across the ground outside the lobby of Klara’s complex, cordoning off the area from the public. Policemen in matching uniform were milling around the cars, pacing restlessly back and forth, obviously unsure of what to do next.

  Beyond them, the Special Forces team was moving in.

  A few of them had already made it into the lobby. King saw them disappear into the complex. Another pair were in the process of manually shutting the entrance doors, preventing anyone from entering or exiting.

  Then King’s eyes turned to the side of the building itself, and he stomached a gasp of surprise.

  Two m
ore U.S. Special Forces operators were halfway up the side of the building, harnessed to Kevlar lines that trailed all the way up to the roof. He cast his gaze skyward and saw two steel grappling hooks embedded deep in the concrete lining running along the complex’s rooftop.

  He grimaced.

  These were SEALs. He knew exactly what they were using, because he’d received training with the same gear years ago.

  The grappling hook systems were known as TAILs — Tactical Air Initiated Launch — and were designed for the U.S. Navy by a Ohio-based research firm called Battelle. Facts about the systems came rolling back into his head from long-dormant memories — they were intended for use in rescue operations, able to fire a titanium hook over a hundred feet.

  The two soldiers suspended in thin air were ascending to Klara’s apartment. They would enter through the balcony and have her apprehended before she even knew they were coming.

  King didn’t understand why. Breaking down the door would prove just as effective, especially to capture someone untrained in combat. Why were they going to such radical lengths to capture her?

  Then it clicked.

  For the same reason they had taken so long to move in.

  They didn’t know if King was in the apartment. For all they knew, he could be lying in wait for them to come charging in. They had no knowledge of his whereabouts.

  They were treating this as if they were about to take out a highly-trained black-ops soldier.

  They were right. Only he wasn’t already there.

  He was coming in fast.

  25

  The Swedish police noticed his presence first.

  They heard the distant roar of a turbo-charged engine and their gazes wandered over to his BMW. King stamped on the accelerator, mashing it into the footwell. The M3 picked up even more speed. It rocketed onto the street, slicing between the two towering apartment complexes, and King made a beeline for the barricade of vehicles.

  He had to get his aim right the first time.

  He hit the narrow slit between two parked police sedans at sixty miles an hour, smashing the hood of one car and the trunk of the other at a breakneck pace. At the last second he ducked his head to the left, avoiding the airbag that exploded out of the steering wheel. An airbag to the face had enough power to stun him into semi-consciousness — not something he needed right now.

  The seatbelt across his chest bit into his collar bone with incredible force, but he shook it off. He made sure to keep his swollen left wrist out of harm’s way.

  A moment later, the M3 powered through the barricade, its hood crushed and twisted at unappealing angles. King had built up enough momentum to keep the BMW aimed in a straight line — charging at the locked lobby doors. The two SEALs standing guard saw him coming and had their weapons trained on his windshield in a split second.

  He ducked below the line of sight, keeping the pedal pressed to the floor.

  He counted out two full seconds, then unclipped his seatbelt, thrust the door open and dove out of the speeding vehicle.

  He hit the concrete with practiced calculation, rolling across the upper chain of muscles across his back. He sprung to his feet in one fluid movement, just in time to see the BMW crush through the lobby doors at an unbelievable pace.

  The SEALs had leapt for cover at the last second, realising that they lay in the path of the approaching vehicle.

  King kept his momentum at full pace, sprinting like a madman behind the BMW.

  It worked like a charm.

  The makeshift battering ram tore through the flimsy lobby doors and rolled inside the opulent interior. Thankfully the lobby had been cleared of all civilians before King had made his move. The BMW twisted in mid-air, surrounded by a barrage of debris. It came to rest on the other side of the marble room, leaving a gaping hole in the front of the building.

  King followed the car inside a second after it punched through the doors, before the SEALs had made it to their feet after diving out of harm’s way.

  He ducked low, anticipating some kind of gunfire heading his way.

  It signalled its arrival by nearly rupturing his eardrums. Unsuppressed rifle fire tore through the hole in the lobby’s entrance, either from the SEALs or the Swedish police. King was exposed for less than a second, sprinting at full-speed across the previously-pristine marble floor. The ground was now littered with the remains of the wall the BMW had destroyed.

  He made it to his target destination just in time. The men out the front of the complex had only managed a few bursts before he threw himself into the concrete stairwell and raced up the steps, taking them four at a time.

  The din of the gunfire echoed.

  He knew how well-trained SEALs were. They would be on his heels within seconds, determined to capture their target and willing to do anything to succeed.

  But so was he.

  And he had their training, too.

  He made it to the fifth floor in less than fifteen seconds, his lungs burning for relief by the time he reached Klara’s level.

  He had no idea what he might come across.

  Still moving lightning-fast, he hurled open the door leading out onto the same fifth-floor corridor he remembered from his time spent here. The entire apartment complex was designed and furnished in the style of art nouveau. That meant open, airy spaces and high ceilings and plenty of natural light. He burst into the wide corridor and recognised the soft carpet under his feet.

  Klara’s apartment was the last apartment on the left. With his legs pumping like pistons he twisted to the left…

  … and collided with three people at top speed.

  All of them sprawled to the carpeted floor of the corridor, hitting the ground with muffled thumps.

  King assessed the situation in an instant.

  Two of the three were Navy SEALs — the two men who King had seen ascending the exterior of the building moments earlier. Their bulky TAIL grappling hook systems clattered to the floor alongside them. Both had been reloaded. They each had an arm on the woman between them.

  Klara.

  He met her gaze as they fell to the ground, recognising her deep blue eyes and flowing blond hair even as he collided with her. Her pupils were dilated — a sign of terror.

  King wasted no time.

  Even as he came down on top of the trio, he dropped his entire bodyweight behind an elbow that came down on the throat of the man on the left. The guy coughed and spluttered and rolled away from King, desperate to put space between them.

  Well-trained, King thought.

  He realised that he had almost a fifty-pound weight advantage over the guy on the right. The SEAL was short and squat, built like a tank but well under the average height of five-foot-nine. Underneath his tactical gear, King sensed he had a tight grid of interlocked muscles honed from years in the gym.

  In movies, small men could effortlessly overpower larger foe with added dexterity and agility.

  Not the case in real life.

  If both of them were equally trained, the size advantage proved insurmountable in most cases. That was why weight divisions existed in professional mixed martial arts.

  King snatched the guy up by the collar and hurled him through the open doorway he’d just come through — back into the stairwell.

  As he suspected, the two SEALs who had failed to stop him from entering the complex were in hot pursuit, one level down the stairwell but closing in fast.

  King activated a primal burst of strength and hauled the short man like a rag doll over the nearest railing.

  He came down on top of the two men below, one hundred and seventy pounds of falling muscle.

  The three of them cascaded down the short flight of stairs in a tangle of limbs.

  King powered back into the corridor and snatched up the TAIL grappling hook that the man had dropped.

  It could be useful down the line…

  In the few seconds that he’d spent in the stairwell, the remaining SEAL had used the opportunity to mak
e a break for it.

  He was twenty feet down the corridor, dragging Klara by the back of her neck. She writhed in his grip, using all the strength she had. Panicking from the sudden change in circumstances, the SEAL heard King re-emerge into the corridor and threw a glance over his shoulder.

  Klara used the slight distraction to punch the guy in his already-damaged throat.

  King widened his eyes, taken aback by the speed of her strike. He recalled the regular boxing lessons she had taken in the aftermath of what had unfolded in Corsica. She’d been determined to be able to protect herself.

  In all truth, at one hundred and twenty pounds she didn’t have the power to deal much damage.

  But the speed had a factor.

  The SEAL grimaced and loosened his grip slightly on the back of her neck. They ground to a halt for a split second in the middle of the corridor.

  Now.

  King closed the gap between them and launched himself into open space. He drove his shoulder into the man’s stomach, two hundred and twenty pounds of momentum amplified by the speed he’d built up.

  He speared the man into the flimsy apartment door behind him and the lock burst.

  The door flew open, swinging on its hinges.

  They crashed into the apartment and skidded across the polished wooden floor.

  26

  Something skittered across the ground between them. King hadn’t come to a halt yet, but he flashed a glance at the object as he tumbled into the apartment.

  A Beretta M9 semi-automatic pistol.

  The SEAL had lost it in the chaos. King realised he was close enough to snatch up the gun and use it, but he stopped himself from taking things that far. It took relentless discipline to control himself — in a life or death battle, one was inclined to use anything in their arsenal to survive.