by Matt Rogers
‘Are you okay?’ she whispered, crouching by him with an incredulous expression.
He didn’t respond. The shock had started to set in, making his blood run cold. Aware that the seconds were ticking by and the advantage he had carved out of nothing was slowly sapping away, he shook off the terrifying sensation and leapt to his feet.
‘What the fuck?!’ someone screamed from across the room.
He turned to see a Swedish guy in his twenties with long blond hair shaved short on the sides standing over a saucepan. The man had been in the process of cooking up a platter of bacon and eggs — likely nursing a hangover from the night before.
‘Sorry, man,’ King said, trying to comprehend what the insane manoeuvre would have looked like from his perspective. ‘Shit happens.’
He took Klara by the hand and hurried her over to the front door of the apartment. None of the law enforcement present in the area would have thought to secure this complex — just like none of them would have expected King to try something so idiotic. He winced as glass fragments fell from the back of his leather jacket, coated in his blood.
The hallways in this building were the same, wide and spacious and airy. King kept his head low as they ran for the stairwell, hurrying while he still had the upper hand. Ramsay and his men would be disoriented, scrambled, trying to desperately work out whether King had survived and where exactly he was.
They burst out onto the street, sacrificing stealth for speed. There were four or five policemen on the other sidewalk, all looking awfully confused. King slid the Beretta out of his waistband and slipped a finger inside the trigger guard, just in case any of them wanted a firefight. He was a man of moral principles, but if he was being fired upon he wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself.
The cluster of policemen didn’t even notice the street’s newest occupants. Half of them were staring up at the commotion above and the other half had their gazes fixed on the wrecked BMW resting inside the lobby of Klara’s building.
King sprinted over to a slow-passing car and wrenched the driver’s door open.
It was a rundown old Saab, with flaking paint and rusting rims. The driver began to form words of protest but the barrel of the Beretta M9 silenced him in a second.
‘Out,’ King demanded.
He hauled the guy out of the driver’s seat and ushered Klara over to the other side. The actions drew the attention of half the police across the street. One of them yelled, fumbling for his weapon.
King fired two shots, aiming low. One of them struck the guy in the kneecap, a survivable but incredibly-painful wound. He yelled and went down, clutching his leg.
It briefly drew the attention of the men around him.
Amateurs, King thought.
As soon as Klara was in the passenger seat, he ducked into the car and slammed the accelerator. Two of the police officers gathered their wits and unloaded a few rounds, shockingly close. Klara had already ducked below the line of sight, out of harm’s way. Most of the bullets went wide, thanks largely to the massive doses of adrenalin that the police officers weren’t ready to deal with. Their hands shook as they fired, ensuring that most of their shots sunk into the car’s chassis.
One shattered the passenger-side window and sliced across the space in front of King. He jerked backwards, keeping pressure on the pedal in the footwell. The Saab continued to pick up speed until it barrelled back into the Mariatorget, heading back in the direction he’d approached from.
The gunfire died out.
It was an ancient vehicle. As the suspension attempted to handle the gravel track of the city square, it felt like the earth was shifting underneath them. The violent shaking underneath King’s rear helped settle his heart rate, loosening muscles previously locked tight from stress.
He listened to Klara’s frantic breathing and reached over to grip her hand.
‘We’re okay,’ he said. ‘It’s over.’
It wasn’t anywhere close to over. He focused on thrashing the old sedan to its limits and dropped back onto the streets of Sodermälm a few seconds later, putting more distance between them.
‘Will they chase us?’ Klara said.
‘Let’s see.’
He swerved back onto the busy main road and sped toward Gamla Stan, fleeing from the borough as fast as humanly possible. Stockholm Bromma was a twenty-minute drive from here. He hoped to cut that to ten.
He disregarded the laws of the road entirely, running red lights and veering recklessly around traffic. Cortisol lent him courage, charging his system with what felt like crackling lightning. When he was sure that he had put enough distance between Sodermälm and their beat-up sedan, he eased off the gas and focused on blending into the dreary city traffic.
Klara looked across at him. ‘What the hell just happened?’
‘I got you out of there.’
‘We almost died.’
He bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry. Keep forgetting that most people aren’t used to that.’
‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘Crazy, huh?’
‘Who were those men? The Americans.’
King clenched his teeth. ‘I used to work for one of them. The one whose head I was holding a gun against.’
‘He looked nasty.’
‘He is.’
‘How long have you known him?’
King cocked his head. ‘About seven days.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t either. He’s been responsible for most of my career, apparently. I received instructions from a woman. She had superiors, none of which I ever met. Until recently.’
‘What happened?’
He explained everything, from the operation in Russia that had turned out not to be an official assignment at all, to the windowless prison cell he’d been held in for the last week while those in power in the U.S. government decided his fate.
‘I’m so sorry that I couldn’t call,’ he said.
‘I was worried sick.’
‘So was I, believe it or not.’
Despite everything, she flashed a grin. He looked across at her pearly white teeth and coy smile and remembered why he had fallen for her in the first place. ‘But you made it.’
‘And so did you. Where on earth are we going now?’
‘Dubai.’
She stared at him incredulously. ‘You’re not serious.’
‘It’s just temporary. Slater’s got a friend there who’s helping us through this tumultuous period.’
‘Who’s Slater?’
‘The guy who rescued me from the mine.’ He whistled softly. ‘Shit… I’ve got a lot to fill you in on.’
‘Are you sure you want to do that?’ she said. ‘The whole time we’ve been seeing each other, you’ve kept that side of your life private. And I don’t mind if you still want to do that.’
He shrugged. ‘That part of my life is effectively over. I don’t mind sharing details.’
‘What’s ahead?’
King narrowed his eyes and sighed. ‘I honestly don’t know, Klara. One step at a time.’
Been using that phrase a lot lately, he thought. Sign of the times.
He slowed the Saab alongside the same guarded booth that lined the border of Stockholm Bromma Airport. The trip had flown by — he’d spent far too long reminiscing on the awful situation in the Russian Far East. As they approached the steel mesh of the gate, the guard regarded them inquisitively, then nodded with satisfaction as he recognised King’s face and let them through onto the runway.
As soon as they were out of sight of the guard, Klara leant across the centre console and planted her lips on King’s. He froze in his seat, letting some of the tension out of his limbs. He kissed her back, running a hand through her hair and breathing in her scent — a scent he’d almost forgotten during his time away.
‘I missed you,’ he muttered through her soft lips.
She smiled, forehead still resting against his. ‘Glad you came back fo
r me.’
‘Of course.’
They set off for the Gulfstream tucked into the row of private jets scattered across a section of the runway. The Saab spluttered and coughed as it trawled along the smooth tarmac. Maybe one of the stray bullets had dealt damage to vital engine components.
They only had to travel another hundred feet, anyway.
King wondered if Abdullah would front the bill to the rental car company for the destroyed BMW M3.
He pulled up to Abdullah’s jet…
…and froze in the driver’s seat.
He couldn’t quite place it, but something felt off.
‘What’s wrong?’ Klara said.
‘Stay here,’ King said, adjusting his grip on the Beretta pistol.
29
It was too quiet.
Neither the pilot or the co-pilot had emerged into the open doorway to greet him in the aftermath of a successful mission.
Instead, the only sound that King could hear as he climbed slowly out of the beat-up Saab was the drone of aircraft taking off along the commercial runways in the distance.
He stood silently on the tarmac and held the Beretta double-handed, overly cautious. He had treated his whole career this way, fearing confrontation even when none existed.
It had gotten him this far.
He wouldn’t abandon his instincts now.
He scrutinised the jet for signs of life, flicking his gaze across each of the small circular windows in turn.
Where are they?
He snuck across the empty ground between himself and the jet, keeping his eyes locked on the doorway as he held up a hand behind him to signal Klara not to move.
Before he put any pressure on the first step, he hesitated.
The approach would make noise.
He was sure of it.
Trusting his instincts, he raised the Beretta and fired a single unsuppressed round through the doorway. It embedded itself harmlessly in the far wall of the jet’s interior, but the violent crack that echoed through the jet would have turned anyone’s stomach.
King heard a low, muffled curse from somewhere inside the plane. He had snuck up on the jet undetected, and the gunshot had scared the shit out of whoever was lying in wait. As he predicted, the man was inexperienced — a moment later two return shots came slicing out the doorway at an odd angle, more a reactionary response than a measured attack. The bullets went way high, harmless.
King charged into the jet, taking advantage of the confusion.
He spotted a silhouette hunched low, cowering instead of adopting a tactical position. The man was an absolute novice in every sense of the word. King started to raise his Beretta to shoot the man in the leg, but his adversary let off another panicked shot. It passed over King’s left shoulder, terrifying close to ending his life.
King didn’t appreciate that.
He shot the guy three times in the chest, then once in the forehead as a final guarantee.
His body slumped awkwardly to the carpeted floor, already dripping blood from several different orifices.
It was the co-pilot.
King noticed a handful of sharp plastic cable ties spill from the dead guy’s hand. He wheeled around and aimed into the cockpit, where the pilot had both hands already raised into the air. King hadn’t had much of a proper look at this man yet, but he was definitely unprepared for combat. He had roughly eighty pounds of unnecessary, gluttonous fat packed over his tubby frame. He couldn’t have been far over thirty, but had already lost most of his hair.
The guy was clearly terrified.
King sighed and slid through the narrow doorway. He dropped down into the co-pilot’s seat, keeping his gun trained on the man next to him. He had to make sure the guy was in a state of heightened suggestibility for what came next.
‘That didn’t exactly go as planned, did it?’ he said.
‘Definitely not, sir,’ the pilot said, stammering over his words.
‘Why did your friend try something like that?’
‘Our boss told us to.’
King raised an eyebrow. Perhaps it would be easier to pry answers out of the man than he had initially anticipated. It seemed like the guy would have rather been anywhere else in the world but in the cockpit with King.
‘Abdullah?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did Abdullah want me dead?’
‘He didn’t. Did you see the cable ties?’
‘I sure did. So — kidnapped?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You’d better start giving me more if you want to live to see your family again.’
The guy visibly shuddered. ‘I do not know the details. Please, sir.’
‘What can you tell me?’
He bowed his head, deep in thought. ‘Abdullah explained a little to us — because we were confused. We are not trained in combat so it wasn’t ideal for us to try and do it, but he didn’t have any other choice. He was worried you wouldn’t return to Dubai if you managed to save your friend. He needed you back there.’
‘Why?’
‘He said that a few of his friends were looking for you.’
‘What kind of friends?’
‘My boss only has a certain type of friend.’
‘A rich one?’
‘Yes.’
‘An incomprehensibly rich one?’
‘Indeed.’
‘A bunch of billionaire acquaintances who saw me on a surveillance tape in an abandoned mine in the Russian Far East?’
‘What?’ the pilot said, sheer confusion plastered across his face.
‘Never mind,’ King said. ‘This is starting to make an awful lot of sense.’
‘I’m afraid I cannot say the same.’
‘Good. It’s none of your business, frankly.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘You apologise too much. And stop calling me sir.’
The pilot didn’t respond.
‘Did Abdullah mention what he’d done with the people I’d left back in Dubai?’ King said.
The pilot shrugged. ‘Not really. But, in most cases, my boss is fair. I don’t think he would have done anything malicious. You seem to be the only person he’s concerned with.’
‘Great.’
‘Please let me live. I have a young child.’
‘I’m going to let you live, but you need to do exactly what I say, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Your child — he means a lot to you?’
‘The world.’
‘The friends that Abdullah currently has a hold of also happen to mean the same to me. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have any particular reason to side with your boss?’
The man paused. ‘He pays me well.’
‘I’m sure he does. But if I ask you to do something in order to save my friends, that doesn’t involve you having to hurt anyone, would you do so?’
‘I … I guess.’
‘I don’t really trust you. I did just kill your co-worker — even though he did try to kill me first. That might cloud your judgment. I’ll stay switched on.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Whatever you were supposed to be doing. Head straight back to Dubai.’
‘Really? You know his intentions now…’
‘Of course,’ King said, rising out of the co-pilot’s seat and heading back into the main cabin. ‘There’s nothing I can do about that. My capture was a flawless success. You’re returning to Al Maktoum with me as your prisoner. Sounds good?’
‘Uh…’
‘Sounds good to me.’
King leant out the open doorway and signalled for Klara to follow him into the Gulfstream.
30
Six hours and thirteen minutes later, the Gulfstream touched down on Dubai soil. It taxied to a stop and waited patiently to be met by the same Mercedes G63 6x6 truck that had fetched King, Slater and Isla the first time.
After a brief wait
ing period, the massive vehicle pulled up directly alongside the flight of stairs. They had begun their electronic descent towards the tarmac below. The heat of the scorching Dubai sun had long since faded away — it was close to eleven p.m.
Klara emerged from the Gulfstream’s doorway first, holding her hands above her head with her fingers splayed to indicate that she was unarmed. King followed, his hands secured behind his back by two thick cable ties, both pressing hard against his already-damaged wrist.
The pilot came last, sweat dotting his brow. He had the co-pilot’s firearm pressed to the back of King’s skull, making sure the cold steel of the barrel never left his detainee’s head.
King stepped down onto the runway, feeling the balmy night-time air all around him. It hung thick and heavy, all-encompassing in this part of the world. There was little natural light out here. All around them, the half-completed skyline of Dubai South was shrouded in darkness. Construction had been shut down overnight, to be resumed in the morning.
Beyond the desolate megacity, Dubai itself twinkled on the horizon, covered by a warm glow that emanated dozens of miles out into the desert.
‘No issues?’ one of the men said.
King sensed the pilot shake his head. ‘None. Everything went well. He was exhausted, as suspected.’
The bodyguards held identical Glock sidearms on standby. The tallest of the pair noticed Klara unrestrained and scowled accordingly. He snatched her by the wrist and wrenched her towards him, tugging a cable tie out of his rear pocket in the process.
These guys fucking love cable ties, King thought.
‘You’re cute,’ he snarled when her hands were secure behind her back. ‘What’s your rate?’
She spat in his face.
King grimaced, hoping that the provocative action would be taken lightly given the fact that the bodyguards had full control.
The bodyguard struck out, backhanding Klara across the cheek hard enough to make her recoil, bending at the knees. King felt hot rage in his veins, but there was nothing he could do.
Not yet.
He had a part to play.
He writhed against his restraints, like he was about to charge at the man. The guy’s eyes widened and he brought his gun around.