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

by Matt Rogers

  King’s stomach churned.

  Could it be?

  ‘Does a man who goes by the name of Ramsay mean anything to you?’ Abdullah said.

  King said nothing. His heart rate quickened even more, hammering inside his chest.

  ‘He seemed pretty damn keen to get his hands on you,’ Abdullah said, clear glee in his tone. ‘Any of you. He jumped at any scrap of information I fed him.’

  ‘You have no idea where my friends are,’ King said. ‘They’re hidden.’

  ‘Don’t I?’

  ‘I’ll get Slater to beat you to within an inch of your life.’

  ‘Go right ahead. I’ll take it. I’ve dealt with worse. You don’t know where the fuck I grew up. What I grew up in. You could kill me right now and I wouldn’t care less. That’s the beauty of this. I knew the two of you would find a way past whatever counter-measures I set up. The pair of you together are something else entirely. So I set about making sure there was no way you could win.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘You really thought you could lay low within the limits of a city I’m responsible for building?’

  King had heard enough. That question confirmed his worst suspicions, and there was nothing more to be said. He dropped the radio to the thin metal floor beneath him, where it wedged itself into a crack between the front cabin and the rear tray. Then he leapt down to the asphalt, ignoring his wrist screaming for any kind of relief — whether that be through losing consciousness or ingesting hard drugs.

  He powered inside the cabin, knocking the dead driver out through the open door with a vicious shove.

  The guy’s body thumped pathetically to the empty road.

  King slammed the truck into gear and spun it in a tight one-hundred-and-eighty degree arc, tyres squealing.

  He mashed the pedal to the floor and set off back the way they had come.

  45

  King drove one-handed.

  His mind was an incomprehensible mass of panic. Three trains of thought washed over him, battling for control.

  The first feared the worst, running through a horrific list of what he might find upon returning to the house. The second screamed common sense, demanding that he think rationally — Ramsay was a United States official, and he imagined that some form of moral decency came from that position. He might want to hand King and Slater over to Russian forces, and so be it — but King hoped more than anything that the man would not resort to darker methods.

  The third voice wanted nothing but to get to a hospital.

  King forced that last voice to the side, completely shutting it out. He recognised the extent of his condition — he was on the verge of passing out, driving one-handed through brand-new roads with his view out the windshield wavering before his eyes.

  His broken wrist had turned his legs weak, threatening to kill his momentum before it had built up at all.

  But he forced it all aside. He clenched his teeth, his eyes bloodshot and his forehead drenched in sweat. His breaths came in rattling gasps — both nasal passages were completely blocked while they healed from his shattered septum.

  He twisted around a sharp corner, almost colliding with a cluster of vehicles heading out of a functioning production facility. The lead semi-trailer slammed on its massive brakes and King skirted his Toyota around its hood. He waved a brief apology to the civilian driver, and accelerated down the empty stretch of road ahead.

  It was two miles to the turn-off into the residential sector — he hoped to cover that in a minute flat. He throttled the engine to its limits, forcing the revs-per-minute into the red zone. The Toyota protested, shuddering underneath him. The pick-up truck could fall apart for all he cared. He had a single goal on his mind.

  Reaching the house.

  Anything past that meant nothing.

  He had to make sure that Isla and Klara were safe.

  The surrounding row of brand-new industrial warehouses and construction sites blurred as the speedometer ticked over a hundred miles an hour. King blinked hard, trying his best to focus. In his condition, a single slip-up at this speed would spell his death.

  Without question.

  He spotted the road trailing into the residential sector rushing at him at inconceivable speed. He stamped on the brakes as he made it to the turn-off, and the rear wheels of the Toyota slid out. He had burned most of the rubber off the tyres during the wild journey, and they struggled to find purchase on the slick asphalt. The steering wheel rocked and bounced in his hands — the entire car screamed, threatening to fall apart before he had even made it to his destination.

  Not yet, he thought with clenched teeth.

  The approaching road flashed into view as he roared around the corner.

  Three vehicles. Dead ahead.

  Armoured military trucks. American make.

  Two Humvees — and an even larger six-wheeler.

  Heading straight at him.

  He panicked and put even more pressure on the brakes. It was too late. The Toyota ploughed into the side of one of the Humvee’s, sending both vehicles sliding out of control across the asphalt.

  King heard the groaning metal and felt the intense spike of energy tear through him. The crash rattled his bones in their sockets, sending white-hot pain flooding up his already-broken wrist. He held on for dear life as the Toyota slid three or four full revolutions across the asphalt.

  He lost count after that.

  When the pick-up truck finally skidded to a halt at the edge of a jagged sandy ditch along the side of the road, King’s head smashed against the top of the steering wheel from the sudden change in momentum.

  Stunned, seized by a pain threshold well above what he’d ever considered possible, he surveyed the aftermath of the crash.

  It had taken the sacrifice of his truck’s hood to shift the Humvee even slightly in its path. The big military vehicle had careered into the ditch, coming to rest at a forty-five degree angle. Thick grey smoke wafted out of its bent-up chassis.

  The hood of King’s Toyota no longer existed.

  The engine and the front of the vehicle had been torn to shreds by the impact, tossed across the asphalt with all the fury of a high-speed vehicular collision. He stared down at the seatbelt he’d locked into place before taking off and realised it had saved his life.

  Barely.

  He felt half-dead.

  With his body screaming for relief, he staggered out of the cabin unimpeded — the driver’s door had been ripped off by the force of the impact. He tasted blood and figured he must have bitten his tongue while bracing through the death-spin.

  Ahead, he saw the other two vehicles in the convoy continue forward, blasting away into the distance.

  Leaving this vehicle behind.

  Ramsay was desperate, it seemed.

  King saw some kind of elite operative cascade out of the battered Humvee’s driver’s seat, landing hard in the dirt. The man spat blood between his hands and grimaced. For a moment, King felt terrible for him. Maybe the guy had just been following orders. Maybe he didn’t know what was really going on.

  Then Klara called out from inside the Humvee.

  King ducked his head to get a better look through the cabin, and saw her bound to the seat, her hands cuffed and her face bloody. There was a serious gash running the length of her cheek, caused by a vicious backhand or the tip of a combat knife.

  She seemed to be in awful shape.

  Anger seized him. If the soldier driving hadn’t caused the wounds himself, he’d voluntarily stood back and watched it occur. King crossed the road and hauled the man to his feet. The guy’s eyes were glassy — he’d been concussed by the collision.

  King slammed him into the side of the Humvee, hard enough for the steel to wobble. The noise echoed across the empty street. The guy coughed up blood and slumped to his knees, badly injured and semi-conscious.

  King crossed to the passenger seat and tore at Klara’s restraints — utilising sheer animalistic rage — until s
he was free.

  She fell into his arms, darting out of the Humvee as fast as she could. She gripped his head in both hands and stared him in the eyes.

  ‘You look near-death,’ she said.

  ‘I feel that way. Where the fuck is Isla?’

  Klara jerked a thumb toward the pair of vehicles rapidly fading into the distance. ‘With the guy in charge. He was particularly angry at her.’

  ‘Who? Ramsay?’

  She cocked her head.

  ‘Black hair,’ King said. ‘Blue eyes.’

  She nodded. ‘He’s the one who beat me. He beat the shit out of Isla, too. He split us up between trucks because he thought you’d be coming for them.’

  ‘You didn’t fight back?’

  ‘Isla surrendered before we could do anything. I don’t think she wanted to kill the people she’d worked for all this time.’

  King slammed his good fist against the side of the Humvee, furious. He glanced into the footwell of the driver’s seat and saw the soldier’s firearm lying discarded on the floor. He reached across and hefted the M16 assault rifle out of the vehicle. He checked the safety was off before handing it to Klara.

  ‘It’s ready to fire,’ he said. ‘Blow this guy’s brains out if he even thinks about trying to subdue you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  King pointed at the convoy, slowly disappearing into the sun-drenched horizon.

  Ramsay was headed for the Dubai coastline.

  ‘Getting my ex-boss back,’ he said with icy determination in his tone.

  He slotted into the Humvee — its engine still chugging throatily — and blasted it out of the ditch with a single burst of acceleration.

  ‘I’ll be back for you,’ he shouted out the window, seeing double.

  ‘I’ve got this,’ Klara shouted back, already training the barrel of the assault rifle on the soldier at her feet.

  The M16 looked awkward in her hands, but from that range all it would take was a quick pump of the trigger.

  Besides, the soldier looked to be out for the count.

  King nodded satisfactorily and surged onto the open road, speeding towards the rapidly-fleeing pair of vehicles.

  ‘I’m coming, you bastard,’ he whispered hoarsely.

  46

  The two vehicles far in the distance had roughly the same performance specifications as his own, but he was willing to take the risks they weren’t.

  King reached top speed in just under thirty seconds. His surroundings blurred once again, but he couldn’t tell. Everything was blurry in his current state, whether he was travelling at this speed or not. His eyes drooped and his senses waned, but he pressed on.

  Always forward.

  Never stopping.

  If you stop, you’ll pass out.

  He had to keep moving.

  It was the only way.

  By the time they reached the outskirts of Dubai itself, he’d gained significant ground on the pair of vehicles. The enormous six-wheeler was a little slower — it looked like it weighed close to twenty-thousand pounds.

  Now that he had a chance to focus, King recognised the vehicle as an M923 U.S. military cargo truck, painted dark green and sporting six enormous bulletproof tyres. He couldn’t be sure, but from a brief glance through the rear window of the vehicle’s large two-seater cabin, it seemed like there was a man driving and a woman in the passenger seat.

  Ramsay.

  Isla.

  He surged his own Humvee forward, guessing that the pair of vehicles were headed for Dubai International Airport. Abdullah must have organised with his contacts in the government to grant access for a small force to land and extract the U.S. intruders causing hordes of trouble in their city. Ramsay had been allowed to enter with a crack team of his men and carry out their duties fast and efficiently.

  King wouldn’t let them leave.

  He caught up to the smaller Humvee ahead, which had dropped back to protect the larger six-wheeler cargo truck.

  Protecting the payload.

  From what King could ascertain, there were two men in the Humvee. The truck cut in front of him, blocking him off from the vehicle Isla resided in.

  As soon as it had intercepted his path, the brake lights flared and the enemy Humvee slowed radically.

  King’s heart rate shot through the roof and he twisted the wheel to the left.

  His own vehicle swerved, with less than a second to spare. The corner of his hood speared into the rear bumper bar of the Humvee, sending an explosion of twisted metal sky-high. The chassis of his ride rattled, shaking him to the core. Another couple of feet to the right and it would have been his entire hood crushing against the rear of the vehicle ahead, probably breaking his collarbone against the seatbelt and sending his momentum to a crashing halt.

  Instead, he shot past the Humvee, his own vehicle damaged but still fairly intact.

  Shots cracked off the driver’s side window.

  He ducked instinctively, realising that the passenger in the enemy Humvee was firing on him. The bullets failed to do any significant damage, ricocheting off the reinforced glass.

  He sat up and peered ahead, watching the massive cargo truck veer onto a wide entrance ramp. The ramp descended down onto one of Dubai’s main highways, branching away from the overpass.

  A sign above the ramp read “Sheikh Zayed Road” in English, with the Arabic above. King peered out across the highway and saw four lanes running in each direction, all of them teeming with civilian vehicles.

  Ramsay was heading onto the busiest road in Dubai.

  He thought King wouldn’t follow.

  You thought wrong.

  King tore past a handful of smaller cars waiting to merge onto the ramp, running a red light in the process. He narrowly avoided a head-on collision with an approaching sedan, swerving at the last second to save both their necks. Heart thumping, pulse racing, he shot down to the highway.

  He was on Ramsay’s heels.

  He threw a glance in his rear-view mirror and saw the other Humvee follow his lead, taking the path he’d narrowly carved through civilian traffic. A chorus of horns sounded as frustrated civilians let out their rage at the military vehicles racing past.

  King barely heard them.

  He had more important matters on his mind.

  He was tentatively boxed in by the traffic — there was no gap on either side of his vehicle to swerve in and out of lanes. Ramsay’s massive cargo truck met a horde of banked-up traffic a couple of hundred feet ahead.

  King grimaced. ‘Don’t…’

  Ramsay didn’t care. Evidently charged by the anonymity that Abdullah had granted him, he flattened the back of a civilian vehicle in an attempt to cut a path through the traffic. If there had been anyone in the rear seats, they would be dead.

  King felt the pressure overwhelm him. He had to stop the madman now, or there would be horrendous consequences.

  Ramsay didn’t give a shit who got in his way. The man knew if he made it out of Dubai with Isla, he would win. And no-one would have a clue who had caused so much destruction in the United Arab Emirates. Abdullah had made sure of that.

  King followed Ramsay, swerving around the destroyed civilian sedan. On the way past he flashed a glance inside the car and saw no-one in the crumpled rear seats. He breathed a sigh of relief and shot after Ramsay.

  The cargo truck ahead mounted the large concrete divider between the two lanes. King’s stomach dropped at the sight, but he pressed on.

  Ramsay dropped his massive vehicle into oncoming traffic, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with a petrol tanker. He swerved across three lanes, wheels spinning as they bit for purchase.

  King watched a panel van crumple against the side of the cargo truck, spinning away across the road.

  He threw caution to the wind and launched his own Humvee into the wake of Ramsay’s path.

  A low sedan barrelled towards him from the right-hand side. He saw it at the last second — just a flash of approa
ching metal in his peripheral vision — and swerved hard, dodging a horrific impact by inches. He shot after Ramsay’s truck, veering wildly around the passing traffic.

  The cargo truck finished crossing the four lanes and burst through a thin wire fence, tearing the flimsy material in two. It crashed down in a sea of well-kept gardens that were spread across the land in between two impossibly tall towers. King recognised the sight from various postcards — they were the Emirates Towers, bordering the highway and dwarfing any buildings in sight.

  And Ramsay had built up too much momentum in aiming for them.

  Still careering across the opposite side of the highway, King stared out his windshield to see the M923 six-wheeler lose balance. It turned too hard — Ramsay had panicked while trying to correct course. The three bulletproof wheels on the left-hand side of the cargo truck lifted into the air.

  That was all it took.

  The truck slammed down on its side, rendered immobile in the blink of an eye. It kicked up a geyser of dirt and grass that showered across its immediate surroundings.

  King had no choice but to follow in its path.

  He had built up too much speed.

  He burst through the gap in the wire fence, slamming on the brakes as he did so. His Humvee smashed its front tyres into the grass, scrambling King’s senses. He gripped the wheel as tight as his one functional hand would allow and kept pressure on the brakes, bracing for the inevitable impact that would follow.

  The second Humvee — tailing him for the last couple of minutes — smashed into the back of his vehicle, shooting King forward in his seat. He bounced off the steering wheel, almost catching his broken forearm in the collision.

  Behind him, the enemy Humvee rotated off its rear wheels, knocked to the side by the crash. It twisted and came to rest upside-down on the impeccably-maintained lawn.

  King glanced through the cabin and spotted the two occupants of the vehicle lying motionless, suspended by their seatbelts. They’d both been knocked unconscious by the force of the crash-landing.

  King wondered how he hadn’t joined them in the dark.

  He quickly realised that he was mentally only a thread away from doing so. His vehicle had come to rest the right way up, but the bombardment of concussive impacts that he’d suffered over the course of the chase were now starting to take effect at the forefront of his mind.