by Matt Rogers
The Coast
Black Force Shorts Book Five
Matt Rogers
Copyright © 2018 by Matt Rogers
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Onur Aksoy.
www.liongraphica.com
Contents
Reader’s Group
Books by Matt Rogers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Announcement
Books by Matt Rogers
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About the Author
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Books by Matt Rogers
THE JASON KING SERIES
Isolated (Book 1)
Imprisoned (Book 2)
Reloaded (Book 3)
Betrayed (Book 4)
Corrupted (Book 5)
Hunted (Book 6)
THE JASON KING FILES
Cartel (Book 1)
Warrior (Book 2)
Savages (Book 3)
THE WILL SLATER SERIES
Wolf (Book 1)
Lion (Book 2)
BLACK FORCE SHORTS
The Victor (Book 1)
The Chimera (Book 2)
The Tribe (Book 3)
The Hidden (Book 4)
The Coast (Book 5)
1
Vernazza
Cinque Terre
Italy
Sam Rollins always reflected on the past four months of his life with a range of emotions.
Overshadowing everything was the disbelief, the sheer unlikelihood that he had lived through the experience, coupled with the strange fascination that it had happened in the first place. Then came the gratitude — he had accepted a spot in the most dangerous government division in military history, and come out the other side practically unscathed. Sure, there had been a string of consecutive injuries that even the most hardened veteran would pale at, but nothing long-term. Nothing that would plague him for the rest of his life. Recovery had taken its precious time, but when his journey concluded with an early retirement that had taken everyone in Black Force by surprise, Rollins had his health intact.
That, in itself, was an achievement.
But, above all else, the four months of madness had changed him as a person. He still grappled with the emotional detachment from most of life’s problems.
Rollins sat at an array of tables spread across the edge of the concrete square overlooking the ocean, a picturesque stretch of land crammed with tourists. The seaside bar was positioned at the edge of Vernazza, one of the coastal towns in the Cinque Terre stretch of the Italian coast. Looking around at the machinations of day to day life, sipping on a tall glass of Meanbrea Lager, he found it hard to relate to anything he was seeing. He watched elderly couples bicker over their menu choices, and a horde of backpackers lambasting each other for choosing the incorrect camera angle on their smartphones. It all seemed so…
…unnatural.
Rollins had known, as soon as he’d accepted the position as a Black Force operator, that if he came out the other side he wouldn’t be the same. Now was his first true experience of that concept. His superiors had warned him there were levels to the human psyche, but his youth and inexperience had dismissed it as nonsense. Men far smarter than himself had told him of the consequences of trying to return to a normal life after seeing the kind of devastating combat that could change you forever.
Once again, Rollins hadn’t considered it something to worry about.
Now he knew.
Before black operations, his military career had been largely uneventful, albeit impressive. Much like most of the men who ended up on Black Force’s doorstep, his test results in the realm of reflexes and reaction speed had been off the charts, which was why he’d been offered the chance to become a solo warrior in the first place.
But then he’d been forced to acclimatise to the cold reality of being alone in the field.
It took some getting used to.
He could kill, and he could kill effortlessly, but there was a difference between possessing the ability and following through with the action itself. He’d undertaken three missions for the division, and each had been consecutively more brutal than the last. It had all reached a fever pitch in the Peruvian rainforest four weeks ago, and another operator — a legend of the field named Jason King — had been forced to haul him out of the mess he’d created.
It had brought him to his breaking point.
Even though he’d quit Black Force four weeks ago, it seemed like a distant dream.
A nightmare.
Something he’d been forced to wake up from.
Now, simply waking up in the morning had never felt so good.
War changes a man. It had altered Rollins — he could recognise that. He’d fought for his life several times over the last four months, sometimes coming within a hair’s breadth of death. Now he found himself savouring simple pleasures, no longer reluctant to simply sit and enjoy the moment, appreciating the fact that he was here to experience existence.
Maybe cheesy to some, but he didn’t care.
Sometimes you had to drop into hell just to realise how lucky you actually were.
But hell came with drawbacks.
It always did.
The woman came strolling leisurely into view. Rollins put her at close to thirty, and it was hard to tell whether she was a native Italian or a tourist from somewhere else in Europe. She sported the caramel skin and jet black hair and sparkling amber eyes of the local women, but she strolled through the harbour in Vernazza with the kind of child-like wonder that suggested she wasn’t from this neck of the woods. Rollins glanced at her for a couple of seconds, then drained his lager and turned his attention back to the view.
He didn’t want to come across as a pervert, and the pummelling he’d received during the last four months of his life had sapped the urgency out of his daily actions. Maybe before Black Force he would sense opportunity and eagerly approach, but something about a series of near-death experiences had made Rollins unnaturally patient. He was grateful for every waking moment, and more importantly he realised how much time he had on this planet.
That was the main thing.
It helped that four months of hell had padded his offshore bank account with enough black operations funds to allow such an early retirement.
Destruction paid handsomely, he’d found.
But this particular opportunity seemed to want to fall into his lap. The woman kept sauntering closer, not paying him any attention, sweeping her gaze over the grid of tables in search of a spare seat. Finding nothing, she hovered around the entrance to the seasid
e bar, watching waiters carry plastic trays loaded with Mojito cocktails and wine glasses full of Aperol Spritz.
Rollins, positioned at the very edge of the cohort of tables, waited calmly until they made eye contact and gestured to the seat across from him. He was, after all, on his own — and it might prove selfish to hoard the entire table for himself.
Unsure whether she spoke English or not, he silently raised an eyebrow, bypassing the potential language barrier in an effort to find out whether she wanted to sit.
She sat.
2
The wind picked up and turquoise blue water lapped at the beachhead skewered into the front of the harbour. Rollins said nothing for a short while, staring over the woman’s shoulder at the Italian coastline sweeping into the horizon. He saw Monterosso in the distance, another coastal town in Cinque Terre. The hike between the villages took a couple of hours. He’d completed the back-and-forth trip a couple of times since he’d arrived a week ago.
The freedom was bliss.
The thought crossed his mind that he could happily spend the rest of his life in this place.
With nearly two million dollars in government funds in the bank, he could well afford to.
He had become comfortable with silence. The woman nodded politely to him as she slipped into the seat, and he nodded back. They looked at each other for a long beat, the kind of mutual observation that made it overtly clear what both their intentions were.
Two young, good-looking people in an exotic location.
There was something cerebral about it.
‘English?’ Rollins finally said.
The woman flashed a coy smile. ‘Of course.’
‘Are you Italian?’
‘Yes. I live in Levanto.’
‘Come here often?’
‘First time.’
‘I can tell.’
‘You are American.’
‘How’d you know?’ Rollins said with a devilish grin.
‘The accent.’
‘I know. I was joking.’
She smiled again. ‘What are you doing in Vernazza?’
‘Taking a break from work.’
She cocked her head. ‘Do you work over here?’
‘No.’
‘Where do you work?’
‘All over, I guess. I was pretty busy. Needed a detox.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Private security. But I’m thinking about getting out of the business. It’s quite dangerous.’
‘Private security… this sounds interesting. You are tough man?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Strong muscles?’
He laughed. ‘Maybe not for much longer. I’m on a break. And this place seems to make me lazy. I might not go back.’
‘You can afford to stay?’
‘Security pays well.’
‘You like being lazy?’
‘I do. I haven’t had fun in a long time.’
‘I like fun.’
‘Do you?’
She pushed the chair back and got to her feet, leaving her handbag on the seat behind her. She fetched her purse out and tucked it under the crook of her arm. ‘I get us drink.’
Rollins smiled. ‘That sounds good.’
‘What do you drink?’
He began to motion to the beer, but stopped himself halfway through the gesture. ‘Surprise me.’
‘This is fun.’
She sauntered through the bar’s entranceway, disappearing inside. Rollins folded his hands behind his head and reclined a few inches in his seat, watching the waves crash off the finger of land forming the left-hand side of the harbour. The sun glinted off the surrounding buildings, most of them coloured varying shades of deep peach and light mauve and muddy yellow. At the peak of the town’s elevation, he spotted the giant stone tower, Castello Doria, spearing into the sky. He’d been up there four times since he’d arrived, and the views of the coast hadn’t grown old yet.
Everything around him seemed straight off a postcard. A beautiful woman — whose name he hadn’t received yet — was buying him a drink, and he hadn’t a care in the world. There was no pressing need for money. He had his health.
He was, for the first time in a long time, happy.
He began to wonder if the trauma of the operations had been worth it. In the depths of the Peruvian rainforests, surrounded by a tribe of Asháninca natives that wanted nothing more than to brutally murder him, he’d figured nothing was worth that kind of physical torment and mental anguish.
But if it had bought him a lifetime of stress-free existence, then perhaps the short burst of terror had been well worth it.
You’re not thinking straight. Remember what happened.
Never take it lightly.
In truth, he’d been foolish to think he’d escaped the psychological effects.
The woman returned minutes later, juggling a pair of tall cylindrical shot glasses filled with an amber liquid. She placed them on the table between them and offered Rollins a warm smile. He figured it was tequila, but before he could ask an icy chill trickled down the base of his spine, making him shiver uncontrollably. Before he could grapple with the sensation, his vision narrowed to a tunnel.
That’s not good.
Even though he knew the woman meant no harm, he immediately began to assess the threats. Could someone have spiked one of his previous drinks? Is that what was happening? Was rohypnol or some other substance racing through his veins?
No.
It wasn’t that.
This was internal.
And then it all hit him with a sudden rush.
The flashbacks seized his mind and turned his skin pale and clammy. He remembered the rainforest. He recalled in vivid detail one of the tribespeople holding him down, his hands bound behind his back. Helpless to prevent what came next. He remembered the toxic, fatal vial of hallucinogenic liquid lowering steadily toward his mouth. He felt the cool touch of the glass on his lips. He’d been inches away from one of the most painful deaths imaginable. It had almost torn his life away in a rabid frenzy of visions and hallucinations.
Before he could even attempt to force the memories from his mind, he broke out in a cold sweat. Rivulets of perspiration ran from the corners of his forehead down the sides of his face. His lips turned pale and dry.
Cold and shivering despite the warmth of the Italian summer, he lifted his gaze to make eye contact with the woman.
A look of understandable concern crossed her face.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
He nodded and smiled. ‘All good.’
But the nausea hit him with the weight of a dump truck. He took another glance at the tequila shot in front of him, trying to stomach the strange turn of events and act like everything was completely normal.
It was impossible.
His insides twisted and constricted, and the vision of the manic tribesman leering over him filled him with dread. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, sweating harder. ‘I’ll … see you later. Sorry…’
He kicked his chair out and lurched away from the seaside bar, fishing his wallet out of his pocket and tossing a ten euro note on the tabletop for the grande lager he’d already ordered. Before the woman could show any further concern or even manage a response, Rollins had taken off across the square. The sun beat down on the back of his neck, drawing sweat from his pores. He bundled past a mob of tourists, shoving one man out of the way who wouldn’t seem to move.
The guy twisted on the spot, almost thrown off balance, and flailed his arms for dramatic effect. He stared at Rollins with a mixture of confusion and apprehension, coupled with scorn.
Rollins waved a half-hearted apology.
He kept forgetting that ninety-nine percent of the population were astonished by aggressive physical contact. That kind of behaviour had been ingrained into his subconscious over the handful of operations he’d conducted.
; Something about seeing the life drain from a man’s eyes made the usual routines of society seem ridiculous in comparison.
Rollins stumbled down a consecutive string of narrow cobblestone alleyways, moving into the heart of the coastal town, passing small hole-in-the-wall shops serving focaccia and panini. He hurried past tourist shops and a pharmacy and a tiny grocer. The peach and yellow buildings on either side of him were ordinarily picturesque, but now the narrowness of the streets made him claustrophobic. The scale of the apartments on either side weighed down on him, increasing his heart rate, compounding the anxiety.
Reluctantly, he accepted that he was in the midst of a full-blown panic attack.
He made it to the winding trail branching off from the main street, now familiar to him after a week in Vernazza. The key to the studio apartment he’d rented bounced and jangled in his pocket, and he fetched it out, moving as fast as he could. He took the cobblestone steps three at a time, bounding up through the quaint little town. He paid no attention to the seaside atmosphere.
Every ounce of his being was focused on getting to isolation.
He yanked the latch to a bulky wooden door and hurried straight through into a hallway drenched in shadow. Hands shaking, he found the lock in the next door and burst through into a small luxury studio apartment. The single-room dwelling with an en-suite bathroom had been his home for the past seven days. He’d booked it for three weeks, but had been strongly considering extending his stay.