The Tribe: Black Force Shorts Book Three
Page 1
The Tribe
Black Force Shorts Book Three
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
Chapter 27
Announcement
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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)
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1
Central Peru
Bradley Frisson crouched over the thick steel bomblet, allowing a gleeful smile to creep across his lips. It would do no harm to bask in his success for a few moments. He was alone in the hut, and if anyone deserved to give themselves a pat on the back for a foolproof series of actions, it was him.
A lesser man wouldn’t have been able to pull this off.
But he had.
There’d been speed bumps along the way, but that was part of the job. Anything involving deception and treachery inevitably carried risk — it just so happened that Frisson’s particular endeavour had been accompanied by a disproportionate amount. But he’d been willing and able to take the plunge, and now here he was — deep in the heart of the central Peruvian rainforest, surrounded by lush jungle and a complete absence of civilisation.
The treasured guest of an Asháninca tribe.
A tribe that had bought into his shtick without a moment of hesitation.
He wore a handmade cotton robe gifted to him by one of the tribe members. The boy couldn’t have been much older than twenty, but he’d presented Frisson with the kushma only a few days ago with all the verve of an important figurehead in the tribe. Frisson hadn’t failed to recognise the weight of the gesture. It meant he was absolutely trusted by the tribe, and it meant he could take the final steps to ensure they would do whatever he requested.
It hadn’t been easy to deceive them.
He composed himself for a moment, almost unwilling to believe that he’d made it this far. Two months ago this entire plan had been a distant pipe dream, something he’d conjured up in a dingy backpacker’s hostel whilst high as a kite on a mild dose of ayahuasca. Hallucinogens had a range of benefits, most notably the ability to see all of the world from a birds-eye-view. Frisson had become aware of his life as a puzzle, and steps had presented themselves to claim a great deal of power that he couldn’t resist attempting.
He’d been cooped up in that goddamn hostel for months, alone with his radical thoughts, and the trip had sent him down a dark path that culminated in this stifling wooden hut in the middle of the Pichis Valley.
A knock sounded at the door of the hut, and Frisson grunted an affirmation. On cue an Asháninca man stepped through, carving out a narrow window of light as he inched his way through the half-open doorway. Frisson struggled to stifle a smirk. The amount of influence he had on these people never failed to surprise him — he’d only been involved with them for a couple of weeks, but aside from a major hiccup halfway through the plan, everything had gone swimmingly. The tribe fully believed his claims, and made all kind of allowances for his odd behaviour.
Such as making sure to leave him in private in this hut while he worked on the finer details.
But that was all in the past.
He’d done it.
The newcomer — who Frisson had become close with during his time in the camp — was the only member of the Asháninca tribe capable of speaking English. The man — a gangly, six-foot-five giant — acted as the translator between Frisson and the rest of the Asháninca people, and over time had bought into Frisson’s web of lies himself. Now he stood rigid on the opposite side of the hut, eyes wide, staring in awe at the bomblet on the table between them.
Unbelievable, Frisson thought.
‘Is it ready?’ the man said.
Frisson put on his best game face and cast the man an irritated glance. ‘Do not rush me.’
‘I’m sorry. We are all very eager to meet with the maninkari.’
Frisson nodded, but he wanted to laugh.
The goddamn maninkari.
That single word had opened up a world of potential when Frisson had decided to capitalise on the susceptibility of the native people. They believed in those ethereal spirits that permeated through everything, and had become increasingly desperate to learn of Frisson’s supposed revelations in the days following his arrival.
By now, their excitement had reached a fever pitch.
They were ready to achieve enlightenment.
‘This is a careful process,’ Frisson said, gesturing to the large steel cylinder. ‘In this container are secrets that have been on this earth for thousands of years, kept hidden until now. We must not rush to unlock them.’
‘Where did you find it?’ the translator said, even though he had asked the same question many times before without success.
‘Do not test me,’ Frisson barked. ‘This is the wish of the gods. How else would I know the things I know? They have spoken to me, and they told me to bring this capsule to you.’
Frisson had failed to reveal that the only reason he knew extensive information about the Asháninca’s people’s beliefs was because he had kidnapped a young boy from a neighbouring tribe and tortured every last scrap of vital knowledge out of the kid. It hadn’t been pleasant, but it had given him everything he needed to stroll into the village two weeks earlier and act like an ordinary white man who had been bestowed with ancient knowledge from the maninkari.
Frisson had always considered himself an excellent actor.
The past two weeks had served as his magnum opus.
‘Do you have a rough idea of the timeline?’ the translator said. ‘The people are impatient. They know there is something special in this hut. They want to see it.’
‘They will see it. I
n due time.’
‘When?’
When I’ve finished tinkering with it, Frisson thought. When it’s ready to blow.
‘When the maninkari signal it is time.’
‘I hope it comes soon. We are all eager to see the truth.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
The translator seemed to sense that Frisson had withdrawn into himself, for he gave a slight bow before slinking back out of the wooden hut. He shut the door behind him, plunging the interior back into murky darkness. There was no artificial lighting inside the room — the only illumination came from the thin fingers of sunlight creeping through the gaps between the wooden planks.
Frisson bowed over the bomblet and wrenched it open. He wasn’t done yet. When he was, the tribe would accept his gift with astonishment and follow his every command.
Because you are a master manipulator.
And when you want to ascend to new heights, it pays to be able to manipulate.
A dirty bead of sweat ran down the corner of Frisson’s forehead and he wiped it away with one sleeve of his robe, ruining the garment. Perhaps that would anger the maninkari, but he had a feeling that using a native tribe to set off a dirty bomb in the heart of a city would anger them a whole lot more.
2
Junín Region
Andes of Peru
Of all the things Sam Rollins thought he would do with his life, he’d never anticipated this being one of them.
And, unless his circumstances changed drastically in the immediate future, it was all he would be doing for the rest of his life.
The prison was unlike anything he’d experienced before. The sheer hopelessness of his surroundings — the resignation that leeched through the mountain air — had sapped his will to live long ago. Although he’d only been trapped in this freezing single-man cell for a few weeks, the time had passed in excruciatingly slow fashion.
In his mind, he’d been here for an eternity.
And he still had a thousand eternities to go.
He had no doubt the complex was off the books, officially recognised by nobody. It was certainly not legal. The jail, slapped on the side of a snowy mountain in the Huaytapallana mountain range, offered stunning views over the Andes. Rollins’ cell faced out over the valley below, sporting one wall composed of vertical steel bars allowing exposure to the elements.
The view belonged on a postcard, but Rollins had stopped admiring it after about twenty seconds in captivity.
All it offered was hope — freedom was on the other side of those bars, but he would never make it past them. He’d accepted his fate within a day of imprisonment, and ever since then the biting mountain wind had battered the hope out of him, piece by miserable piece.
His teeth rattled in their sockets, but he had learned to ignore that long ago. The scraps of food and sips of water the guards delivered through the bars at indeterminate intervals did little to satiate him. There was no structure to the meals — they came every now and then, and Rollins had given up hoping for them. There was no way to know an exact amount, but he was pretty sure he’d lost close to five pounds already.
He didn’t want to know what his life would be like a year from now.
If he even made it that far.
The only thing keeping him alive was the heavy-duty weatherproof clothing draped over his slender frame. He’d been carrying the expensive puffer jacket and tight-fitting cargo pants in his pack when he’d been arrested, and the guards had allowed him to keep those few meagre possessions in his cell. They probably realised that if they left him exposed to the cold, he would die before experiencing any real punishment.
The true torture came in a prolonged stay in this mountain prison, and an early departure from the land of the living would ruin that.
So he stayed alive.
Not warm, because of the constant barrage of wind howling in through the bars, bombarding him with shivers at all hours of the night and day. But the clothing — which had already started to stink — kept the chill at bay just enough to keep him conscious. The food scraps — leftover meat and rice from the guards’ meals, no doubt — provided just enough nourishment to keep his internal organs functioning.
Everything other than that was a living hell.
The unknown was the worst part. Rollins’ cell was wedged into the exterior wall of the complex, one room in a row of similar dwellings that faced out over the valley. The main section of the mountain prison lay out of sight — Rollins often heard commotion on the other side of the thick concrete walls, but there was nothing he could do to investigate. The cell contained a rusting toilet, a tiny metal sink, and a steel bed frame.
He knew he’d been confined in this space with the intention of never being released again.
He still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the circumstances that had placed him here. Like most occurrences in the field, it had unfolded with such horrifying rapidity that Rollins hadn’t figured he should put up a fight until it was far too late.
When the shuttle bus had deposited him on the mountainside in chains after a nauseating eight-hour drive through the Andes, he’d stared up at the remote cluster of buildings and figured he’d be kept in this outpost temporarily whilst the authorities worked out what to do with him. There had been no official court proceedings, so he’d figured a trial was imminent, which would give him ample opportunity to escape.
But then the convoy of guards — none of them dressed in official attire, instead sporting the uniforms of a rogue paramilitary unit — had deposited him in this cell and sealed the door forever.
How fortunes can change.
Rollins glanced out through the steel bars for what felt like the first time that day. His life had become a monotonous blur of misery, grappling with what could have been, forced to dwell on the choices that had brought him to this awful hell hole. Once again the unknown struck a chord with him — he didn’t even know who the hell ran this place. They weren’t affiliated with the Peruvian government — perhaps this was the South American equivalent of a CIA black prison, an off-site location to dump political prisoners.
Is that what I am?
A political prisoner?
Then, as he was dwelling on the fact that a single instance can change your life forever, a scream rose from the bowels of the prison and Sam Rollins’ life changed once again.
3
He couldn’t see what was unfolding, which drove him mad.
Rollins swept two locks of long blonde hair off his forehead and launched off the bed frame, responding with urgency to the shout. It was a man’s voice, laced with surprise and fright, and the nature of the prison’s location sent the outcry echoing down the mountainside. It came from the centre of the complex, its sound launching over the roof of Rollins’ wing and filtering in through the gaps between the metal bars. Just as soon as it materialised, the scream faded into nothingness, ripped away by the howling mountain wind as if it had never existed at all.
Rollins seized two of the metal bars and pressed the side of his head against the gap, turning his ear to the outside world. It was the most notable thing that had happened in weeks. The uncertainty of it all set his heart pounding, and he broke out in a cold sweat despite the temperature.
Because Rollins’ life had been spent in the midst of warfare, and he knew how to categorise the screams of men.
There had been genuine terror in that sound. The man had not been startled by a wild animal, or letting out his surprise as he tripped over a pothole. He’d seen something that certainly didn’t belong on this mountain, and that was something Rollins decided to pay close attention to.
He knew he shouldn’t become hopeful. The paramilitary force no doubt had any number of enemies, and in all likelihood one of their foes had opted to storm the mountain prison and slaughter them all in their tracks.
Unlikely, Rollins thought.
All this time in solitary confinement had allowed room for his imagination to run wild. He stood froz
en against the bars, listening intently for anything else out of the ordinary…
Crunch.
If Rollins’ hadn’t tuned his ears to the outside world, he never would have heard it. The sound was barely perceptible, a distant crack that drifted over the roof and touched the edge of his hearing. But he recognised it as if it were right alongside him. He’d been through enough to understand exactly what it meant.
The sound of breaking bone.
Something was unfolding. Something primal and intense. Rollins sensed the atmosphere shifting — tension spread through the prison. Ordinarily his day was made up of overhearing the distant murmuring of guards, and ignoring the high-pitched whining of the mountain wind. But now there was complete silence, interjected with brief sounds of displaced testosterone.
People were dying.
There were lives on the line.
Rollins wasn’t sure exactly how he managed to realise this, but it was a fundamental understanding. Even though he looked out over a sweeping valley of undulating mountains and valleys — a sight ordinarily reserved for a picturesque tourist brochure — he could sense death in the air.
Despite the lack of nutrition and sleep, he readied himself as best he could. If there were insurgents in the prison, then they were here for one of the inmates. Perhaps the paramilitary troops had locked up the wrong man.