Contracts

by Matt Rogers

  Slater nodded. ‘I guess that’s all it comes down to, right?’

  ‘What do we do with these guys?’

  ‘Leave them. Let them fend for themselves. The survivors won’t follow us. Not after what we did to them. Not after the headaches they’ll wake up with.’

  King nodded. ‘Okay. Guess that covers it. Let’s go.’

  As calm as if they’d just finished lunch, they left the teahouse, walked past the dead or semi-conscious attackers dotted across the grass, and climbed back into the original jeep. King got behind the wheel, and Slater took the passenger seat. They slammed their doors and King threw it in reverse and crept back down the road. They stayed quiet the whole way out of the village, keeping their eyes peeled for any sign of a second assault.

  There was nothing.

  Desolation.

  Silence.

  Wind.

  Cloud.

  King spun the jeep around and mounted the same steadily ascending trail, leaving the village behind.

  ‘Guess we’re on our own for the rest of the drive,’ Slater said. ‘Hope there aren’t an abundance of forks in the road.’

  King said, ‘I doubt that. But just to be sure…’

  He reached back with one hand and fished the satellite phone out of the seat pocket, and thumbed a few buttons on the interface. Then he held it to his ear.

  After a few beats, Violetta said, ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Now it is,’ King said. ‘But we’ve got a few things we need to discuss.’

  18

  She didn’t interrupt as he filled her in.

  When he finally trailed off, she said, ‘Christ.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t use the same trekking company as Parker.’

  ‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘How dumb do you think I am?’

  ‘Had to be sure.’

  ‘I’ll start investigating exactly what happened and who we hired and how they might have been … compromised.’

  ‘Did you even consider doing this without the help of civilians? You know how easy it is for them to be—’

  ‘Enough,’ she snapped. ‘We didn’t have a choice. In case you didn’t realise this operation is incredibly time-sensitive. And we didn’t have anyone we were connected to in Kathmandu who knew Nepal like the locals. Fact of the matter is, we wouldn’t have got you to Phaplu in time if we didn’t use one of the already-established companies.’

  ‘And look where that got us.’

  ‘You’re still alive. It’s in your job description to deal with any problems that might crop up. We just didn’t know it was going to come from civilians.’

  ‘They were amateurs,’ King said. ‘Fourteen amateurs. Whoever wants us shut down is acting fast. They’re working with what they can get their hands on — just like us.’

  Violetta said, ‘I know.’

  ‘You still think it’s Oscar Perry?’

  ‘That’s … less likely.’

  ‘Unless he’s interrogated the porter for all his contacts in Kathmandu. Which would be simple, if you think about it.’

  ‘Also a possibility.’

  ‘There’s a lot of possibilities.’

  ‘Which isn’t your concern,’ Violetta said. ‘Your concern is getting Raya back alive. That’s priority number one. If you find out that Perry’s innocent and have the opportunity to get him back, great. But Raya Parker is who you came to Nepal for.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘How’s Will?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  Slater raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Did she ask about me?’

  King shot daggers sideways.

  Violetta said, ‘Nothing’s changed. You only needed the guide and the driver to get to Phaplu, but you’re over halfway there. I can feed you the rest of the route, and your destination when you get there. Is that enough?’

  ‘Seems to be,’ King said.

  ‘You okay with the drive?’

  ‘I just had ten men try to cut me to pieces. I think I can handle a few bumpy stretches of road.’

  ‘If you can’t, it’d look pretty bad in your file. “Jason King: killed by his own reckless driving after an impressive military career.”’

  He fought back a smile. ‘That sounds an awful lot like banter.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Thought we were keeping things professional.’

  She sighed. ‘You know … if I lose you, it’s not just a note in the case files. It’s more than that. I can’t pretend that doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Should we be talking about that right now?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Stay safe, Jason.’

  ‘Doing my best.’

  ‘Sure sounds like it.’

  ‘Your sarcasm isn’t exactly subtle.’

  ‘I care about you.’

  ‘I know.’

  The silence drew out, with the understanding that he wouldn’t let the facade slip. He took compartmentalisation seriously. There would be no I love you or I care about you too until he was back on American soil.

  Until then…

  ‘I’ll let you go,’ she said.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Take care.’

  ‘You too.’

  He ended the call, wanting to say a thousand things, but opting not to.

  Slater shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He racked the seat back and rested one foot on the dashboard, then rolled his pants up and winced as he noticed a shallow lump swelling on his shin. A hematoma, most likely. King studied it briefly, but didn’t dare take his eyes off the road for any longer than he needed to.

  ‘How’d you get that?’ he said.

  ‘Think it happened when I kicked one of them in the head.’

  ‘Then the other guy probably feels a lot worse.’

  Slater dropped the pant leg back down. ‘Are you two surviving?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know who.’

  ‘Yeah,’ King said. ‘We’ll be fine. There’s worse problems in life.’

  ‘She cares about you.’

  King didn’t respond. He wondered if this was the setup for some cruel insult. Ever since Slater had ramped up the drinking, his truly genuine moments had been few and far between.

  But now King looked over and saw the clarity, the seriousness in the man’s eyes. He hadn’t had a drink yet today. He probably had a splitting headache, but he was keeping his mouth shut about it. Because Will Slater, although he was many things, was not one to complain.

  King said, ‘I know she does.’

  ‘I’m just saying … maybe you shouldn’t be so cold.’

  ‘I have to be.’

  ‘Part of the agreement?’

  He nodded. ‘She wanted to break it. She tried to. But if I die over here … it’d be so much harder for her to move on.’

  ‘It’s going to be hard regardless. You might as well let her know what she means to you. At least while you have the chance to.’

  King was genuinely taken aback. He hadn’t heard anything like this from Slater since New York. Then he realised. It was more than likely the aftermath of the adrenaline rush — with Slater’s stress chemicals heightened, he’d probably be more prone to social acuity.

  But that didn’t mean it wasn’t real.

  King said, ‘Thanks, brother. I’ll talk to her when we get to Phaplu.’

  ‘I would have done the same,’ Slater said. ‘With Ruby.’

  Silence.

  Slater said, ‘No matter what the agreement would have been.’

  ‘She would have done the same for you. You meant something to her.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I hope she was proud of what she was. In those final moments. I hope she found peace.’

  ‘Did Shien ever tell you what they spoke about?’

  ‘No. But I got the sense it was positive. For both of them.’

  ‘Then she was at peace.’

  ‘Is tha
t what will happen in our final moments? Or will it just be a bullet to the brain, or a knife to the throat?’

  ‘We won’t know until it happens. Until then, there’s no use speculating.’

  ‘You think it’s Perry, or the porter?’

  King reeled at the subject change. ‘I don’t know. But I do know one thing.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘We’re going to be having a serious chat to Aidan Parker when we get there.’

  19

  Raya Parker came to in more pain than she’d felt in quite some time.

  Part of it was leftover remnants of the trekking, the effects of covering great distances every day. But most of it was new, in the form of bumps and bruises and swelling, all thanks to the wonders of blunt force trauma. She’d had a blindfold tied over her eyes for a long time. She didn’t know exactly how long it had been. Days, or weeks, or months. All she’d known was the same murky darkness, coupled with the swimming vision and the constant swaying as someone carried her up a series of mountains and occasionally crammed food into her mouth and made her drink from a lukewarm water bottle. Her hands had been tied behind her back the whole time, and her feet had been bound together with something that cut into the skin around her ankles.

  Before that, she couldn’t remember anything at all.

  Just the remnants of her final night of freedom, falling asleep across from her father and then…

  This.

  Now she awoke in something resembling a basement, but she couldn’t be certain. Her first instinct was to panic. She opened her eyes and saw something other than the blindfold for the first time since she’d been snatched, and instantly she wanted to scream and shout and plead for help.

  But the two men across from her made sure she didn’t.

  First she recognised Oscar Perry, with his blonde curly hair and white teeth and blue eyes. She’d always thought he looked more like a surfer than a bodyguard, but he wasn’t flashing his trademark grin today. He had nicks and scratches all over his face, and he sat opposite her with his hands bound behind him and a rope stretched over his torso, looping around the wooden support column against his back.

  Next to him was the porter. Raya couldn’t remember the man’s name. He was small and squared away, and he’d been intensely shy on the trek. She didn’t think he spoke a word of English. He had a horrific injury — one of his eyes had swelled completely shut. It looked like it had been painted black and blue. Like a golf ball had been shoved under his eyelid. He sat there with his head bowed, looking awfully sorry for himself, and Raya felt a pang of empathy for him despite her own condition.

  Perry was the first to notice her wake up.

  He said, ‘Raya. Don’t scream. Please.’

  She looked around.

  They were in a dingy room with rock walls. Weak natural light filtered in through narrow cracks in the ceiling, but that only served to elongate the shadows and make everything a whole lot creepier. Raya tried to move, but her hands were stuck behind her back, tied tight to a heavy object. Constricting her movement. There wasn’t anything quite like it. She’d never been restrained before. There was something horrifying about it at an instinctive level. She tried to move — couldn’t. Absolutely helpless. At the mercy of whoever had put her here.

  They could do anything they wanted to her like this.

  She shivered.

  It took her a moment to realise she was resting against a column — same as Perry, same as the porter.

  She breathed. In and out.

  Slowly.

  Calmly.

  She’d been practicing meditation through an app on her phone for the last six months, and she’d need every ounce of what it had taught her to prevent herself succumbing to a panic attack.

  She kept breathing.

  Watching her intently, Perry nodded his approval.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘Keep doing that.’

  ‘Where are we?’ she said, keeping her voice low.

  ‘I don’t know. They blindfolded me, too.’

  She nodded at the porter. ‘What about him?’

  The porter was watching them talk through his one good eye. The other hung grotesquely in the lowlight. His expression was mostly placid, but there was something resembling genuine sadness under the surface.

  At their situation, most likely.

  Perry shook his head, exasperated. ‘Haven’t been able to get a word out of him.’

  ‘Does he speak English?’

  ‘I’d wager he doesn’t.’

  Raya sensed the sarcasm. ‘Sorry. I’m not thinking straight. What do we… fuck… what do we do, Oscar?’

  Perry looked at her for a long time. With the tension in the air, it felt like hours. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re the bodyguard,’ she said, sensing panic building in her chest. ‘You must be able to think of something.’

  ‘While I’m tied up like this, there’s nothing I can feasibly—’

  An enormous crash sounded to their left, and Raya nearly jumped out of their skin. She tore her gaze to the left and saw a wood-panelled door ricochet off the adjacent wall. Thrown open hard by someone behind it.

  A pair of Nepali men walked into the room.

  There was nothing impressive about them — at least, not compared to Perry’s brawn. They looked like cold cruel men, but they were small in stature and build, clad in faded khakis and black military-style boots. But they weren’t the army. If Raya had to guess, she put them as some sort of rogue paramilitary force — her father, when he was home, often discussed the problem of well-trained combatants banding together outside an official government structure as one of the greatest threats in today’s day and age.

  Just Aidan Parker’s idea of good dinner conversation, she thought.

  Then one of the men strode forward and backhanded her across the face, and she stopped thinking anything other than, Ouch.

  ‘No talking,’ the man hissed in accented English. ‘All of you, shut up.’

  The porter suddenly babbled something in Nepali. It sounded hostile. Neither Raya nor Perry could be sure what the small man said, but venom flared in the soldier’s eyes as he turned to the hostage.

  ‘Don’t hurt him,’ Raya said, but she practically whispered it under her breath, and it fell on deaf ears.

  The soldier stepped over and kicked the porter in the chest.

  Raya cried out.

  She’d never seen violence like that before. Not in the flesh. Movies and books were one thing, but watching the sole of a boot ram into a sternum with enough force to rattle the wooden column behind it made her sick to her stomach. She fought the urge to vomit.

  The porter dropped his head, pain drenching his face, and winced as he faced the floor.

  He was in a world of misery.

  The soldier turned to Perry, and raised an eyebrow.

  The bodyguard didn’t say a word.

  Nodding and smiling sadistically, the soldier barked to his comrade, who handed over a trio of coarse black cloths. The man wrung them out tight, making them thin, and forced them between Perry’s lips, followed quickly by the porter. With both of them gagged, he wrapped blindfolds over their eyes.

  Then he turned to Raya.

  She didn’t kick or flail or scream. There was no point. It’d only intensify the panic once she lost the ability to speak and her world went dark.

  Instead, she stared daggers at the soldier as he forced the dry rancid-tasting cloth between her lips, binding it tight against the corners of her mouth. She found herself thinking, My dad knows people.

  They’re coming.

  For you, and your friend, and whoever else is behind this.

  Then the blindfold went over her eyes and she saw nothing but the dark material pressing tight.

  But it didn’t end there.

  There was a pause as the soldier got to his feet, and then he barked a sharp command. Raya sat still, assuming he was just talking to his buddy.

&nbs
p; But then there was movement directly across the room.

  She wasn’t able to pinpoint where it came from — the left, or the right. But she knew what it meant, and her heart dropped, and her walls came up, and she vowed to never utter another word to anyone until she was safe. It wasn’t so much the fact that it had happened. This was an extreme situation, and she hadn’t expected everything to unfold perfectly. It was the betrayal that cut her soul.

  Because either Oscar Perry or the unnamed porter had just shrugged off their bindings and got to their feet.

  One of them had been faking it.

  Pretending to be held against their will.

  Footsteps crept across the room, quietly, so Raya didn’t know whether it was the heavier Perry or the lighter porter. But the liar joined his soldier comrades and shook their hands — Raya heard palms clasping softly — and then the three of them left the room.

  Raya yelled against her gag, but all that came out was a jumbled gargle.

  She went quiet, waiting for a response from whoever was left across the room.

  But their gag must have been locked tight, because all she heard was kicking feet and the thumping of a body squirming.

  She couldn’t tell if it was coming from the left, or the right.

  Perry and the porter had been seated too close together.

  Raya went quiet, and took a deep rattling breath through the gag, and cried into her blindfold.

  20

  Phaplu was overcast and moody as they pulled in later that afternoon. It was a small village skewered into the Nepali mountains, offering a reprieve before the trek to Everest officially got underway.

  They mounted a road running between a row of identical wooden teahouses and a tiny airport. The accommodation tried to lure in the arriving tourists coming off the planes. The runway to their left was impressively short, just a small strip of tarmac slapped horizontally onto the side of the hill, separated from the muddy trail by a cheap wire fence.

  Slater watched King alternate his gaze between the phone screen and the murky surroundings outside, searching for their destination. They found it near the very end of the trail — a smaller teahouse, complete with the same wooden exterior, tucked into the shadows. The whole building seemed derelict, especially compared to the newer establishments aiming to trap tourists closer to the airport.