Hard Impact: A Jason King Operation (Jason King Series Book 0) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  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

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  End

  HARD IMPACT

  Matt Rogers

  Copyright © 2016 Matt Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  CHAPTER 1

  0700 hours.

  One hundred miles from Iquitos, Peru.

  Waiting was the worst part.

  Jason King tucked his knees further into his chest. He rocked back and forth, slowly and steadily. His heart hammered. In times like these, the fear began to surface. It didn’t matter how many operations he had been through. It didn’t matter how many times he had narrowly escaped death.

  The fear never left.

  He sat on the padded floor of a tiny single-engine plane. A Cessna 182. The only other occupant was the pilot, Diego, a wiry Peruvian man with a pencil moustache and long dreadlocked hair. He chewed absent-mindedly on a toothpick as he flew. The small aircraft rocked and shook as the wind outside battered against its panels, but it didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. King was also unperturbed. If the plane went down, he would not be around to see it.

  The straps on his shoulders dug tight, connected to the parachute container on his back. A constant reminder that there was nothing but a large canopy separating him from survival and certain death. Especially in these conditions.

  Landing would be a bitch.

  ‘Thirty seconds,’ Diego said in heavily accented English.

  ‘You sure about the landing zone?’ he said.

  ‘You will be fine, brother. I don’t know about rest of mission. But if you jump when I say, you live. Simple?’

  ‘Simple,’ King repeated in an attempt to reassure himself.

  The Cessna flew fourteen-thousand feet above the Amazon Rainforest. King leaned over and glanced out the dirty side window. Nothing but a sea of green in all directions. Over five million square miles of dense jungle, much of it unexplored.

  Ten seconds from now, he would freefall into uncharted territory.

  ‘Ready?’ Diego said, one hand tapping a glass display next to the controls. ‘Almost there.’

  ‘Ready,’ King said.

  An uncontrollable burst of adrenalin flooded through his veins. He had given up on trying to manage the feeling long ago. Jumping out of a plane was something that you couldn’t get used to. Each time it came with the vertigo and the rushing wind and the awe and the terror.

  King checked his gear a final time. Parachute on his back, packed meticulously inside its container. Duffel bag locked against his chest, fastened securely. Inside the bag was a FN SCAR-17 assault rifle, a Heckler and Koch MP5SD sub-machine gun with attached suppressor, a Glock 19 compact pistol, countless rounds of ammunition, several all-weather insect-repellent khakis, a handful of ration packs, some water purifying tablets and a small machete.

  That was it, apart from the second Glock 19 strapped to a holster at his waist.

  It was unclear how long this operation would take, but if he needed more supplies than that, he knew his position would be in jeopardy. He hit targets fast, and he hit them hard. Spending too long planning led to delays. Delays killed momentum.

  This line of thinking explained the arsenal he had chosen for the jungle. Soldiers of his calibre — of which there were few — often spent hours selecting tailor-made, customised weapons. These were usually prototypes reserved for the upper echelons of the special forces.

  Not King.

  He saw nothing but potential problems in guns like that. The majority of them were largely untested. He favoured the sturdiest, most reliable weaponry available. The guns that would never in a million years jam on the battlefield, in the heat of combat.

  ‘Door!’ Diego screamed.

  King had lost count of the number of times he’d heard that same command. For as long as he could remember, he’d operated alone. That meant clandestine missions. It meant sneaking around behind enemy lines without any of his foe having the slightest notion that he was there. It meant using unconventional methods to enter hostile situations.

  Usually he came from the sky.

  He reached for the handle and threw the door up and outward. In came the screaming wind, howling around the tiny cabin, shaking the plane to its core. It deafened him. But with it came an icy calmness. It was time to act.

  No more waiting around.

  No more nerves.

  He slapped the pilot on the shoulder, gesturing good-bye. Diego raised a hand, thumb pointing towards the roof of the plane. They had known each other for less than an hour. Something about the tension of dawning combat created a bond.

  Then King stepped out onto the tiny foothold. He looked down once, and it tightened his gut. The treetops were dots. Rivers snaked across the terrain like string. It was all so far away. Wind battered him relentlessly, threatening to throw him off the ledge he was perched on. It didn’t bother him. He would leap off on his own accord soon enough.

  Head up. Back arched.

  Go.

  He stepped off into nothingness.

  CHAPTER 2

  C.F. Secada International Airport.

  Iquitos, Peru.

  Twelve hours earlier…

  The sun had just dipped below the horizon as the passenger plane touched down on the runway. It carried more than a hundred passengers, almost entirely tourists. One of the flight attendants read a pleasant welcome announcement over the speakers as it pulled up to the terminal next to the few other arrivals.

  Jason King was displeased. The flight had been rough and the food had been terrible. He had not slept for more than sixteen hours. A long day of travel lay behind him. He wasn’t sure what lay ahead.

  The seatbelt lights overhead flicked off simultaneously. King rose from the economy-class seat he had spent the last ten hours in and grabbed his sole piece of luggage. A single khaki backpack. In it were the only possessions he ever carried with him while he travelled between operations.

  That’s how he spent his life. At the service of whichever high-ranking official needed him. Sent across the globe, dropped into the middle of warzones. A combat operative for one of the most secretive and exclusive government departments on the planet.

  Black Force.

  He was under no illusion as to how important he was. No-one else could do what he did. No-one else survived what he had, sometimes a hair’s breadth from death. Somehow, he always found a way to get the job done.

  ‘Thanks for flying with us,’ the flight attendant said as he strode past into the detachable corridor.

  It pulled him out of his thoughts. ‘Thank you.’

  He was the first one off the plane. He
always was. Everyone else moved so … slowly. Their actions seemed laborious. Like they had all the time in the world. Perhaps they did. King certainly did not.

  As he stepped out into the terminal, he scanned his surroundings. It was peak hour at the airport. Approaching seven in the evening. Tourists bustled to and fro, munching on fast food and sorting through boarding documents.

  A man loitered by the walkway he had come through. He wore plain blue jeans, slightly faded, and a brown leather jacket over a white V-neck shirt. He was white, with plain features: a receding hairline, round glasses and a shadow of a beard. Nothing about him stood out. But King knew that was the intention. He held a small placard that read: ‘GERARD STEVENS.’

  King stopped in front of him. ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Gerard?’ the man said, his expression quizzical.

  ‘The one and only.’

  ‘Excellent, we have a car waiting for you. My name is Clint. Would you like me to accompany you to collect your luggage?’

  ‘I’ve already got it.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  King motioned to the pack slung over one shoulder. ‘Here.’

  Clint nodded. ‘Of course. Right this way.’

  They dodged hordes of civilians passing through the terminal. All of them either heading toward airport security or the departure gates. As they approached the lines for the metal detectors, Clint pushed past the crowd. He made eye contact with the officer manning the computer. Pointed a single finger at King. The officer gave a curt nod and ushered them straight through, without any question.

  ‘You’re well-known,’ King said as they headed for the exit.

  ‘Not really. They don’t have much idea what’s going on.’

  ‘They sure are co-operative.’

  ‘Of course. A phone call from the President changes a lot of things.’

  As they stepped foot outside, the first thing King noticed was the heat. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. He wiped them away with the sleeve of his T-shirt. The humidity threatened to turn his skin damp within a minute.

  ‘Please tell me your ride’s close,’ King said.

  ‘Very. Special privileges.’

  He breathed a sigh of relief. They crossed the asphalt in front of the terminal and entered a small car park.

  ‘Here we are,’ Clint said, unlocking a battered sedan with an electronic key. The vehicle looked as if it would fall apart at any moment.

  ‘Fuck me,’ King said. ‘The budget must have been enormous for this operation.’

  ‘We spared no expense for you,’ Clint said, a little curtly. ‘Doesn’t matter what the rest of us have. We’re not the ones risking our lives.’

  ‘You sure aren’t.’

  King threw his bag into the back as he climbed in. Left out in the sun for a period of time, the interior of the sedan was an inferno. The air felt heavy. It was impossible to stop the perspiration seeping out of his pores.

  ‘Where are we headed?’ he asked as Clint fired up the engine.

  ‘An airfield on the other side of the city. Much more secluded. We’ve organised a private plane to fly you to the drop-off point. I’m one half of your assistance detail. The other guy will meet us there.’

  ‘Are you briefing me? Because right now I know as much as those airport guards.’

  ‘That’s Brad’s job. He’s waiting for us with the mission file. It’s got everything you need to know.’

  ‘Do you have my gear?’

  Clint nodded. ‘Everything’s ready to go.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  King settled back and observed the urban life in Peru. It was far from pretty. Clint drove through dirty streets strewn with rubbish. The sidewalks were damp. The air bore down heavier in the heart of the city. Thick and musty. Hot and wet. By now the sun had disappeared completely. He sweltered in the evening heat.

  Faint streetlights flickered on and off, partially illuminating the roads. The pedestrians they passed ranged from young children to elderly beggars. Most seemed happy. They were used to the conditions.

  ‘So you’re Jason King,’ Clint said after a long period of silence.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘It’s weird to finally meet you in the flesh.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you know … everyone talks about you. But you’re a myth. No-one ever sees you.’

  ‘That’s because I work alone.’

  ‘Who for, exactly? Everyone in Delta knows you because you used to be one of us. Then they whisked you off for some secret project. Now no-one has a fucking clue what you do.’

  ‘I’m not with a branch of the military. I guess you could say I’m an independent contractor.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘The very top. I can’t go into too much detail.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Another quiet moment. Very faintly, far in the distance, King thought he heard a gunshot. He twitched at the sound.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Clint said. ‘That’s just Iquitos.’

  King didn’t respond. It was now dark outside. ‘What time are wheels up?’

  ‘You fly out at 0500.’

  ‘Into the jungle?’

  ‘Do you really know nothing about your operation?’

  ‘Like I said, I haven’t been briefed.’

  ‘I don’t know how the fuck you do it.’

  King looked at him. ‘Do what?’

  ‘You’re a madman. You fly from country to country doing whatever people tell you. You constantly put your life on the line. You don’t stop. I mean, the stories I’ve heard…’

  ‘I’m not a regular guy,’ King said. ‘Far from it. I can’t stay in one place for too long. I get restless. I can’t sleep. I feel useless. I need to be moving.’

  Clint shook his head. ‘Doesn’t all this scare the shit out of you?’

  ‘Of course it does. That’s the point.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doing what frightens me keeps me going. I never know what I’m walking into. Every time they send me somewhere, I go in expecting to die.’

  ‘You’re insane. I’m an analyst, for Christ’s sake, and all this still scares me.’

  ‘So it should. It’s a dangerous game.’

  ‘Well, you seem to be comfortable in it.’

  ‘Far from it. But I’m one of the rare people who gets a kick out of being uncomfortable.’

  ‘A lot of people embrace being uncomfortable. They take up extreme sports, or push themselves out of their comfort zone. They don’t go charging into a warzone.’

  ‘Maybe that’s how I stay sane. I feel like I’m wasting away if I don’t live on the edge.’

  Clint scoffed. ‘Unbelievable. Well, whatever gets you through the day.’

  He hit the gas and the sedan lurched forward, roaring to the airfield.

  CHAPTER 3

  Slowly, the urban buildings on either side grew further and further apart. Another ten minutes of travel and they were out of the centre of Iquitos. It was quieter out this way. No constant drone of traffic. Just crickets and the buzz of the streetlights, occasionally interspersed with distant yelling.

  ‘Where are you headed after you send me off?’ King said.

  ‘Back to HQ.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Texas.’

  ‘You spend a lot of time there?’

  ‘Most of it. This globe-trotting thing is new to me.’

  ‘It makes you uneasy. I can tell.’

  ‘Like I said, I’m just an analyst. I’m not used to field work.’

  ‘After this, you’re done,’ King said. ‘You’ll watch my plane fly out and then you’ll head back to the airport and get on a plane home. Safe and sound.’

  ‘I can’t even imagine how you feel.’

  ‘Reserved. I’m used to this.’

  ‘I hope they pay well.’

  ‘They do. But that’s not the point.’

  Clint stopped outside a wire fence that seemed to run forever.
Overgrown weeds snaked through the gaps down low. There was a gate in front of them, manned by a Peruvian guard in a dishevelled uniform. King noticed the pistol in a holster at his belt. Clint stuck an arm out the open driver’s window and held his palm out, fingers spread. A wave. The guard nodded, much like the airport security officer had, and moved to open the gate for them. Their headlights illuminated the space directly ahead, but the rest was darkness. King saw a field of dead grass stretching out in all directions.

  The guard opened the gate and waved them through. He said nothing as the sedan crawled slowly past.

  Tension ran thick in the air. King recognised it. The guard’s airfield had been rented out by persons unknown, for reasons unknown. The man would not have been told what was happening. He had been kept in the dark, forced to stand around waiting to open the gate for mysterious men in the shadows. King often imagined these scenarios from the perspective of outsiders.

  The sedan tackled the overgrown grass reasonably well. The sky had turned black, and the only light in these parts came from the headlights. Twin beams lit up the path ahead like beacons. They revealed nothing but flat ground as far as King could see.

  ‘You said this was an airfield,’ he said.

  ‘It is. I didn’t say it was well-kept.’

  Eventually they hit a runway, the tarmac cracked and damaged. King wondered how planes took off from its surface.

  He would find out in the morning.

  The sudden silence was eerie. They’d made the trip to the airfield through the bustling heart of Iquitos, surrounded by the sounds of the city. Now there was nothing. The only noise came from the sedan’s grumbling engine.

  Then he saw a faint source of light in the distance. A yellow glow. Windows, far away.

  ‘Is that us?’ he said.

  Clint nodded. ‘It’s where we’ve set up camp. The airplane hangar. Don’t get excited, it’s nothing interesting.’

  King realised that as they pulled up to the entrance. “Hangar” was a very loose definition of the building that lay ahead. It was a warehouse made of corrugated iron. Its walls were in the process of rusting away. The entire structure looked like it could collapse from a slight gust of wind. The roller doors were up, revealing the inside of the building, illuminated softly by flickering overhead lights. A single space, high ceilings, cracked concrete floor. It seemed like everything was broken around these parts. A dirty single-engine plane sat in the centre, surrounded by vast open space.