Betrayed: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 4) Read online

  Contents

  Mailing List

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quote

  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

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  Author's Note

  Book 5 Coming Soon...

  End

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  BETRAYED

  Matt Rogers

  Copyright © 2016 Matt Rogers

  All rights reserved.

  “The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug.”

  - Chris Hedges

  CHAPTER 1

  Giza Pyramid Complex

  Giza, Egypt

  At 2:19p.m. the boy stepped into the tourist precinct in front of the pyramids.

  He carried little muscle or fat on his frame. Even though he was seventeen years old, anyone would have guessed he was closer to thirteen or fourteen. His frail arms and protruding collarbones signified years of hardship, and the dirt caked thick under his fingernails only cemented that conclusion. He walked tentatively across the busy lot, passing buses loaded to the brim with Western and Asian tourists. Despite the sweltering heat, hundreds had flocked to the ancient site to catch a glimpse of some of the most famous archaeological constructions on the planet.

  The boy had been here many times before.

  None of his previous trips carried the significance of today’s visit.

  In his youth, he had strolled aimlessly through the crowds, gazing in awe at the gold watches and expensive shirts and thick sunglasses adorning the foreigners — and a handful of wealthy locals. It was a rare sight, but not impossible. Sometimes the upper-class ventured over from Zamalek, the district in western Cairo home to all manner of successful Egyptians. The boy hadn’t stepped foot on the island until recently, when a newfound connection had enabled him to make the journey across the Qasr El Nil Bridge and into the affluent region — distinctly separated from the rest of Cairo. It was like entering a different world. The streets were tranquil, airy, quiet — a world away from what he was used to.

  Hopefully, if all went according to plan, he could live in places like that for the rest of his life…

  He stepped into the vicinity of a local merchant selling cheap off-brand shirts and denim shorts, who quickly dismissed him at a glance. The elderly man had calloused hands and a permanent scowl — unless he was attempting to seduce a group of tourists into an impulse purchase. The man had seen the boy many times before. He knew he had no money. He would not waste time flaunting his goods.

  Not yet, the boy thought. No money today.

  But soon.

  The boy continued on, giving the briefest of glances to the pyramids themselves. Khufu — the Great Pyramid, to foreigners — the Pyramid of Khafre and the Pyramid of Menkaure. The Great Sphinx rested in its sorry state on the eastern side of the complex. Over the decades it had slowly lost its magnificence. The whole place had. The boy had seen these sights countless times, enough to do away with the aura that seemed to captivate every tourist who stepped foot in the complex.

  If he held any semblance of attachment to the area, he would not be going ahead with what would soon take place.

  He moved between a large grid of pre-prepared locations across the precinct, checking each space in turn. He made sure to wander aimlessly, avoiding the attention of the black-clad security officers dotting the area. They wouldn’t be a threat. Most were lackadasical, swinging their Kalashnikovs around like playthings, utterly oblivious to any would-be danger.

  They certainly hadn’t interfered so far.

  Commotion unfolded close by. The boy wheeled, searching for the source of the outburst. When he laid eyes on the scene his heart rate settled. It was just another tourist who had reached their limit after being bombarded by merchants and locals desperately trying to sell their goods. The pasty Westerner had lashed out verbally at one of the old men, swearing at him in English. The boy did not understand, but he knew from the general tone how the tourist felt about the situation.

  He moved away, feeling perspiration trickle down his forehead. He wiped a hand over his face, unperturbed by the conditions. He’d grown up in them. He hadn’t known anything else. The stifling heat was simply a part of his life. He made it to his final destination and looked around.

  Perfect.

  Everything was in place.

  Just like that, his job was done. He turned his back on the ancient site without a second look. Time to head home. There was a phone call he was excitedly anticipating. It would spell a change of fortune. A fresh start. A new life…

  He crossed the sandy precinct once more, sweating profusely but blending into the crowd. In other places, the perspiration would signal nervousness, fear, unease. He would be targeted based on his race. Singled out. Interrogated.

  Here, he was just another local kid.

  On the way past the row of merchant stalls he let his gaze drift back to the pyramids. It might look odd if he spent time trawling through the precinct only to leave without paying any attention to the main features. He tried his best to look like an awed youth, soaking in the grand views. Every part of him wanted nothing more than to leave. He didn’t want to spend a moment longer than necessary in this place.

  As he lost focus on what lay ahead, he jolted in shock as he bumped into a pair of Western tourists. The couple had been in conversation with one of the merchants, half-heartedly listening to his spiel on souvenirs and trinkets. The male tourist grunted in surprise and turned to look at the boy.

  He smiled sheepishly and raised his hands in apology. The man nodded. He and his wife moved along.

  The boy was left facing the furious merchant, a solidly-built Egyptian with a weathered face and broken fingernails. In his eyes, he had just lost potential customers to this foolish youth’s actions.

  Before the boy could react, an open hand sliced across his cheek, omitting a loud smack which rang across the complex. The boy winced from the pain and fell sideways, his legs buckling. He splayed into the hot sand and gasped. Nerve endings tingled across his face.

  The area would swell by the following morning.

  He’d been hit before. It wasn’t anything new. However, this instance had come as a surprise. Coupled with the tentative nature of his business in the complex, the boy w
as left thoroughly rattled. He picked himself up with shaking hands and scurried away to the exit, passing mobs of tourists — most shocked by the sudden violence.

  He heard the merchant shouting expletives after him, telling him not to come back. His emotions got the better of him. He felt tears welling behind his eyes. His cheeks reddened and anger flooded through him like hot lava. The sensation was not foreign to him. He bit down on his tongue, shoved his hands in his pockets and hurried down the track, onto Al Haram.

  The chaos of the city life calmed him. Amidst the blaring horns and screeching of tyres and gesticulating pedestrians, he felt at peace. The tourist destinations were too quiet. He could disappear in the bustling streets and cramped alleyways overflowing with junk. Blend into the crowd. Exactly what he wanted after the jarring confrontation at the pyramids.

  He found a local he knew roaring past in a battered white minivan and stuck out an arm. The balding man waved back and gestured. The boy leapt onto the rear of the van as it slowed for a split second. He held tight as the vehicle lurched and swayed through the Egyptian traffic. The boy had long ago lost his fear of the deadly conditions. Sure, there had been many close calls over the years, but spend enough time in the carnage and the experience loses its edge.

  Twenty minutes later the van roared over Abbas Bridge and carried on, into the heart of Cairo. The driver knew where to go. He had dropped the boy at home countless times after the death of his mother.

  In a claustrophobic dusty neighbourhood the van screeched to a halt and the boy stepped off its rear bumper in agile fashion. He crossed to the driver’s open window and shook the man’s hand.

  ‘Abdul,’ the man said, speaking Arabic. ‘Why were you out there again? What is so special in Giza?’

  The boy — Abdul — shrugged. ‘What else am I to do?’

  ‘You are not working?’

  ‘Not lately.’

  ‘How is the money?’

  ‘I have enough.’

  ‘Enough won’t do. You must get ahead, boy. I can bring you on board.’

  Abdul shook his head. ‘Not necessary. I have something in the works.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  The man said nothing for a long while. ‘Be safe.’

  Abdul nodded. ‘I will.’

  ‘You are not getting into trouble?’

  ‘No.’

  There was nothing left to discuss. The man nodded with satisfaction and tousled Abdul’s hair. Then he switched the van back into drive and tore away from the kerbside.

  Abdul watched it round a corner, then turned away and stepped into an alleyway. He knew it would be the last time he would see the man. He didn’t care. He had greater things ahead. Plans and schemes were about to be put into action. They did not concern anyone from Abdul’s past life. He wanted nothing more than to sever all the half-hearted connections he had with the residents of this city. The amount of money soon to be in his hands would change things forever.

  He found a rundown residential apartment block tucked into a dark corner of the alley. Overflowing garbage bins and broken junk were heaped outside the entrance. A thick layer of dust covered every inch of the building. A decrepit stink emanated from within. Abdul couldn’t care less. He had spent all his seventeen years inside its walls.

  None had been as lonely as the last.

  He withdrew a set of keys from his pocket and hurried through hallways and stairwells, all equally on the verge of collapse. He found a nondescript wooden door, unlocked it, and stepped into a cramped two-room apartment that smelt of rot and stale food. He gazed around the space. This was the only thing in Egypt that held sentimental value to him. He had been raised here by two loving parents. Both had succumbed to sickness. His father ten years ago, and his mother thirteen months ago. He had been living on his own for a year now. Slowly but surely the depression took hold. He had been on the verge of throwing it all away when a new, tantalising opportunity had presented itself.

  Then everything had changed.

  He crossed the tiny living room and sat down on a mouldy two-seater couch that hadn’t been tended to in a decade. Not that it mattered. Abdul could sit on it. That was enough. He waited patiently in the silent room until — half an hour later — the ancient landline phone shrilled in its cradle. Waiting did not perturb him either. He had found solace in the quiet and the solitude. With barely enough funds to feed himself for the last year after working a plethora of odd jobs, there was little money left for entertainment.

  Waiting had become part of his life.

  He picked up the phone, his heart rate increasing by the second. ‘Alo.’

  ‘Everything is in place?’ a deep voice said in a tone barely above a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we are almost ready, my friend.’

  Abdul felt something — a twinge in his chest — a sensation he had not experienced for a very long time.

  Hope.

  CHAPTER 2

  Riviera Beach

  Cannes, France

  Andy Walcott shifted in his hammock and sipped at the ice-cold margarita in his hand. He smiled in satisfaction as the alcohol burned its way down his throat. He’d requested a strong brew and the bartender had happily obliged. A hundred-euro tip lent all kinds of conveniences.

  The seaside bar had quickly become a favourite of his over the three-week period he’d spent in this paradise. The views were unparalleled, the bartenders lovely and the women beautiful. He had vowed to enjoy every minute of his early retirement and so far he was doing just that.

  A billion dollars.

  Three commas.

  $1,000,000,000.

  It was an incomprehensible amount of money. His net worth. He couldn’t imagine it would be possible to get through all of it for the rest of his lifetime. He knew he would certainly try. As a childless bachelor, aged thirty-two, he had little to spend the newfound fortune on other than himself. He had no qualms about such a lifestyle. Besides, he didn’t imagine he would have much trouble finding a partner now that he was worth the GDP of a small nation.

  Bend had been his baby. A tech start-up, founded six years ago with a couple of college friends. Everyone had scoffed at them back then. Countless insults had been thrown his way.

  Fuckwit.

  Nerd.

  Come back to reality. Focus on your education.

  He’d cut himself off from all the negativity and dropped the prestigious Harvard Technology degree in pursuit of the dream. He and his friends had slaved away at the company, sinking fourteen-hour days into the app, pounding back energy drinks and protein bars and all sorts of unhealthy crap just to fuel their marathon coding sessions.

  And then they had done it.

  Bend secured a vital niche in the marketplace, tapping into the goldmine of Virtual Reality consumerism. He had created a sweeping social network — focused specifically on VR — for users to share their experiences and find like-minded groups. He and his partners had got there first, before any of the larger companies. The snowball effect created from both word-of-mouth and aggressive SEO marketing shot their revenue up into the high eight-figures per year.

  But more importantly than the profit was the fact that they had seized the platform first.

  The offers rolled in. Facebook, Google … all came clawing for a piece of the pie. Exactly what Walcott predicted would happen once they got a head start on the game.

  He’d signed on the dotted line for one point two billion dollars.

  He’d exploited a loophole in the initial contract he and his partners had agreed upon at the beginning of their journey, a loophole he planted with the sole intention of ruining a fair split down the line.

  Walcott was smart like that.

  His ex-friends got ten million each. That would do them. He walked away with over a billion after paying back initial investors.

  And now here he was. He would never see those useless fucks again. He didn’t care what they thought
of the deal. The tears and the screaming and the disbelief meant nothing to him. He was worth nine figures. That’s what mattered.

  Soon, he would be worth a whole lot more…

  He climbed out of the hammock, his head spinning from the alcohol, and surveyed the beach. A swathe of tanned bodies spread across the white sand, facing the turquoise water gently lapping at the shore.

  Bliss.

  He couldn’t spend any longer here. He had a flight to catch. There was new business that needed attending to, in a barren third-world shithole. No matter how disgusting the conditions, he could never turn down such an inviting opportunity. Having a flexible moral compass was a necessity in the world he operated in.

  Backstab a few business partners, make a billion.

  That’s how this game worked.

  And he was about to enter a different game.

  One of the most promising he’d ever been presented with.

  Bend was in the past.

  This was his new future.

  He left the seaside bar’s VIP deck and sauntered past the wall of rare liquor that he’d spent weeks taste-testing. He passed a pair of European beauties, who noticed the Omega on his wrist and the Gucci sunglasses on his face. They held their gaze a little longer than necessary. He smiled at them, and continued onwards. He’d have all the time in the world to foray into that world later. He was young, all things considered. His life had not been a hard one. He’d worked hard, but more importantly he’d worked smart.

  He was about to do so again.

  He skirted around the sundeck and stepped down onto a warm cobblestone path leading to a spacious boulevard. A row of taxis waited patiently to ferry sun-kissed, tipsy tourists to their lavish hotels. Walcott scoffed at the sight of them.

  Taxis were a thing of the past.

  Trés commas, he reminded himself.

  He signalled to a chauffeur behind the tinted windscreen of a Rolls-Royce Maybach. The luxury vehicle pulled up to the kerb with a whisper and Walcott ducked into the back seat.