Savages: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 3) Read online

  ‘You wanted to see them,’ King said. ‘I’m young but I’m not an idiot. Admit it. Say it out loud.’

  ‘I wanted to see them.’

  ‘What did you think might happen?’

  ‘If one of them had admitted to it…’

  King said nothing, letting the silence unfold.

  ‘I might have murdered every single one of them,’ Brody said.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m glad it didn’t come to that.’

  ‘If you’ve sworn off laying a hand on anyone,’ King said. ‘I can be your vessel. If you need. You know I want to hurt them. Even if they weren’t involved with the village, you think they’re pure at heart? This is the Congo. They’re protecting miners. They’re sick bastards — the lot of them.’

  ‘If I tell you to do it, it’d be the same as doing it myself. I can’t put that on you.’

  ‘What if I didn’t give myself a choice?’

  ‘We’re facing a trickier situation here. I don’t know what to do about this fight.’

  ‘Was it deliberate? Putting me up against Francis? Did you know?’

  ‘I knew they fixed fights, and extorted money from the unofficial bookies floating through the crowds. Those rumours spread. I still keep in contact with a few people in this scene … because of my prior involvement. I had a vague idea. I didn’t know we were up against one of their guys.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’

  ‘Why lie?’

  King nodded, satisfied. ‘Then we carry on as planned.’

  ‘They’ll kill you,’ Brody said. ‘They’re not exaggerating. They’ll do it.’

  ‘They’re trigger happy, but they’re cocky. You saw it in their eyes. They won’t bother shooting me dead in the cage. They’ll wait … until after. When it’s quieter. When they won’t cause a riot.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

  Footsteps sounded on the edge of King’s hearing. He wheeled, fists up, expecting another confrontation. His pulse hadn’t settled from the encounter with Wyatt and his buddies — and in addition he was set to take part in a no-holds-barred fistfight less than an hour from now.

  But it wasn’t a bulky South African mercenary that materialised in the open doorway. A rake-thin official with a clipboard shuffled into the locker room, his eyes sunken and hollow. He muttered a few sentences in Swahili to Brody, who nodded understandingly. Then the man disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived, the instructions relayed and his work complete.

  ‘What was that about?’ King said.

  ‘Twenty minutes until you make the walk. Let’s get you taped up.’

  31

  Sitting in fold-out chairs Brody found in the storage cabinet, King sat still as endless layers of hand wraps were yanked between his fingers and over his palms, almost tight enough to cut off circulation. Brody took painstaking care with the task, weaving the roll of tape around each of King’s massive hands like a man who had gone through the motions a thousand times over.

  ‘You used to do this all the time?’ King said.

  ‘I used to be a professional fighter. I know how it’s done.’

  Momentarily, King focused on the distant roar of the crowd, resonating through the building, amplifying the quiet in this section of the complex. He allowed a trickle of nerves to seep in. When combat breaks out on the battlefield, in the heat of the moment, there isn’t time to stew on what might happen. Here, surrounded by the uncertainty of Wyatt’s presence and facing a foe who had been training for months to cause grievous bodily harm to the man standing across from him, he could focus on all the finer emotions, grappling with them and turning them over in his mind.

  The discomfort was palpable.

  He lived for this.

  Sweating in the humid concrete box, waiting to make the walk into an arena he’d never laid eyes on, to fight an opponent he’d never laid eyes on, King realised this was where he thrived.

  Brody paused, clearly hung up on something. ‘I think you should seriously consider taking a dive.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This isn’t important in the grand scheme of things. Getting you back stateside with your head on your shoulders is more important…’

  ‘I think a couple of years of pacifism has fucked with your mind,’ King said. ‘Taking a dive would be awfully similar to giving up.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s the right thing to do.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘There could be consequences. Then it’s my head on the chopping block.’

  ‘You really think I might get shot out there?’

  ‘There’s so many variables. I don’t know. I’ll be cornering you, so I won’t have time to spot Wyatt and his two goons. Even if I do, it’ll be difficult to keep track of them.’

  ‘They won’t do it in that arena. I promise you.’

  ‘You seem awfully sure.’

  ‘I have an idea…’

  Less than a minute later, the same official came hurrying back into their locker room, his worn sneakers scuffing on the dusty concrete floor. He ushered them urgently forward, clearly fixated on keeping to a precise schedule.

  King yanked the T-shirt off his frame and jogged a couple of times on the spot, clearing his mind of everything. As cortisol flooded his system, honing his vision, he let all thoughts seep out, replaced by an intense focus that could only appear when combat was imminent.

  Controlled combat, but combat all the same.

  He wore simple Muay Thai shorts, dark orange in colour, and the fingerless gloves tightened over his hands sported the same palette. They were mementos of Brody’s, brought along for the special occasion. Apart from that he wore nothing, bare-chested and bare-footed. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out over his entire body.

  ‘Ready?’ Brody said.

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  They made the walk.

  King’s surroundings fell away — he hadn’t experienced a sensation quite like this in some time. Sudden, spur of the moment brawls in live situations were laced with varying circumstances — King knew he could catch his adversaries off guard with a single punch, and then the fight was over.

  This was something more intense, more cerebral.

  The man standing across the cage from him had been training for months to solely beat up the opposition, and there would be no ability to throw anything he wouldn’t see coming. It would come down to speed, and timing, and precision, all departments where King felt he had an advantage over every man on the planet.

  Confidence wasn’t the issue, but anything could happen.

  As he strode fast down the empty corridor, following the official with the clipboard, Brody passed him a clean mouthpiece. He squashed it into his gums and bit down on it three times in quick succession, acclimatising to the feeling of the moulded plastic resting in his mouth. He flexed his jaw, priming himself for what lay ahead.

  The noise of the crowd rose.

  And then they were in the thick of it, hurrying straight out into a circular arena that looked to hold at least several hundred people. All were civilians, natives of Kisangani, all screaming for entertainment. They had used their hard-earned wages to gain access to the building, and they wanted their money’s worth. King briefly stared into the seething masses in a feeble attempt to catch a glimpse of Wyatt or his two buddies, but it was useless.

  By that point, adrenalin had overwhelmed him.

  Everything blurred into a sea of swimming noise. The bright lights beat down overhead, amplifying the already unbearable heat, sending rivulets of sweat down the side of King’s head. He separated from Brody and squashed his way through a narrow corridor carved out of the crowd that led cage side. A pair of officials — King wasn’t sure what capacity they were operating in considering there was no official commission to sanction the bout — guided him to a mat alongside the cage. They checked his nails were satisfactorily trimmed, confirmed his groin was covered by a protective cup, and made him grin t
o prove he was wearing a mouthguard.

  Then, without further ado, they ushered him into the cage.

  The cage had been fashioned in the shape of a pentagon, sporting five sides with an open top and padding running along the lip of the perimeter. The canvas itself rested on flexible plywood, with just enough give to ensure no-one’s spine would shatter if they were dropped on their back.

  In the haze of adrenalin, King hadn’t even noticed that his opponent had already entered the cage.

  Francis.

  The man was an athletic specimen, somewhere in his early thirties with a glistening powerhouse physique and long black hair braided back to make sure no loose strands fell into his eyes. King locked his gaze onto those eyes, sensing the same cortisol flooding his opponent’s system. Apart from the fearsome physique, the fighter carried himself with a grace that could only come from thousands of hours of physical training. He glided across his side of the cage, testing the mat with his bare toes. King glanced down at the man’s shins and noticed the mottled bruises running up his lower legs — he had conditioned himself with thousands and thousands of Muay Thai kicks, much like his training partners days earlier.

  This was a professional fighter, no doubt about it.

  Perhaps the only truly professional fighter on the amateur scene, someone who hadn’t made the leap to the pro ranks simply due to a lack of competition.

  As King jogged side to side across the cage, waiting for the referee to follow them in through the gap in the side of the pentagon, he caught a glimpse through the steel mesh at the front row of Congolese civilians. Most were on their feet, sweating and shouting and bickering with one another, but a single man stood solemnly in the midst of the madness, his eyes fixed on the cage.

  It was one of Wyatt’s friends.

  Thorn, King remembered the man saying.

  He had both hands in his jacket pocket, wearing the outer layer of clothing despite the heat. King could see his forehead glistening. It was unbelievably hot in the arena. He could only be concealing something…

  Fuck, King thought.

  The man was cage-side. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility to shoot King down as he was leaving the cage. He wouldn’t put his past Wyatt and his friends — this was the Congo, after all, and consequences were merely in the hands of the population.

  Murder was as common as sleeping and eating.

  Survival of the fittest.

  It only amplified the pure ball of adrenalin pumping through King’s gut, charging his limbs with super-strength, making him jittery, chomping at the bit to get his hands on his opponent. Throughout his career he’d found the worst part was the build-up. Once he was in the heat of combat, he could turn his mind off and execute. Everything leading up to that point was a slow burn he wanted no part in, where he could dwell on his thoughts and eat himself alive with nerves.

  One could condition themselves as much as they wanted to stressful situations, but it was human instinct to be scared in the face of danger.

  King hadn’t lost it yet, and he never would.

  But he would tackle each obstacle head on for as long as he was physically able.

  The referee stepped into the cage, sporting long black dress pants and a cheap black polo. He was Congolese, with hair braided in a similar style to King’s opponent. He shut the cage door behind him as he entered, sealing the pentagon closed.

  The crowd volume rose in anticipation.

  The referee called both fighters to the centre of the mat, where King could sense Francis’ raw, unbridled power. The man was in similar physical condition to King, and he imagined the technical ability would be roughly even in the opening minutes — this would be a clash of sheer will. Briefly he threw a glance over his shoulder, searching for Brody somewhere in the rabid crowd, staring in and shifting nervously in anticipation.

  He found no-one.

  There was no sign of his handler.

  Satisfied, he touched gloves with Francis as the referee finished barking instructions in Swahili, presuming King would understand. Thankfully he already had a clear grasp of the rules, so he nodded once to Francis and retreated to his corner, awaiting the opening bell.

  It rang, and the referee signalled for the two parties to fight.

  32

  Even with the haze of adrenalin pumping through his head and the roar of the crowd thrumming in his ears and his pores opening underneath the bright lights, King sensed Thorn watching.

  The big South African mercenary had ventured as close to the cage as he dared without being involuntarily removed. King had no idea where Wyatt or Link were, but he imagined they were somewhere nearby.

  Ready for an assault if things kicked off.

  He settled into a steady rhythm opposite Francis, both parties circling cautiously around the mat, analysing and searching for openings. At the same time King kept notice of Thorn’s position, locking that portion of the crowd in his mind.

  He needed the spatial awareness to be precise for what came next…

  Francis exploded off the mark, making a sudden lunging burst for King, evidently fed up with the “feeling out” process. He swung a whistling uppercut past King’s chin and then crashed a left hook off the side of King’s temple, his technique sloppy enough to avoid a trip to the realm of unconsciousness but sporting enough wild strength to set King on edge. Pain exploded off the side of his head and he took a back step as another barrage of strikes came piercing through the air toward his face.

  He kept his gloved hands up, rolling with the punches, avoiding most of the direct impacts. Francis backed him up to the fence and pinned him there, initiating a clinch position. The massive Congolese man wrapped both hands around the back of King’s neck and fired off a series of knees, each of them crashing off King’s forearms.

  He blocked most of the kinetic energy with his elbows and forearms but the damage accumulated, forcing him to stifle a wince as agony seared through his lower limbs. Part of his brain recognised how effortless it would be to drop his guard for the briefest of moments, allowing a knee to slice through and crash off the underside of his chin.

  It would knock him out with one hundred percent certainty.

  Then Wyatt and his buddies would leave them alone, and disaster would be averted. King’s ego would take a bruising, but after he recovered from the knock he would be free to continue the training camp without incident. It had been a mistake coming here, and he would be good to minimise the amount of collateral damage.

  But then again, he was Jason King.

  So as Francis pinned him to the steel mesh and backed away just a few inches, King loaded up and blasted an uppercut through the narrow space between them.

  This was a game of inches.

  Leather hit skin and sweat sprayed off the top of Francis’ head. There was a minuscule amount of space between them, which gave King a front-row view of the man’s eyes glazing over. The look only lasted a second, and Francis came roaring back to reality after a moment to process what had happened, but the damage was done.

  He wasn’t the same fighter.

  He backed off a step, instinctively recoiling from any further strikes. It played directly into King’s hands. As Francis backtracked across the mat King spotted the crowd through the other side of the cage roaring, sensing an opportunity for a quick first-round knockout. Between the rabid faces stood Thorn, his hands still tucked into his jacket, his face solemn and unwavering.

  Watching, and assessing.

  This was the pivotal moment.

  Stay where you are, King told himself. Don’t go through with it.

  But he had never listened to caution. He shut off the primal part of his brain begging to go down the safest route and sprinted directly at Francis, who wilted under the pressure. The pair strafed across the cage, one backtracking, the other pursuing. King’s uppercut had rattled Francis, who threw a couple of wild swinging hooks as he moved backward in an attempt to deter King from pursuing.

  King
watched them swing by and lurched into range.

  Francis bounced off the fence behind him, moving so fast he hadn’t realised how quickly he’d covered the entire length of the mat. It placed him in range for a lightning-fast jab, which King flicked off the bridge of his nose.

  This time, leather struck bone.

  With a crack audible above the din of the arena Francis’ nose shattered. The sensation froze him in place just long enough for King to hammer a final right hook across the man’s chin with picture-perfect accuracy. His glove whistled through the air before it connected.

  Swoosh.

  Bang.

  Lights out.

  Francis dropped like a stone, his legs caving in on themselves as his eyes rolled back into his head. A gruesome sight to behold, but King had enough experience in this realm of animalistic combat to understand he would be conscious within a minute. He’d have a headache for a few days, but permanent consequences were unlikely.

  What happened now, on the other hand…

  Even as Francis crumbled like a freeze frame from a movie, King spotted Thorn’s eyes widening and his left hand tugging at something deep in his jacket pocket. Around him the crowd reached fever pitch — something about organised combat brought out the most intense emotions in onlookers. They yelled in surprise, pointing and gesticulating as the highly-touted striker they’d come to love hit the mat in unceremonious fashion.

  By then, instinct had taken over King’s system.

  He vaulted the upper lip of the cage, rolling over the padding as gracefully as he could. Despite his best attempts his brain flooded with cortisol and he surged forward, inhumanly fast. Something about knocking another elite athlete unconscious in genuine competition brought on a screaming wave of energy, compounded by the sight of Thorn reaching for his gun.

  The man produced the weapon as King thundered down on the other side of the cage, landing on the elevated landing that ran around the perimeter of the structure. The crowd noise amplified — most of the Congolese audience probably thought he was en route to celebrate with the fans. They screamed, barbaric, elated.