Warrior: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 2) Page 2

  His senses were fading into oblivion…

  With the last morsel of strength he had left in his body, he lifted his head to watch thickset boots stride across the shack. He picked up the sound of drawers being wrenched free at random, the pace quickening until finally the commotion reached its apex.

  Abdullahi heard his attacker let out a low whistle of glee.

  The stash.

  Four hundred and fifty thousand.

  His head drooped back to the floor, sending splinters of timber into his open mouth. He didn’t try to resist. The darkness closed in, encircling his vision.

  As he died, he scolded himself for his foolishness. To think that he could have deceived a multi-billion dollar operation so easily should have been a stark warning sign. For months he had told himself there would be a catch, but in the final stretch before he fled the country with his family he had allowed himself to grow reckless, almost believing that his life would have a happy ending.

  So much for that.

  Abdullahi tasted blood — the wounds in his back had formed a sweeping puddle across the floor upon which he splayed. The warm crimson liquid soaked into his nose and mouth, and he succumbed to unconsciousness about as peacefully as one could.

  As he drifted away, he thought of his wife and child.

  He regretted ever allowing them to be placed in danger.

  He regretted everything.

  2

  July 14, 2007

  Washington D.C.

  To commemorate a successful operation in Tijuana, Jason King seized hold of the cylindrical shot glass and swept back the measured dose of tequila with a single gulp.

  It was his fourth of the night, but at two hundred pounds in bodyweight — almost none of it fat — he had come to learn that he could handle a drink. He sat alone at the bar, a modern slab of smoothed concrete with tribal insignia engraved into the surface. The countertop curved its way around a dimly lit space with a ceiling stretching far above the patrons’ heads. Behind him were dozens of tables arranged in intimate fashion, packed with civilians on a warm Friday night in downtown D.C.

  King shot a glance in either direction and found himself astonished at the course his life had taken in such a short amount of time.

  Fourteen days earlier, he had been deep in an isolation camp in Wyoming, officially a Delta Force operative. From there he had been whisked into a whirlwind he hadn’t yet come down from, thrust into a new division of the United States military to combat threats of a certain, specific nature that favoured lone operatives. After a brutal stint across the border in Mexico, he had returned to a smattering of overwhelming praise from the select individuals in government who knew of his organisation’s existence.

  Apparently, he had overperformed.

  There had been much to organise in the aftermath of the trail he had single-handedly carved through Mexico and Guatemala. The formation of this new division, this force of solo operatives, had been a knee jerk reaction to the emergence of a radical new cartel in Tijuana. Everything about the trip across the border had been off-the-cuff, a terrifying coagulation of improvisation that had left King wondering just what exactly he had done over the course of a forty-eight hour period.

  He’d left dozens of bodies in his wake.

  In the time since, a rudimentary investigation had taken place. His superiors — faceless men he had yet to become acquainted with — had deemed King’s behaviour in Mexico acceptable by black operation standards. Satisfied that they didn’t have a psychopathic killer on their hands, they had turned him loose onto the streets of Washington D.C. to do as he pleased.

  Apparently, the upper echelon needed time to establish Black Force and maintain some semblance of order over its proceedings.

  So here he was, in a state of limbo, drifting around town while those in charge of his career implemented the bureaucratic foundations. Not that it would involve much, considering the organisation existed away from any official books or records.

  But, nevertheless, there were systems that needed to be created before King could do more.

  It all rested on the shoulders of the man who had first approached King in that freezing Wyoming clearing two weeks earlier. The man who had offered him a chance to pioneer something new, something that hadn’t been done before, something that would skirt the boundaries of the law. A man who organised the program to forge King into a one man army, capitalising on his strengths and manoeuvring him into a position where he was bound to succeed.

  Lars Crawford.

  King knew surprisingly little about the man, given the fact that they were now the closest of allies. Lars had materialised in his life silently, out of nowhere, like a wraith drifting out of the shadows. He had come at exactly the right time. King didn’t know how much longer he would have lasted in the Delta Force — the physical and mental strain didn’t phase him, but the isolation and detachment he felt from his fellow brothers-in-arms had set him permanently on edge.

  Lars had changed that.

  King was still only twenty-two years old. At times he felt unfit for the position that had been bestowed upon him, opting to retreat within himself when faced with the burden of responsibility that lay on his shoulders.

  You made it through Mexico, he reminded himself. You can make it through anything else they throw your way.

  It had been the most brutal initiation imaginable. He had come within a hair’s breadth of death several times over the course of his time in Tijuana, and the memories played over and over again on a loop in his mind, like an irreparable VHS tape. They kept him awake at night, sweating and squirming in the sheets.

  He hadn’t slept much since touching back down in the States.

  He signalled for another shot of tequila — the bartender nodded imperceptibly and moved to the top shelf liquor behind him. It would be King’s fifth and final drink for the night. Then he would sink into the same routine he had come to cherish during his brief stint in D.C. — wandering the endless streets and laneways until the early hours of the morning.

  He had much to process.

  The brand-new smartphone shrilled in his pocket — complement of a government credit card gifted to him upon arrival in Washington. The exact particulars of his salary were yet to be discussed, but until then he had been given free reign of the card to stock up on necessities in his downtime. King often found himself taking the card out and twirling it in his fingers, lost in thought.

  He’d never had money before.

  This new life would take some adjusting to.

  He slid the phone out and answered the call with a swipe of the screen, something that still left him flabbergasted even though he had been carting the device around for a week now. The technology was new, he conceded. The iPhone had only been out for two weeks now. He wasn’t the only one growing accustomed to the changing world.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said, fully aware of who would be on the other end of the line.

  ‘Nice to hear from you, too,’ Lars Crawford said, his tone sardonic.

  ‘How are things progressing?’

  ‘Painfully slow.’

  ‘I thought as much.’

  ‘I hate this part,’ Lars admitted. ‘Grovelling up to bureaucrats and pleading for unlimited funding.’

  ‘Unlimited?’ King said, bemused.

  ‘I don’t want to cut any corners,’ Lars said. ‘I told them that if we were going ahead with this, we would do it my way. It’s already cost over a million dollars to get you into the field, and I’m not about to clip coupons right when the government realises they have a human weapon on their hands.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far just yet,’ King said. ‘Maybe I got lucky in Mexico.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘You never know.’

  ‘If it was a single encounter, I might believe that,’ Lars said. ‘But we’re in the process of tracking exactly what you did. Clusters of bodies are popping up at every turn. All of them implicit in cartel dealings. At first they th
ought you were a raging lunatic, going around lopping off the heads of anyone even suspected to be involved with organised crime.’

  ‘I’m sure I’d be in a maximum security facility by now if they truly believed that.’

  ‘Exactly. You’re in the clear. We have CCTV footage of certain incidents. Honestly, nobody can believe what they’ve seen.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to disclose this.’

  ‘Oh, please…’

  ‘You’re a unique case,’ Lars said. ‘There’s a fine line between doing the right thing in the heat of combat and crossing over into unacceptable behaviour. Elite operatives and psychopaths aren’t easily distinguishable.’

  ‘We talked about this before Mexico,’ King said. ‘I promised you I wouldn’t go off the rails with my flexibility. And I didn’t.’

  ‘We know. And it’s uncanny how you react in volatile situations.’

  ‘That’s what you thought would happen. Based on your tests.’

  ‘Deep down, I don’t think I believed it. No-one can control themselves to that extent in a life-or-death situation. You don’t fly off the handle. You don’t throw caution to the wind. You keep things measured and tactical at all times, even when you were ambushed. It’s remarkable.’

  ‘Don’t heap too much praise on me,’ King said. ’Talk me up enough and I’ll wind up dead on my next assignment. Then you’ll look like an idiot.’

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘Speaking of my next assignment…’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ Lars said. ‘But be ready to go at any moment. That’s what you signed up for. That’s what we pay you for.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And be ready tomorrow morning. 0700. I’ll send a car to the hotel.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You’re getting a Silver Star for your work in Tijuana,’ Lars said.

  King froze at the bar, ignoring the unruly patrons flowing in channels all around his seat. ‘What?’

  ‘Like I said, certain people were impressed.’

  ‘Silver Star…’ King muttered. ‘Unbelievable.’

  ‘Rest up. You’ll be meeting a few important gentlemen tomorrow.’

  ‘Got it.’

  The other end of the line disconnected. King returned the phone to his pocket and passed a fifth ten-dollar note across the countertop as the bartender slid the fifth tequila shot in his direction.

  ‘Silver Star?’ a female voice chirped behind him. ‘Really?’

  King pinched the shot glass between two fingers and craned his neck around. He eyed a slim brunette woman roughly the same age as himself, complete with the fresh-out-of-college look and the half-hearted professionalism of a Washington intern who had just finished their eight hours at the office and was in the process of cutting loose. Her suit jacket hung uneven across her shoulders and the top button of her shirt had been undone. If she’d been wearing a tie, it had been removed. She had seemingly frozen in place mid-stride, on the way back to a table in the far corner of the bar.

  ‘Can I help you with something?’ he said, a little curt, surprised by her tone.

  ‘You really think that’s the right way to try and pick up women?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s obvious what you’re doing.’

  ‘Didn’t mean to offend.’

  ‘That’s disrespectful to our military, you know?’ the woman said. ‘Pretending to be a hero to try and ensnare naive young women.’

  ‘My bad,’ King said.

  He realised he should have lowered the volume of his conversation with Lars, especially in a public place. There was little chance that he would tell the truth, so he opted to keep his mouth shut and wait for the woman to continue on her beeline across the room.

  To his surprise, she didn’t move.

  ‘What do you do?’ she said, her eyes wandering over his frame. ‘You know — when you’re not being a total dick?’

  King realised the plain long-sleeve shirt draped over his powerhouse frame only served to accentuate his physique. The life of a black operations soldier required a level of physical capability ordinarily reserved for elite athletes. He trained half to death every single day, but it drew attention. The right kind of attention.

  ‘I’m in construction.’

  ‘Really?’ the woman said, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘Whatever you say, I’m not going to tell the truth. I’m just a con artist, right?’

  He wasn’t sure what it was, but something shifted in the air. Perhaps it was the unbridled confidence he exerted, or the disinterest he showed toward the woman’s apparent scorn, but she twisted ever so slightly in his direction. A subtle gesture, but a move that spelled everything he needed to know.

  He turned to face her, too.

  She was cute, after all.

  ‘That your table over there?’ King said, jerking a thumb ever so slightly in the direction she’d been headed.

  She nodded. ‘I’m not inviting you over. Don’t even think about it.’

  ‘I didn’t expect you to. Who are the two guys?’

  ‘Colleagues.’

  ‘Journalism?’

  She nodded again. ‘How’d you know that?’

  ‘Just a hunch. What’s your name?’

  ‘Savannah.’

  ‘Cute name.’

  ‘Don’t even try anything like that…’

  ‘Try what?’ he said, playing dumb.

  She scoffed and stared at him. But she didn’t walk away.

  ‘Where are you from? Texas?’

  She nodded again. ‘Dallas.’

  ‘Will your colleagues get mad if I offer you this?’ King said, lifting the shot glass into view between them, still full to the brim.

  ‘You’re crazy if you think I’m having that.’

  He raised the shot to his lips and took a sip, draining a third of the golden liquid. ‘Unless I’m in the business of drugging myself, I think you’re safe. As much as you might like to think my night’s revolving around trying to pick you up, I’m really just here for a good time.’

  ‘And when you’re not here,’ Savannah said. ‘What do you do?’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Construction’s bullshit.’

  ‘I’m not talking about construction.’

  ‘I’m not talking about anything. I already told you that.’

  ‘I just thought you might be more interested in defending yourself.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m not insecure. When it comes down to it, I don’t care what you think about me. I can’t talk about what I do — it’s as simple as that.’

  An inkling of realisation spread across her face as she realised he hadn’t been bullshitting earlier. ‘Silver Star?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘You sure you can’t tell me about it?’

  ‘Not here, at least.’

  Not anywhere, he thought. But she didn’t need to know that.

  She scoffed again. ‘I’m not leaving with you. I’ve known you thirty seconds.’

  King shrugged. ‘Okay. Lovely meeting you, Savannah.’

  She hesitated, and he recognised the second notable change in the atmosphere. He had given her incentive to leave, and she hadn’t taken it. She was interested. The guarded demeanour and apparent offhandedness could only cover it up for so long.

  ‘How long are you in town for?’ she said, shifting back and forth from foot to foot.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘You don’t seem awfully keen to head back to that table. My guess is that both those guys are overly forward about trying to impress their new colleague. Right?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘It’s getting on your nerves?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’re hanging around me right in front of them to try and annoy them,’ King said. ‘You’re hoping it’ll stop their advances.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Then drink this,’ he said. ‘It’ll really piss them off.’
<
br />   She stepped forward, drawing to a standing halt directly alongside King’s bar stool, integrating into the line of patrons waiting to be served. It was reaching peak hour and the countertop was jam-packed with tipsy Washingtonians looking to blow off some steam after a painful Friday in the workforce.

  Savannah tipped the rest of the tequila back, touching a hand to her lips as the liquid snaked its way down her throat. She giggled and placed the empty shot glass in the space between them.

  ‘Another one?’ King said.

  ‘You made of money or something?’ she said.

  He paused. ‘Actually, I don’t know. My boss is still sorting that out.’

  She raised an eyebrow at the odd statement. ‘Kind of busy in here.’

  King smiled. ‘Want to go somewhere quieter? My place has room service.’

  3

  It took just a moment alone with her to realise that Savannah kept herself in impeccable shape, her figure toned from some kind of workout routine that wasn’t entirely obvious upon first look, disguised by her oversized journalist attire.

  Neither of them had any preconceptions as to what this encounter was — a simple hedonistic release. King got the sense that Savannah was career-minded, and she knew he wouldn’t be in Washington for long.

  As soon as they retreated to King’s sweeping hotel room at the Sofitel on Lafayette Square, they fell on each other ravenously, locking lips and searching with their hands wherever they pleased. King thundered the two-bedroom suite’s door closed and looped an arm around the small of Savannah’s back, lifting her off her feet effortlessly as he worked his way down to the base of her neck with his tongue. She ran her hands across his chest, clearly enraptured by his musculature.

  Four years of relentless physical conditioning will do that, he thought.

  He had just begun to unhinge her bra with a pair of fingers when a sharp knock at the door froze them both in their tracks.

  ‘Damn,’ Savannah breathed into his ear, her long hair unruly, spilling over his face. ‘Bad timing.’