The Coast_A Black Force Thriller Read online

None of that mattered now.

  Rollins raced to the bathroom and vomited the contents of his stomach into the cold toilet bowl. The chill intensified, and he battled to shake free the memories from the rainforest. He saw the vial of hallucinogenic liquid again, clear as day, hovering right there in front of his face.

  He vomited again.

  When it finally passed, he collapsed back against the wall behind him, drenched in sweat, panting heavily.

  No, he thought. It wasn’t worth it.

  Four months of torment might have provided him with a lifetime of riches, but he would carry the mental strain for the rest of his life.

  All the money in the world couldn’t fix a broken mind.

  Rollins gulped in a deep breath of air and set to work calming himself down.

  He feared that would not be the last panic attack.

  3

  The night passed without incident.

  Rollins spent the time sprawled across the double bed, covered in a thin sheet despite the chill, waiting for the moment when the punch of anxiety hit him in the gut and brought the traumatic memories roaring back to the surface again. He was astonished that the panic had been triggered by something as unassuming as a shot of tequila, but he was the first to admit that he couldn’t properly understand the inner workings of the mind.

  He had, after all, gone through a radical shift in worldview during his ascension through the ranks of the U.S. military.

  It was hard to articulate. People sometimes went their whole lives without laying a finger on another human being out of anger, and often all it took was a single violent encounter to change their understanding of the world. When someone realises they can get what they want by enacting force, it can dramatically alter their mindset. Rollins had spent four months on a destructive tear, using his fists and feet and elbows and the weapons he carried to kill dozens of people under orders from Black Force.

  He’d spent hours upon hours replaying the events in his mind, and he was comfortable in concluding that everyone he’d killed had more than deserved it, but that still weighed heavy on him.

  How could he return to normal life when he’d escalated his life to such a high level of violence?

  He could see where the addiction came from. You could get hooked on taking justice into your own hands, especially if you knew you had the capabilities for it. Rollins had experienced that. Maybe that’s why he’d left so suddenly. Maybe, after Peru, he knew if he continued he would never be able to tear himself away from it.

  Now, covered in sweat, his heart racing and his hands clammy, he wished he’d never signed up at all.

  The next morning, as the dawn light filtered through the two floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite side of the room, he figured the worst of the attack had passed him by.

  He took a long shower, cursing the timing of the incident. He’d sensed a genuine connection with the Italian woman from the afternoon before, even though they’d barely spoken. It was his first chance at exploring his newfound freedom — being able to drop everything in pursuit of a good time was still a foreign sensation.

  But he reminded himself of the future opportunities.

  He had his whole life ahead of him.

  If he could bring his mind under control, there was no limit to the richness of the experiences that awaited him.

  That seemed to calm him somewhat.

  As the sun rose over Vernazza, sending light trickling down through the claustrophobic alleyways, Rollins made for the harbour again. Part of him wanted to avoid the seaside bar for a few days, giving the place a wide berth until his mind had recovered from the panic attack.

  The other part wanted to see if he would run into the woman again.

  His hedonistic side trumped the cautious side.

  He chose the same table — only half the tables in the grid were populated by tourists at this time of morning — and ordered a double espresso, a pair of plain croissants, and a plate of scrambled eggs. The influx of visitors to Vernazza’s harbour began to amplify as Rollins wolfed down his food, refuelling from the intense twelve hour bout of unease. He hadn’t been able to stomach dinner the night before, and he was famished.

  Piece by piece, his cautious optimism began to diminish. He kept his gaze fixed on the tourists and locals streaming down through the main avenue, selecting restaurants and bars where they could gorge on Italian food and drinks.

  Some had hiked from Monterosso, Rollins figured.

  None looked familiar.

  It was almost midday by the time he elected to give up and explore the coast. He couldn’t wait around all day for the slightest chance of meeting someone who had no doubt been scared off by his uncontrollable response to a simple shot of alcohol.

  Despite everything, Rollins managed a smirk. Maybe she thought he lived in mortal fear of intoxication.

  He figured he’d explore Corniglia. That coastal village lay in the opposite direction to Monterosso, continuing along the Cinque Terre stretch. He’d heard rumours that the hike took a little over two hours, but he figured he could halve that time.

  The physical demands of a black operator hadn’t worn off yet.

  Underneath the loose casual clothing, he was still in better shape than some Olympians.

  He kicked his chair back and dipped into his wallet to pay for the breakfast. A waiter passed by, and he slipped a couple of notes into the man’s hand. The middle-aged guy nodded his thanks and moved past to deposit a tray of coffees in front of a Western family. Rollins slipped through a gap between two tables and exited the grid of tables, his head down and his strides measured.

  A moment later a hand seized him by the shoulder.

  4

  Briefly, he thought he might slip back into the same overwhelming bout of anxiety. He figured being physically touched without expecting it might bring his mind back to the jungle, to being tied up and beaten to a pulp by a collection of enraged tribesmen, to violently beating down a small army of mercenaries amidst the choking humidity.

  But none of that materialised.

  Thank God, he thought as he realised who had grabbed him.

  The Italian woman, surprisingly, threw her arms over his shoulders, hugging him tight. He hadn’t been expecting it in the slightest, but he found the gesture strangely warming. He returned the hug, looping his hands behind the small of her back and squeezing tight. Not an ordinary exchange between two people who barely knew each other, but clearly both of them had recognised the chemistry.

  He hadn’t been the only one to sense something the previous afternoon, before it had all fallen apart.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said, practically continuing their conversation where it had left off.

  Her amber eyes twinkled, boring into him.

  He smiled. ‘Fine now. Sorry about that. Had a rough night. I think it was food poisoning or something.’

  ‘But it’s gone now?’

  ‘It’s gone now. Actually, I was worried you’d be gone too.’

  ‘I’m here for few days,’ she said, flashing a smile of brilliant white teeth. ‘I figured I run into you again in town this small.’

  ‘I’m happy you did.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Want to continue where we left off?’ Rollins said, glancing back at the bar he’d just left.

  He didn’t know how he’d react to the sight of another tequila shot, but he figured it had been a specific series of circumstances that had set off the initial panic attack. He didn’t think he would lose his mind every time he saw a small vial-like shot of liquid.

  At least, he certainly hoped he wouldn’t.

  She seemed to sense the subtle apprehension in his voice. ‘No, no, we don’t have to go back. I was going to hike, actually. Are you feeling up for that? I’m worried about… yesterday.’

  Everything had happened so fast that he hadn’t taken the time to look her up and down. She was dressed in athletic clothing — skin-tight lycra shorts that stopped halfway down her
thighs, and a tank top that exposed her thin brown arms. She had an incredible body.

  He smiled. ‘I was just about to head that way. You read my mind.’

  She cocked her head. ‘To Monterosso?’

  ‘No, to Corniglia. I haven’t seen it yet.’

  She reached out a hand and trailed a finger down his chest. ‘Come to Monterosso. With me.’

  ‘I’ve done that trail a few times.’

  ‘Do it again. More fun with me. I promise.’

  He shrugged.

  How can I resist?

  ‘What are you doing in Monterosso?’ he said as they simultaneously set off for the mouth of the trail. He’d made the trek enough times to know the general topography. The hiking trail rose out of Vernazza and twisted along the side of the mountains, offering stunning views of the coast before it descended into Monterosso.

  In truth, he couldn’t wait.

  The chemistry in the air proved tantalising.

  With a smirk, he realised they’d both become so caught up in the whirlwind that they hadn’t even taken the time to get each other’s names.

  ‘I’m Sam, by the way,’ he said, amused by the length of time it had taken to share that information.

  She smiled too. ‘Viola.’

  ‘Pleasure to meet you, Viola.’

  ‘You’re cute.’

  At this time of morning, the initial stretch of the trail was deserted — no-one had finished the trek in the opposite direction from Monterosso, and tourists in Vernazza were still exploring the coastal town before deciding to hike to the next one. Before they reached the toll booth, where euros needed to change hands in order to be granted access to the trail, they were alone.

  Sometimes there was nothing to fear from going along with sheer unbridled physical attraction.

  As soon as the words left her mouth he spun her around on the spot and kissed her hard. She didn’t shy away from it — in fact, it seemed she’d been more than ready for it.

  Anticipating it, even.

  She kissed back, and their hands explored the more sensitive areas of their bodies over their clothing. After a long ten seconds he pulled away.

  He hadn’t felt this alive in quite some time.

  The panic attack was a distant memory. He was unobtrusively in the moment, seeing where life took him and embracing every part of it. He noticed the warm glint in Viola’s eyes. She bit her lower lip in an attempt to suppress excitement, and threw a glance over Rollins’ shoulder.

  ‘Not here,’ she said. ‘Too open.’

  ‘You know a place?’

  She nodded. ‘That’s why I offer to hike to Monterosso. I know this trail. There’s… many places we can go… more secluded.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘I feel like teenager again. I don’t even know you.’

  He shrugged. ‘You have to roll with it sometimes.’

  ‘Roll with it,’ she said, tasting the words. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They made excellent time, thanks in part to their combined level of fitness but mostly due to their mutual interest in covering the first part of the trail as fast as they could. Rollins momentarily touched on where his life was going — embracing hedonism, shying away from a disciplined routine, abandoning structure.

  He considered all those things, before realising he didn’t give a shit.

  He was living.

  After a brutal four months serving the United States government, he figured he deserved to cut loose for a while.

  Thirty minutes into the hike, they crossed over to a narrow stretch of dusty trail only wide enough for one person at a time. One side faced a swathe of thick forest, and the other dropped sharply away to the ocean hundreds of feet below. Only a thin waist-high wire fence separated them from plummeting to their deaths.

  Rollins didn’t have time to consider that.

  There were other things on his mind.

  Ahead, Viola must have spotted a familiar route, because she darted effortlessly into a gap between two low-hanging trees, heading into the forest, out of sight of the civilian trail.

  ‘Through here,’ she whispered.

  Rollins followed. There was passion in her tone — he could sense it. He wanted nothing more than to get his hands on her, so he pushed aside a cluster of branches and hurried into a small natural clearing in the forest.

  In hindsight, he probably should have recognised the highly improbable nature of the entire sequence of events.

  It might have saved him.

  As the old adage goes, think with your head and not with your…

  The blow to the back of the head struck Rollins with such ferocity that his vision shut off at the light switch.

  5

  He came to in a murky haze of conflicting emotions.

  First, there was disappointment. He’d genuinely sensed some kind of connection with Viola, and unless the mother of all coincidences had occurred, she had deliberately led him into the ambush.

  Second, there was embarrassment. Up until a few weeks previously he’d been considered one of the most dangerous active operatives in the United States military — it was a requirement to being considered for a position in Black Force’s ranks. His reflexes, his reaction speed, and his physical capabilities had all tested off the charts, which was mostly why he was able to overpower even the most aggressive hostiles with relative ease.

  None of that had made a difference today.

  All the elite training. All the tactical awareness.

  All for nothing.

  He’d been successfully deceived into branching off to a desolate stretch of the mountain trail, and he hadn’t noticed the attackers lurking until they’d brought the blunt object down on the back of his skull.

  By that point, there was nothing he could do.

  When he emerged from the haze of semi-consciousness he found half a roll of duct tape yanked around his wrists and ankles respectively, each set of bindings tight enough to cut off circulation in his extremities. He composed his thoughts, battled down his emotions, and assessed the situation clinically, just as his training had taught him to.

  He was basically fucked.

  No amount of training could trump a surprise attack. Whoever got the first shot off usually won the battle, which was half the reason reaction speed was considered such a critical component to Black Force operatives’ success. If Rollins could figure out what his adversary was going to do before he did it, he could nullify any threat with overwhelming offence. But none of that meant anything if he didn’t see the first blow coming.

  Now, his vision swam and an ear-splitting migraine sprouted to life behind his eyeballs. The waves of hot and cold washing over him signified that — internally — something was seriously wrong. He didn’t doubt it. There were all kinds of juicy neurons and nerve endings in the back of the skull just waiting to be demolished by a brick, or a piece of wood, or a metal pipe. One well-placed blow to the cranium and all the training in the world was rendered moot.

  But he was awake. He was capable of cognitive thought, no matter how limited it was. That in itself was a relief. Crawling out of the darkness, realising he’d been struck in the back of the head, he found himself relieved that he was even around to understand what had happened.

  He had seen far too much evidence of people getting killed by unseen strikes to dismiss that as a given.

  So, even though he hurt everywhere and could barely string a cohesive thought together, he started to accumulate information.

  Three men hauled him through the undergrowth, their hands under his armpits and around his torso, manhandling him with ease. They were strong, with wide frames and bulky fingers that dug into his skin. The soles of his trainers dragged across the dirt, and he tested his body’s ability to respond by intermittently applying pressure to the ground underfoot. It proved more difficult than he expected. His limbs weren’t recognising his brain’s commands the way he wanted.

  He was u
ndoubtedly in bad shape.

  Rollins deemed it best to allow himself to be manhandled for the time being — not that he had much of a choice anyway. The duct tape, although crude, proved efficient at keeping his wrists and ankles locked together. Any time he spent trying to wriggle free proved useless. He wasn’t sure if it was due to his own diminished strength, or the durability of the bindings.

  He’d find out soon enough.

  He closed his eyes and ignored the jolts to his body as the trio hurried him deeper into the trees. The ground sloped sharply upward. Every now and then, Rollins’ face dragged against a jagged outcrop of rock, or swiped against a cluster of brambles. They didn’t have his protection in mind — that much was certain. But overpowering everything was the incessant thumping in his head, telling him he was seriously injured and that any sudden movements would be useless. He needed to focus all his attention on recovery, instead of trying to break free. He assumed he would get the chance for that later.

  When his consciousness had returned in full.

  The journey culminated at a barren stretch of the mountainside, far above the two equidistant coastal towns. Rollins cracked one eyelid open and spotted Vernazza poised at the mountain’s base hundreds of feet below. He couldn’t quite believe he’d been there just a couple of hours earlier. On the right, he spotted the familiar contours of Monterosso. Both specks of civilisation seemed so distant, so separated from where they were now.

  A strong surge of helplessness washed over Rollins.

  Maybe he should have ignored his injuries and put all his energy reserves into shedding his bindings and making a break for it.

  Because now they were dragging him toward a desolate, rotting two-storey house, positioned in the centre of the natural clearing with sweeping views over the coastline.

  And Rollins realised these weren’t ordinary gangbangers looking to rob him of his belongings and head on their way.

  They had planned this out.

  They had restrained him, and now they were storing him in this abandoned structure.