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

  ‘How about a beer?’ Lars said, sensing the conversation was headed down a distracting path and attempting to diffuse the tension.

  ‘A beer sounds good.’

  ‘Come to think of it,’ Lars said as they strode away from the sweeping glass entrance doors, ‘I don’t think we’ve had a single social encounter yet. A trip to a bar might be the right idea. You know — a team building exercise. Seeing that we’re the entire team.’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ King said. ‘Let’s keep work as work. You seem like a pretty boring guy, if I’m being honest.’

  ‘Don’t know whether to take that at face value or not,’ Lars muttered.

  ‘Oh, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘Are you winding me up?’

  ‘Let’s get a beer. Then we can talk about Somalia. Properly.’

  King raised a hand, hailing a cab only a couple of minutes after stepping out of the last bright yellow sedan.

  3

  The bar’s exterior was nothing special, but Lars told King of a time many years ago when he’d visited this certain seaside haven along Miami Beach, a time when he’d been a much younger man with a wild streak and a penchant for travel.

  King couldn’t picture it in the slightest. He had linked the man’s uptight, matter-of-fact demeanour to his very being, unable to imagine a time where Lars had wandered the globe carefree.

  ‘Surprised there were planes back then,’ he ribbed.

  Lars furrowed his brow. ‘I’m not that old.’

  The cab deposited them outside a wooden blocky structure wedged into a gap between a couple of three-storey residential apartment complexes. There were only a handful of windows facing the street, and overall the building had the feel of belonging to a bygone era, ancient in comparison to the more trendy outfits dotting Miami Beach. The smell of the sea drifted across the street — one of the only appealing factors King could find.

  ‘You’ve got good taste, Lars,’ he said.

  ‘It looked this way when I visited it last. It’s deceptive. A hidden gem.’

  ‘I’m sure things have changed since the 1920s.’

  ‘I’m only thirty-eight, for God’s sake,’ the man said with a scowl.

  They made their way up a small flight of stairs and pushed open a set of swinging oak doors, entering a large hallway with all its doors cordoned off, subconsciously ushering them straight through to the end of the corridor.

  King raised an eyebrow — you sure this is the right place?

  ‘Hear that?’ Lars said.

  A soft murmuring floated through the open archway at the end of the hallway, complete with laughter and the sounds of chairs scraping back across concrete. King caught a glance through to the source of the commotion and spotted a large courtyard tucked away from the rest of society, bustling with activity as rowdy patrons washed down beers and cocktails.

  ‘Huh,’ he noted. ‘Not bad.’

  They set off down the hallway.

  ‘How have you been, anyway?’ Lars said. ‘I didn’t want to ruin your vacation by checking in every ten minutes — but, Jesus Christ, I don’t know how you survived Somalia.’

  ‘Neither do I.’

  ‘The doctors were surprised, too.’

  ‘I’m full of surprises.’

  ‘So — you going to answer my question?’

  King thought long and hard about it, refusing to dismiss the enquiry as a useless snippet of conversation. He knew the gravity of Lars’ questions. ‘I’ve been good. All things considered.’

  ‘You’re not just saying that?’

  ‘I get what you were asking me in that question. My answer matches.’

  ‘No pain?’

  ‘There’s pain. But now I have a reference point, I guess. Now I know what real pain is like.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what you went through.’

  ‘You were there for the worst of it.’

  Lars paused. ‘Beer sure sounds good right about now.’

  They entered the courtyard and King sensed eyes on him — by now, he’d become accustomed to the feeling. At six-foot-three he wasn’t obscenely taller than the average man, but over the past couple of years he’d filled out his physique with a certain musculature reminiscent of an elite level athlete. It had been a gruelling process to hone his athleticism and physical ability into something truly awe-inspiring, but he hadn’t done it to gain praise from others. He’d done it to become a machine. He wondered how many passers-by guessed he was an Olympian.

  At least a few in this place, he realised as he made eye contact with one nosy patron after another.

  Some of them turned away. Some didn’t. The majority of those who held his gaze were female.

  But King wasn’t here for that.

  He followed Lars to the massive sweeping bar curving around one wall of the courtyard, shrouded in shadow by a couple of large decorative trees. The branches had been expertly groomed and manipulated, creating a canopy-like effect above the open bar.

  Lars ordered a pair of ice-cold Coronas and they slotted into one of the booths running along the perimeter of the courtyard. King understood exactly what his handler was going for.

  No-one in earshot.

  He gulped down half the beer in a single swallow, clenching the glass in his massive paw. There were two ugly white scars across the knuckles of his right hand, courtesy of Mexico. He glanced at them briefly, studying their contours.

  ‘I never had this in mind when you first came to me in Wyoming,’ he said. ‘I thought my life would be hell from that point onward.’

  ‘It has been,’ Lars said. ‘That is, if the stories I hear are accurate. You left out important details in both Mexico and Somalia. You’re a goddamn freight train.’

  ‘I mean, physically it’s been hell. But is that the worst thing in the world? Physical pain? You know as well as I do what I’ve got done in the last few months. Achievement-wise. What I have to go through to get there shouldn’t matter.’

  ‘You’re okay with getting beaten to a pulp every time we send you off somewhere?’

  ‘As okay as I can be. It’s happened twice now. If the nature of the incidents you send me to handle maintains, then I don’t think I’ll be expecting anything else in future.’

  Lars said nothing, twirling the beer bottle in his hand, allowing condensation to run down the neck and over his skin.

  ‘What?’ King said.

  ‘That’s why I’m here. Partly.’

  ‘Because of my pain tolerance?’

  ‘Because of the ramifications of your last two missions.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘We’ve sent you out twice. And twice you’ve done remarkable things. Unbelievable things. Feats that we never expected. You somehow have the ability to escalate a situation and then deal with it, even when shit hits the fan. Which it has both times you’ve conducted a live operation.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘We wanted you to kill a cartel leader in Mexico. You killed dozens of people — all of them implicit in the drug war. We wanted you to quiz a Force Recon Marine in Somalia. You slaughtered armed bandits, killed five bent ex-Special Forces soldiers and beat the Force Recon Marine in question to death with your bare hands with a knife sticking out of your side. You noticing a trend?’

  ‘I’m getting shit done.’

  ‘You certainly are. In a way that none of us desk jockeys have ever quite seen before. Sure, there’s been single feats of heroism in our history of black operations, but not repeat occurrences. Not a consistent career of defying the odds. We think we have that with you.’

  ‘You keep saying we. I haven’t met anyone other than you.’

  ‘That’s deliberate. The less you know, the better. You’re the hammer, and we’re the builders. We orchestrate where to send you. I was chosen as the messenger, if that makes sense.’

  ‘Got it. Will I ever—?’

  ‘No. I’m your man. That was established early on. It’s not going to cha
nge. We need deniability — no offence.’

  ‘None taken, but I’d better be getting paid for this. I haven’t heard anything about—’

  Lars reached into his pocket and withdrew a hard-cased card holder. He slid out a plastic credit card and reached across the table, tucking it into the breast pocket of King’s floral shirt. ‘Consider yourself paid.’

  King fingered the card out and scrutinised it. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Eight hundred thousand for Mexico. Two point two million for Somalia. Your last operation came with a discretionary bonus — those ex-spec ops mercenaries would have caused us a world of trouble if they’d gotten away with the theft. My superiors felt you deserved it.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ King said.

  ‘Deadly serious.’

  ‘Three million dollars.’

  ‘Three million dollars. The account details will be provided to you shortly. It took some time to set up, as you can imagine — Uncle Sam doesn’t want this type of payment on his books.’

  ‘I could retire right now. Live off the interest for the rest of my life.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not an option.’

  Lars uttered the words with a light-hearted tone, but the weight behind them didn’t go unnoticed. King sat there, contemplating the eight syllables and their gravity. He hadn’t gone down that line of enquiry yet — there hadn’t been enough time. Now they rang across the narrow booth, flooding King’s brain with all kind of imaginings. He pictured himself bound to the government by chains — then, all at once, shook the thought away.

  This had been his choice.

  He knew what he’d been getting himself into.

  Otherwise he never would have signed up.

  ‘Are you thinking about what I said?’ Lars said.

  ‘What else would I be thinking about?’

  ‘I didn’t know how you’d react. We hadn’t discussed it yet.’

  ‘It was in my contract, wasn’t it? You lot make the calls. I need to stay on as long as required if you have use for me.’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Lars said. ‘We’re investing heavily in you. Systems are being put into place right now to take you to the next level. We have something unique on our hands with you. You have the athleticism, the natural ability, the dedication — and most of all, the reaction speed. I think that’s how you got out of Mexico and Somalia in one piece.’

  ‘Barely in one piece,’ King said.

  ‘Which brings me to my next point. The reason I came.’

  King hesitated. ‘You said I wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘You won’t. Not if I’m any kind of judge of character.’

  ‘Maybe you’re not.’

  ‘You’re going to the Democratic Republic of the Congo. For an extended training camp. We’re pulling you out of active service indefinitely.’

  ‘What the fuck for?’ King snarled.

  4

  As enraged as he was, he couldn’t help but realise Lars had judged him well.

  He was suitably pissed.

  ‘I understand what you’re thinking,’ Lars said. ‘You had five weeks off. You’re mentally ready and probably chomping at the bit to get back out there.’

  ‘You got that much right.’

  ‘Which is a positive sign — don’t get me wrong. It takes a special type of person to go through what you went through and want to get straight back out there. Often at the detriment of your own health.’

  ‘This job was never going to be good for my health. You’re kidding yourself if you ever thought otherwise.’

  ‘Well, there’s the problem,’ Lars muttered.

  Before continuing, he lifted the Corona to his lips and drained the remaining three-quarters of the icy bottle. Liquid courage for his following speech, no doubt.

  ‘You are a unique talent. I think I’ve told you that enough. I don’t say those words lightly — so far, from what we’ve seen, you’re a one man wrecking ball with your head screwed on right and your dedication to the job unparalleled. That’s not something that comes down with every shower.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we need you preserved. Keep this pace up and you’ll be brain dead in a week. You need to get better.’

  ‘You just said—’

  ‘You’re a talent, King. That doesn’t mean you’re invincible. If you keep coming back to us with your guts hanging out and every inch of you beaten to pulp, you won’t be able to do this for much longer. You’ve been acting like a human battering ram these past two operations.’

  ‘It’s worked.’

  ‘That strategy has an expiration date. How long until your brain turns to mush from all the punches?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a way off.’

  ‘What if you wind up dead on the next mission?’

  ‘Then I won’t be the unique talent you’re talking me up as, will I?’

  ‘You might have been. But you got reckless. And you relied on your natural abilities to get you out of bad situations. And you paid for it.’

  ‘What else do you expect me to do? Every mission, every minute … I’m just trying to survive.’

  ‘That’s what we’re hoping you’ll learn. Patience. Precision. We want you surgical, not like a wrecking ball.’

  ‘Isn’t that why you started this division?’ King said. ‘So you could find someone to charge into live situations and clash heads together until they succeeded? Isn’t that what I’m doing?’

  ‘And you’re doing it excellently. But I have faith in you. I think you can do more. I think you can pull these feats off without taking any damage in the process.’

  ‘Don’t spin this into a backhanded compliment,’ King said. ‘You’re sending me away because I’m not good enough.’

  ‘You consistently bite off more than you can chew, and you’re still sitting here across from me. That in itself says everything we need to know about your abilities. You genuinely should think of this as a compliment. You’re so good we can’t afford to lose you. So we’re going to hone you into something better. Something unstoppable. A force of nature.’

  ‘You’re talking about me like I’m already there.’

  ‘You are. Almost.’

  King paused. ‘You know what my training schedule’s like. I can’t fit more in. There’s physical limits to what the human body can do when I’m in a camp. Or you’ll overtrain me.’

  ‘All the basics for a human weapon are there. They just need to be refined. I’m willing to admit that there are people out there who know more than me about combat.’

  ‘But in the fucking Congo?’

  ‘There’s a guy out there. He used to work for us. You’re going to pay him a visit.’

  ‘Does he know I’m coming?’

  ‘Yes. In fact,’ Lars glanced at his watch, making note of the date, ‘he’s spent the past three months crafting the mother of all training camps for you. He was one of the first to suggest this pioneer division — I’ve been keeping him up to speed with all the ongoing developments once we found you. He’s rather fascinated by you.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name’s Brody.’

  ‘He got a last name?’

  ‘He sure does. You’re not getting it. To you he’s Brody. That’ll do.’

  ‘Why the secrecy?’

  ‘You might do some digging.’

  ‘You could have just given me a false name. Then I wouldn’t have been curious.’

  ‘That would be a lie, then, wouldn’t it? I consider us above that. So he’s Brody. That’s it.’

  ‘Brody.’

  He rolled the name off his tongue, tasting it, wondering the story behind the man. One didn’t end up in the Democratic Republic of the Congo for no good reason. King was still technically a young man — in fact, a baby in comparison to the rest of his field — but he had heard enough horror stories about the Congo to fill a weighty tome.

  ‘Why there?’ he said. ‘I just got done in Africa. I’d prefer not to go
back for a while.’

  ‘Short answer or long answer?’ Lars said, his brow furrowed.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Okay — short answer: you go where we fucking tell you to go.’

  King paused, allowing the hint of a smile to creep across his features. ‘Noted. Long answer?’

  ‘Brody’s life has been a hard one. His work for our government involved some horrible things. Things he will never discuss with anyone — least of all you. He went to the Congo seeking peace after a career for the ages.’

  ‘Peace,’ King said, flabbergasted. ‘He went to the Congo seeking peace?’

  ‘He’s at home amidst chaos,’ Lars said. ‘Much like yourself.’

  ‘Sounds like an oddball.’

  ‘We all are in this field. Part of the job description.’

  ‘What’s so special about him? Why do you need to send me there?’

  ‘He’s a pioneer in the art of physical warfare. Of course, nothing he’s done will ever be officially recognised, but he never wanted that. He was an undefeated mixed martial arts champion in an elite organisation before he even considered joining the Armed Forces. From there he worked his way up.’

  ‘There’s plenty of elite combat instructors stateside,’ King said. ‘And I’d much prefer to stay here.’

  ‘Not like Brody. He understands the human body in a way I can’t articulate. Which is why he’s been so fascinated by your ascension, I might add. Think of yourself as the putty. And Brody the artist. He’ll mould you into something … more.’

  ‘Nice spiel,’ King said, ‘but — really, Lars? The Congo? Bring him stateside, for God’s sake. If you can afford to give me three million dollars for a couple of overseas operations, you can afford to bring him over.’

  ‘We tried that. He refused.’

  ‘Then you weren’t persuasive enough.’

  ‘It amuses me that you think you have the answer to all of life’s problems at the age of twenty-two, but I’m afraid reality works a little differently. He owes us nothing. In fact, we owe him everything…’

  ‘What did he do for Uncle Sam, exactly?’

  ‘More than was ever asked of him.’

  ‘Thanks — I didn’t want you to be specific.’