Hunted: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 6) Page 22

  If he went fully out, that would be the end.

  With wide eyes, he scrutinised the scene ahead. His vision wavered, focusing first on the approaching mercenary and then wandering past him to the elderly man beyond. The old guy sported a sick smile on his face, leering at the situation.

  ‘Make him pay,’ the man said with a thick Russian accent. ‘Cyka, blyat.’

  Slater felt his brain switch over — nowhere near full consciousness, but cognitive enough to take control of his limbs. He didn’t let it show, opting to continue staggering across the floor in a now-controlled motion. The guard finished descending the last few steps and lunged toward Slater, fixated on impressing his elderly boss with a clinical beatdown.

  Slater wouldn’t give him the pleasure.

  As soon as the bodyguard came into range, he faked a takedown. He shot both hands out, grasping for either of the man’s ankles in a rapid motion. The guy ducked, dropping his hands and head low to try and defend the wrestling manoeuvre.

  Perfect.

  Slater switched gears halfway through the move, powering off one leg and bringing the other knee sweeping up in an explosive straight line. It met the guy full on the face, impacting against his nose and chin hard enough to snap his head vertically backwards. A sharp crack omitted from the source of the impact — either his nose breaking or something more sinister.

  There was no wobbling.

  No recoiling in pain.

  The guy was blasted straight into unconsciousness.

  He collapsed in a grotesque heap on the floor, eyes wide and vacant. Still alive — but barely. It would take him a long few minutes to crawl back into a semi-conscious state, and even then he would be useless for close to an hour.

  His head would hurt for weeks.

  The elderly man’s face fell.

  Slater’s spread into a smirk.

  ‘You weren’t expecting that?’ he said. ‘Shame.’

  It was like the man’s features warped in the blink of an eye. His expression went from one of sinister glee to a mask of abject horror. He clambered lethargically to his feet, turning his back to Slater. It was a pathetic sight.

  Slater fetched the Austrian handgun from where he’d dropped it and jogged up the steps, taking them three at a time. He caught the elderly man in seconds and hurled him against the concrete wall, just above where the bodyguard lay with half his face missing.

  ‘You couldn’t wait to see that kind of violence in the flesh, could you?’

  ‘Please,’ the man gasped, struggling in an attempt to elicit some kind of sympathy from Slater. He wheezed and whimpered and cowered, but the man’s eyes gave it away. They were dead in their expression, hard and menacing. It was all an act — an attempt to make Slater feel guilty.

  He’d had enough life experience to know when he was being played.

  He pressed the barrel of the Steyr sidearm into the man’s stomach. ‘How does that feel?’

  ‘Please, sir,’ the man whimpered. ‘This is a mistake. I am scared. Very scared.’

  ‘So were all those people you watched kill each other in Russia. Did that bother you at the time?’

  The man’s face twisted, somewhat horrified that this mystery man who’d snuck up on them knew of his deepest, darkest secrets.

  ‘Suka,’ he spat again.

  Bitch.

  ‘You’re the bitch,’ Slater said. ‘You will die a coward.’

  The man didn’t like it. Russian oligarchs commanded respect — they placed great personal satisfaction in controlling empires and being treated like the titans they were. He visibly squirmed.

  ‘Beg more,’ Slater said. ‘You’ll carry that to your grave.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Slater shot him in the stomach, keeping the barrel pressed tight to the bespoke suit draping his hunched frame. The wound was horrendous, immediately seizing up the man’s limbs with intense pain.

  Slater let go of his grip on the man’s throat and let him fall awkwardly down the stairs, coming to rest alongside his unconscious bodyguard. He grasped at thin air, feebly trying to get up.

  ‘You’ll bleed out from that,’ Slater called down after him, lowering the handgun. ‘Think of those men and women you watched while you do that.’

  The Russian oligarch let loose with a string of horrific curses, letting his dark side come to the surface. He spoke fast, warning Slater that he would have his wife killed and his children raped.

  Slater shrugged, unfazed. He had no wife or children to speak of. He shot the Russian through the upper thigh, severing the man’s femoral artery in grotesque fashion, and left him to die in a pool of his own dark blood.

  He hurried up through the stairwell, unclear as to where exactly he was headed but sure of one thing.

  When he came face-to-face with Abdullah and his friends, he wouldn’t hesitate to settle the score.

  It was nothing personal, after all.

  Sensing that there would soon be eyes on him, he tucked the Steyr into the rear of his waistband, acting on a hunch. He was ready to snatch it back into use in a half-second, but something told him that confusion would reign supreme when he chanced upon more of Abdullah’s men.

  They didn’t know him well enough to identify him in an instant.

  Almost thirty floors into the sky, he found an emergency exit door leading out onto one of the upper levels of the skyscraper. It had been wedged open, providing an identifiable path for the new arrivals.

  A young European-looking man in a well-tailored suit stood at attention just inside the carpeted corridor within.

  Slater nodded disinterestedly, like he would rather be anywhere else. He kept his pace laced with a meandering swagger, adopting the attitude of a paid mercenary.

  The young guy froze.

  ‘Hey, man,’ Slater muttered. ‘How’s your day going?’

  ‘Not bad. Who are you here with? And what the fuck was all that noise?’

  Slater jerked a thumb towards the stairwell, like he was frustrated. ‘Old dude had to stop for some air. He’ll be here in a second.’

  The guy could sense something was wrong, but he couldn’t place a finger on exactly what it was. He shoved past Slater and entered the stairwell, peering straight down the centre of the space to try and get a better look at the situation. Inexperience in its most raw form.

  ‘You idiot,’ Slater muttered.

  He didn’t have it in his heart to murder the guy in cold blood while his back was turned. He seemed young and naive and easily impressionable. Instead, Slater threw a front kick into the small of the man’s back, sending him flying stomach-first into the low railing. Winded and rattled, he doubled-over, collapsing to his knees.

  Slater plucked the Glock handgun — and a black two-way radio — out of the man’s waistband and slammed the stairwell door closed before the guy could respond.

  Built into the wall next to the stairwell was a glass case containing a fire rescue axe for use in case of emergency. Slater shattered the glass, wrenched the hefty wooden weapon free and slid it through the gap in the door handle.

  Effectively sealing off access to this floor.

  He had this level of the building all to himself.

  Clutching the Steyr handgun in one hand and the Glock in the other, he made his way slowly down the corridor, sweeping the two barrels over each conference room in turn.

  They were all empty. No furniture, no lights, no sign of life. The entire hallway was enveloped in a murky darkness. From somewhere ahead, faint slivers of natural light filtered through.

  Slater reached the room at the end of the hallway and shouldered through the flimsy door. His senses were flooded with natural light, pouring in through the broad windows on the opposite side of the conference room.

  This room contained furniture — most importantly, an oval wooden table designed for holding meetings and discussing all kinds of sick and twisted imaginings.

  The room had four occupants.

  Slater swept his g
aze over each of them in turn, noting that none of them were armed. Judging by the horrified expressions on their face, he imagined they hadn’t been expecting his arrival.

  Abdullah sat at the head of the table. On either side of him, three fifty-something Russian men in broad-shouldered suits studied the new arrival with their hands crossed together in front of them.

  Slater smiled.

  44

  King completed donning his new attire before the approaching convoy got anywhere close to his position.

  The three private troopers now sprawled across the bloody pavement out the front of the building had all been dressed in standard paramilitary gear. King had seen the khakis and combat boots and thin Kevlar vests a thousand times before. What he found useful were the shades and faded helmet that one of the three had been wearing — either a homage to old American movies or because he sincerely thought they looked cool.

  Whatever the case, they hid features effectively.

  King had the helmet and Aviator sunglasses covering his face in a matter of seconds. They were flecked with the guy’s blood, but it wouldn’t matter. He only needed a few seconds.

  Lastly, he slipped one of the bulletproof vests over his tattered leather jacket.

  For reassurance’s sake.

  The convoy drew closer — another tinted, jet-black limousine, flanked by a pair of rusting Toyota pick-up trucks with open rear trays. Each tray had a mounted turret atop the flimsy metal. A grizzled mercenary was stationed behind each turret, resting their gloved hands on the enormous weapons. King swallowed a hint of fear as he strode along the empty road towards the trio of vehicles.

  It would only take the slightest suspicion to blast him to shreds.

  He lowered his rifle — one of the AK-47s that the trio by the building’s entrance would no longer be needing — to the asphalt, indicating he meant no harm. From this position, he wouldn’t be able to use the gun at all — it rested in his broken hand, still pinned to his chest by the sling Isla had fashioned for him.

  With his other hand, he splayed his fingers wide and raised a firm “stop” gesture.

  Calmly instructing the convoy to come to a halt.

  They complied.

  For now.

  The drivers of the assisting pick-up trucks and the gunners atop those vehicles all fixed him with icy glares. He tried his best to disguise the state he was in. If they saw his knees give out, their suspicions would amplify tenfold.

  The convoy slowed alongside him and one of the limo’s darkened windows slid down. A man leant out the window — in his early thirties, with short white-blond hair and a pronounced jawline. He spent a considerable amount of time in the gym, judging by the broad shoulders spread out underneath his suit.

  Based on the texture and quality of the suit, King guessed it had come with a five-figure price tag.

  Is this one of the bastards who was watching when I was down in the mine?

  He reeked of old money. Everything about his demeanour was pompous and arrogant, sickened by the fact that King had slowed their convoy to a halt.

  He spat something in Russian, cutting through the quiet of the empty city.

  King cocked his head, feigning ignorance.

  ‘Only English,’ he said in a fake Spanish accent, trying to hide who he really was. If this man was one of the oligarchs responsible for the mine operation, then he would have seen a photo of King from the surveillance cameras.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ the man said in English, just as hostile. ‘Who the fuck are you to stop us?’

  ‘I work for Abdullah.’

  ‘Then let’s go. I hate waiting around, and I still don’t know why I’m here and what’s so fucking urgent. My father just arrived. There shouldn’t be a problem.’

  King gestured to the three dead bodies in front of the building, a hundred feet in the distance. ‘We’ve had a slight situation.’

  The convoy followed his gaze, and he sensed the mercenaries around him stiffen with tension.

  ‘Who are they?’ the young businessman said.

  ‘Friends of the man we are hunting.’

  The guy spat on the ground. ‘Fuck him. Let him try his best. You look about his size, anyway. You can take him.’

  King said nothing. He sensed eyes boring into him from all sides. The situation was too volatile to act now. He nodded slightly, and raised his good arm.

  ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘There is a garage on your left up ahead. Continue through.’

  The man rolled up the window without responding, sighing like he had been horrendously inconvenienced by the hold-up. As the limousine surged forward, the pick-up trucks roared to life, ready to follow suit.

  King signalled for the truck closest to him to hang back.

  The other continued on, catching up to the limousine. King beckoned the stationary vehicle over, and it crawled towards him. He leant forward as if he were about to share information with the driver.

  The driver — a stern-looking Russian thug — leant out the window, a little more accomodating than his boss.

  King gunned him down all the same.

  He worked the contents of the Kalashnikov’s magazine across the cabin, killing the driver and then rolling his aim onto the man behind the turret. Both jerked several times in a row and then slumped forward — the driver careered into the steering wheel, and the gunner dropped off the rear tray with blood coating his long-sleeved shirt.

  The horn cut through the silence, activated by the driver’s forehead slamming into the centre of the steering wheel.

  King didn’t even notice the limousine and its accompanying truck slamming on the brakes.

  By then, he had vaulted into the rear tray and taken the gunner’s position, taking care not to slip on the arterial blood left behind from the man’s wounds.

  He snatched up the dual triggers of the heavy machine gun. It was a Russian-made Kalashnikov RPK-16 mounted on a tripod turret, with a 96-round drum magazine attached to the underside. At a firing rate of seven hundred rounds per minute, King figured he could drain the drum at lightning speed.

  He targeted the rear windshield of the limousine, sending over thirty steel-core rounds shredding through the interior of the giant car. The report of the heavy weapon fire rang off the neighbouring buildings, sending the gunner on the other Toyota pick-up diving for cover.

  The man couldn’t bring the barrel of his turret around in time, and had opted to save his own neck instead.

  It didn’t work.

  King worked the RPK-16 across to the Toyota, decimating its occupants. The driver and gunner died simultaneously in a literal storm of bullets.

  When the drum magazine had been completely empty, no-one in the convoy was left alive.

  King stood panting on the rear tray, suddenly aimless. He had dealt with the immediate threat, and put that Russian bastard in an early grave.

  How’s Slater doing? he thought.

  He jolted in surprise as every two-way radio in the immediate vicinity squawked to life at once. There was one in the driver’s cabin of this vehicle, and another that had been discarded by the dead gunner as he fell.

  King snatched the gunner’s radio up and listened again as a chorus of the same voice echoed around the empty road.

  ‘King,’ the voice repeated. ‘If you can hear me, answer now.’

  Slater.

  King thumbed one of the buttons on the side of the device and hovered his mouth over the microphone slots. ‘You there?’

  Slater audibly sighed. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Glad to hear you’re okay. What’s the situation?’

  ‘I’m with Abdullah. And three of his buddies.’

  King couldn’t hide his relief. ‘We did it, brother.’

  Silence.

  King paused, unnerved by how little Slater was saying. Suddenly, he feared the worst. ‘You’re not hurt, are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Slater said, still terse. ‘Abdullah wants to speak to you.’<
br />
  ‘Kill him.’

  ‘I think you might want to hear this.’

  A nerve twitched in King’s back, more than likely a response to the sudden change in atmosphere. The fear began to creep up his spine, overwhelming him. He struggled to suppress the unrelenting pain coursing through his system and pressed the radio a little closer to his sweat-coated face.

  ‘Put him on,’ he said.

  Crackling sounded from the receiver as the radio at the other end was handed across to someone new. King heard the smugness in the man’s tone from the first syllable he uttered.

  ‘Is that Mr. Jason King?’ Abdullah said, supremely confident.

  ‘Make this quick, whatever it is.’

  King meant it. His senses were failing him. He couldn’t smell anything — probably due to the aggravation his semi-healed nose had sustained over the course of his time in Dubai. His eardrums rang, thrown off by the hundreds of close-quarter gunshots he’d been exposed to lately.

  And, finally, his vision swam in tight circles, reeling from the pain of all the injuries he had accumulated.

  ‘Do the pair of you think I’m stupid?’ Abdullah said. ‘You must. That’s the only way your behaviour makes any sense.’

  ‘From what I can see, we just killed all the people who were supposed to be protecting you.’

  ‘Congratulations. I thought you might. You killed over a dozen of my men in my own building. It certainly made me reconsider what I thought I knew about you two.’

  ‘You knew we were Special Forces.’

  ‘I didn’t realise the extent of how special you were.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’re only human, though…’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘You can’t be in two places at once. You can’t save your girlfriend when you’re all the way over here.’

  Despite everything, King’s pulse tripled, his heart thrumming against his chest wall as an endless list of possibilities spiralled through his mind.

  ‘You’re bluffing,’ he said.

  ‘Believe whatever you want to believe.’

  ‘You won’t rattle me.’

  ‘It wasn’t very hard to get in touch with the people who are looking for you.’