Warrior_A Jason King Thriller Page 3

  She twirled on the spot in exuberant fashion, presenting King with a three-hundred-and-sixty degree view of her physique, enticing him. He pointed to the four-poster bed in the corner of the room.

  ‘Be there in a second,’ he mouthed.

  She flashed a sly grin and tiptoed over to the mattress.

  Suppressing his racing pulse, he crossed to the front door, irritated by the interruption. He adjusted his shirt — which Savannah had been in the process of pulling over his head — and hurled the flimsy door open, outwardly disgruntled.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he muttered as he locked eyes with the man standing in the doorway. ‘I thought you said tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I did,’ Lars said, arms folded across his chest. His close-cropped hair was slightly unruly, as if he’d been disturbed by something unexpected. ‘But something came up. You busy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I can’t wait.’

  ‘Great.’

  His excitement dying with each passing second, King spun on the spot and grimaced as he made eye contact with Savannah from across the room.

  ‘Look…’ he began.

  Her face twisted into a scowl as she began to realise what was coming.

  ‘You’re kidding,’ she said.

  Lars picked up on the female voice and pushed straight past King, striding into the broad room with a sheepish grin on his face. ‘Jason, you naughty boy.’

  ‘Shut up,’ King muttered.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ Lars said, pulling into view of Savannah. ‘Your fling’s got some business to attend to. He gets paid a lot of money to be on call twenty-four-seven. Hope you understand.’

  Savannah had already begun the process of gathering up her belongings in a huff, visibly fuming. She stepped into her business heels and stormed straight past them without bothering to secure them to her feet. On the way, she refused to meet King’s gaze.

  ‘Silver Star my ass,’ she spat, disappearing from sight before either of them could respond.

  Lars raised an eyebrow, leant forward, and slammed the door shut.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing talking to civilians about that kind of thing?’ he said, shooting daggers at King.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ King said. ‘She overheard our phone call. That’s kind of how she ended up here.’

  ‘It’s your fault she overheard. Be a little more cautious about that kind of thing in future.’

  ‘How else am I supposed to pick up women?’ King said, grinning to highlight the sarcasm.

  Lars looked him up and down. ‘Somehow I think you’ll manage, you giant bastard.’

  ‘We can’t all be five-foot-eight, Lars.’

  Lars started to curse, then cut himself off. ‘I’d like to joke around with you all night, but this is kind of serious. I wouldn’t have stormed up in here cramping your style otherwise.’

  ‘How serious? The ceremony’s happening tonight?’

  Lars shook his head. ‘Afraid we’ll have to save the Silver Star for another day, brother. We have a flight to catch.’

  ‘For work?’

  ‘For work.’

  A sharp ball of tension formed in the pit of King’s stomach. He squirmed, suddenly restless. It took a certain shift in mentality to adjust to the demands of a live operation. He hadn’t anticipated being thrust back into the madness so shortly after leaving it all behind in Mexico.

  ‘Tijuana again?’ King said. ‘Problems cropping up?’

  ‘No. Somewhere more pleasant this time. Pack your shit — the plane’s waiting on us.’

  ‘What plane? Where the hell are we headed?’

  ‘Just pack your shit,’ Lars said, suddenly deadly serious. ‘We’re running with a live situation again. Everything’s up in the air. I’ll debrief you on the plane.’

  ‘You’re coming?’

  ‘Just for the flight. Then I’m out of there.’

  King reached forward and seized Lars by the shoulders. ‘Where. Are. We. Going?’

  ‘Mogadishu,’ Lars said. ‘You’ll love it, I promise. Great spot.’

  Somalia.

  King gulped back hesitation, then squashed it down and moved to stuff his measly belongings into the canvas duffel bag he’d picked up from an upmarket department store in downtown D.C. He didn’t say a word in response to Lars’ sardonic quip. He had no say in the matter. The contracts he’d signed in a dingy warehouse in Wyoming had surrendered all his rights to the United States Armed Forces — or, at least, a shadowy faction of it.

  ‘I take it you’ve weighed up your options,’ he said.

  Lars nodded.

  ‘I’m your only choice?’

  ‘You’re the best option we have.’

  King nodded back. ‘Thought as much. Volatile situation?’

  ‘Kind of. It’s a little more complicated. Like I said, I’ll tell you on the goddamn plane.’

  King knew the obvious. There was no use protesting — if Lars had decided to come to him with the request, then all other options had been exhausted. It had already been pre-determined that Jason King would serve the situation best, and at that moment any alternatives had dissipated into nothingness.

  He would respond to the request the only way he knew out.

  With massive, overwhelming offence.

  Gathering his belongings and slinging the duffel bag over one shoulder, King said, ‘I take it we’re facing a similar situation to Mexico. You want me to slide into an insurgency and tear it apart?’

  Lars shook his head. ‘Quite the opposite, I’m afraid.’

  King froze. ‘Wha—?’

  ‘For the fourth time — I’ll debrief you on the plane. You won’t register anything I tell you right now. I want you in a cargo hold, with zero distractions. Understood?’

  ‘Got it.’

  The order was final.

  King strode straight past Lars, out into the hallway, leaving the hotel room behind for the last time. It had kept him rested for the last seven nights, but he felt no significant attachment to the place in the same way he hadn’t felt a connection to any physical space for the past four years. He had willingly embraced a life on the move, and now it almost felt as if he were returning to a place he was inherently comfortable with.

  The unknown.

  The life of a warrior.

  He masked a smirk of acceptance as he made for the elevators, Lars trailing in his wake.

  He was home.

  4

  The transit unfolded so fast that King boarded the cargo plane without discerning the make or manufacturer, or any significant details regarding the aircraft that would send him into war-torn Somalia. He simply complied with the rapid chain of events that culminated in him stepping foot inside a freezing metal fuselage exactly thirty minutes after exiting the Sofitel in Lafayette Square.

  The details were kept sparse, as they always were. He had only completed a single mission for Black Force and its inner workings were suitably muddled — King imagined that little ground had been made between the time he had arrived back from Tijuana and the moment he had been thrust aboard a cargo plane with zero information as to what he was doing.

  He dropped into a cold metal seat and pressed a pair of fingers into his eyeballs, rolling with the stress and the tension and the unease.

  Truth was, he wouldn’t like to be anywhere else.

  Internally, he felt a strange calm permeating through him.

  ‘Lars,’ he said, interrupting his own twisted thoughts as his handler dropped into the seat alongside him. ‘Please. Give me something.’

  ‘Truth is,’ Lars said, ‘I don’t know much more than you do.’

  ‘Then what the fuck are we doing here?’

  ‘Rolling with the punches,’ Lars said. ‘I don’t know if you understand this, but this is our life now. This is what we signed up for. You and me both. I’m not some know-it-all who’s secretly conspiring to keep you in the dark. I’m reacting the same as you are — confused by what’s unfo
lding, determined to make things right. You get that?’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘Then bear with me.’

  ‘Give me everything you know.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  Lars straightened up as a pair of men in khaki overalls stepped into the fuselage, their footsteps ringing off the walls. ‘You’re the pilots?’

  ‘Pilot and co-pilot,’ one of the men said. ‘We’re responsible for depositing you two in Mogadishu.’

  ‘No,’ Lars said, wagging a finger. ‘Just one of us. I’m heading back with you.’

  ‘Then why are you here?’ the other man said, disdain in his tone.

  ‘Shut up and fly the plane,’ Lars said. ‘Off you go.’

  He shooed the pair into the cockpit, where they invisibly set to work firing up the aircraft.

  ‘No-one else?’ King said, shooting daggers around the cockpit. ‘Just us?’

  ‘Just us,’ Lars said. ‘Or, to be specific, just you.’

  ‘And what am I here to do? For the millionth goddamn time.’

  Lars paused, rubbing the back of his neck with a calloused hand. ‘Have you heard of AMISOM?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘African Union Mission to Somalia. They’re a peacekeeping operation, backed by the United Nations. They were allowed into Mogadishu a few months ago after much deliberation. They’ve managed to secure a small portion of the city — namely, the major areas of transportation. Land around the airport and the seaport, to be specific. They’re doing good for the common people, the civilians whose lives have been torn to shreds by the civil war.’

  ‘Noble,’ King mused. ‘But I don’t see how I fit into this.’

  ‘You don’t. At least, not into their structure. They do their own thing, and we do ours. Unfortunately, sometimes they overlap.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Our Armed Forces offer sporadic protection to the peacekeepers — every now and then. Ordinarily we would embed ourselves into the UN peacekeepers themselves, but the blue helmets were forced out of Somalia. So a handful of our Force Recon Marines are carted over to spend time with the Union peacekeepers. Make sure they don’t catch a stray bullet, if you get what I mean. It’s not discussed anywhere public, because we’re strictly there for protection — and not many of us. We’re not there to start World War Three.’

  ‘Okay,’ King said. ‘I’m still in the dark here.’

  ‘I’m working up to it,’ Lars said. ‘Bear with me.’

  The ground shifted underneath them, and King reached for a harness as the rear ramp of the cargo plane finished its ascent and the aircraft taxied out onto the runway. Without any portholes or windows in sight, both he and Lars were blind to the takeoff. There was a drawn-out moment of acceleration, then the typical stomach lurch as the wheels left the tarmac and the cargo plane jettisoned into the sky.

  Destination: Somalia.

  Nothing more reassuring, King thought.

  ‘There’s an issue with one of our Force Recon Marines,’ Lars admitted as the plane reached altitude and coasted into a monotone trajectory.

  King pressed a finger on either side of his nostrils and blew hard, popping each eardrum in turn and acclimatising his senses to the altitude. Relief washed over him.

  ‘Who?’ he said.

  ‘His name’s Bryson Reed.’

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Good goddamn work, if I’m being honest,’ Lars said. ‘I don’t like to let personal opinions get in the way of an operation, but this man has taken the initiative and I commend him for it.’

  ‘Good for him,’ King said.

  Lars clearly sensed the unrest, because his tone changed. He hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees, and leant in. At the same time, he lowered his tone.

  ‘Reed’s similar to you,’ Lars said. ‘In fact, this little escapade has put him on the radar for Black Force. I’m thinking that we could make him the second recruit to our organisation. We’re brand new, so we’re improvising as we go, but I think…’

  King reached forward and clamped a hand down on Lars’ thigh, pressing enough force into the action to startle the man and seize his attention.

  ‘Lars,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We’re headed to Somalia for a reason.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘How about you stop fucking around with your fantasies, and you tell me exactly what Bryson Reed has done to warrant all this attention and justify snatching me out of a hotel room at all hours of the night and throwing me onto a cargo plane headed for Mogadishu. How does that sound?’

  Lars sensed the shift in atmosphere, the frustration leeching out of King’s pores. He nodded and leant back in his seat. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Are we on the same page now?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘What the hell has Bryson Reed done?’

  ‘He abandoned protocol, deserted the AMISOM unit he’d been assigned to protect, and stormed into the Port of Mogadishu. He single-handedly busted a trafficking ring smuggling narcotics and firearms into the city, to sell at extortionate prices to the jihadist militants and the army. They discovered him snooping around the port, and now he’s wanted by almost every dirty profiteer in Mogadishu for spoiling the plans of an international supply chain. There’s already been an attempt on his life by al-Shabaab militants, who we think were hired by the dock workers to silence Reed for good. All in all, he’s caused a shitstorm.’

  ‘Sounds like my type of guy,’ King said.

  ‘I thought you might say that. We need you to protect him. And — if it comes down to it — hire him.’

  5

  Before Lars elaborated, King raised a hand and gestured to the fuselage around them. The claustrophobic tunnel encapsulated them, sealing them into an aircraft travelling twenty thousand feet above the ground.

  ‘What is this?’ he said, diverting the conversation away from the most pressing issue.

  Lars raised an eyebrow. ‘The plane?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘It’s a civilian aircraft.’

  ‘You’re perceptive.’

  ‘Comes with the job description.’

  ‘It’s the easiest way to get us in-country.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Somalia’s a cesspool of degradation,’ Lars said. ‘They’re in a constant state of war. The situation lends itself to those searching for a profit.’

  ‘Standard airlines?’ King said. ‘What about military planes? Our planes?’

  Lars shook his head. ‘We’re not welcome. Ever since 1995 when all U.S. troops were withdrawn from Somalia, we’re only allowed in through this scattershot approach, accompanying AMISOM peacekeepers as security detail. In fact, we’re probably not supposed to be there in the first place. A blind eye gets turned when it only concerns a handful of our troops. Hence the controversy over Reed’s actions. You get it?’

  ‘So this plane has no official ties to the military.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And neither do I.’

  ‘You’re learning fast,’ Lars said, half-sarcastic.

  ‘So I’m a nobody,’ King said. ‘For all intents and purposes. Down on the ground.’

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘And what is it you want me to do exactly?’

  ‘I want you to interrogate Bryson Reed,’ Lars said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘I thought you were his biggest fan.’

  ‘I approve of what he did. He took initiative. He didn’t wait around for his superiors to hand down orders. That’s integral to Black Force’s process.’

  ‘Am I on a recruiting mission?’ King said. ‘Be honest.’

  ‘Somewhat. He’s been quarantined to a section of the AMISOM compound, because of the tempers he’s flared. Outside of the peacekeepers, every soul in Somalia involved in the illegal weapons trade is out searching for Reed’s head. He upset a wide
range of powerful people. You can relate, given what you did in Tijuana.’

  King nodded. ‘I’m still unclear as to my purpose.’

  ‘None of the Force Recon Marines have discretion,’ Lars said. ‘They can’t go off and eliminate certain members of the opposition at random. They’re restricted to rules, and customs, and protocol. You’re not restricted to anything.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘You get it now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re the madman,’ Lars said. ‘You’re the one who storms in and subdues the threats, throwing yourself at the enemy until they step down and accept defeat. Right now Bryson Reed is public enemy number one.’

  ‘You want me to take his role.’

  ‘Yes, if only to divert attention onto yourself. Someone who can disappear as they please. Someone who can do as they wish. You’re not bound to the government in the way the others are. You can do whatever you damn well please. And I hope it’s effective. Because we’re still riding the high of Tijuana. I need you to succeed here, King. The organisation counts on it.’

  ‘I thought the organisation counted on it in Mexico. I thought that was my real test.’

  ‘You did great things in Mexico,’ Lars admitted. ‘Tremendous things. Feats I honestly didn’t think you were capable of. You achieved objectives that a SEAL team would struggle with, let alone a single man. But at the moment our scope is limited. It’s what I’ve been trying to sort out with Washington all this time. I want to show that you can take initiative — grab a situation by the balls and sort things out. I know there’s an immense amount of pressure on you, but I need you to be exceptional here, King. I need you to win.’

  ‘Win against who?’ King snarled. ‘Sounds like there’s four or five separate things you want me to do all at once. You want me to recruit Reed, squash the rebel militants, destroy the illegal pipeline, successfully interrogate our man into revealing his intentions. Anything else you care to add?’

  ‘You do this,’ Lars said, ‘and you’ll secure your future for years to come.’

  King furrowed a brow. ‘You want to repeat that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You realise how ridiculous you sound?’

  Lars didn’t respond.