Imprisoned: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 2) Page 5

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘That’s how I feel right now.’ King crossed the cell and stuck his face in the bars. ‘Hey!’

  It didn’t take long. A policeman he’d never seen before heard the cry and came running through the steel door, his face a pale sheet. King took one look at him and presumed that stab wounds were on the lighter side of the injuries he saw. He’d come in expecting the worst. He made it to their cell.

  ‘He’s hurt,’ King said, pointing at Hector, who was in the process of clutching his stomach and moaning.

  The man realised no-one was dead and visibly relaxed. In fact, he seemed bemused at King’s urgency.

  What type of shit goes on in here? King thought.

  ‘So?’ the policeman said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What you want me to do?’ he said in stunted English.

  ‘Help him out…’ King said, astonished. ‘He’ll die if we just leave him there.’

  ‘No my problem. One thousand bolivares.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  The policeman sniggered. ‘Seems like he’s friend of yours. You pay for us to help. Or I make sure you stay here longer.’

  King didn’t feel like explaining that Hector had just tried to end his life, or that he had no idea how long he was scheduled to stay in the first place. But at the end of the day if they took Hector away, the man would be permanently removed from the equation. A price King was willing to pay.

  He peeled a pair of five-hundred-bolivar notes off the roll in his pocket. Handed them across. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘Of course. He trip and fall. Stab himself.’

  ‘Is that a common occurrence around here?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ the man said, nodding vigorously. ‘Happen daily.’

  The policeman pulled a two-way radio out of his belt and shouted instructions into it. In an instant the steel door slammed open and a pair of officers came through carrying a white cloth stretcher. King briefly considered making a break for it. Then the door clicked shut behind them. He sighed. Even if he made it out of the cell, he’d be trapped in the hallway.

  One of the new arrivals brandished a shiny assault rifle. King recognised its make. A Kalashnikov AK-103. Standard issue for the Venezuelan armed forces. The officer tossed it to the original guard, who caught it and slid the safety off.

  ‘Anyone moves — they die,’ he said in Spanish.

  King believed him. It wouldn’t take much to cover up his death. He imagined he would be buried in the middle of nowhere and forgotten.

  The officers with the stretcher unlocked the cell door and entered. They moved tentatively, wary of the many pairs of eyes studying their every movement. A couple of men sucked phlegm into their throats, threatening to spit at them at any moment. The policeman with the rifle saw this and screamed commands, gesticulating wildly.

  King stayed frozen by the entrance. The situation was volatile due to its unpredictability. Anywhere else he would have a little more confidence. In here, anything could happen. He knew he was one wrong step away from a bullet in the brain.

  They lifted Hector onto the stretcher. He moaned throughout the whole process. Blood pooled onto the white material, soaking it through in an instant. With twin grunts of exertion they rose and exited the cell. King noted their hurried steps. He didn’t imagine they were comfortable in enemy territory. When the cell door slammed shut — separating them from the horde of prisoners — the trio of officers visibly relaxed.

  They carted Hector away without another word.

  King watched them go with a semblance of relief. The cell shortly returned to normal. He headed back to Roman, noting the lack of tension in the air. It seemed the more serious threats on his life had left with Hector. Danger had stagnated. For now.

  Roman’s hands were crimson. He’d done his best to try and stem the bleeding. King sat down next to him and took a deep breath, sucking air into his lungs. The jitters of combat had yet to fade.

  ‘I have more questions,’ Roman said.

  ‘You seem full of them.’

  ‘You’re better trained than I thought. You must have been the best of the best.’

  King shrugged. ‘Big assumption.’

  ‘Which makes me ask you again — what are you doing here?’

  ‘In prison?’

  ‘In Venezuela. If you have as much money as you say you do, you could be anywhere in the world.’

  He shrugged again. ‘No particular reason.’

  ‘Who hired you?’

  It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Before then King had put up with the man’s interrogation, passing him off as simply inquisitive. But this was something else. Roman wanted to know exactly who he was, and which non-existent employers he was working for.

  He turned his head when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Roman reached behind his back, slotting a hand into his waistband. He came out with a small compact pistol. His finger rested inside the trigger guard.

  Ready to fire.

  CHAPTER 8

  King exploded into action.

  As he saw the weapon he brought his left fist off the bench. A short, sharp jab that covered the distance to Roman’s chest in half a second. It slammed against his musculature with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs. With the other hand he seized the pistol out of the man’s hand, using the fact that he was winded to his advantage.

  He sprang off the bench and aimed the gun at the man sitting before him.

  A wry smile crept across Roman’s features. ‘Thought that might happen.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Not your concern.’

  Roman got off the bench, coughing violently. King took the opportunity to study the make of the gun in his hands. It was a double-action semiautomatic with an exposed hammer. It seemed to hold 9mm rounds, although he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t ascertain the exact model. Probably a local firearm, manufactured somewhere in Venezuela.

  Therefore exclusive only to those with inside connections.

  ‘Where’d you get this?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a Zamorana. Made in-country. We’re supplied by CAVIM factory.’

  ‘A military factory?’

  Roman nodded.

  ‘So how do you have access to it?’

  ‘Friends in high places.’

  The cell had become eerily quiet. Every man in the room watched with fascination. Roman turned his back and walked away, heading for the door. King let him go. There was nothing else he could do. As if on cue, the same policeman who’d demanded one thousand bolivares reappeared. He unlocked the gate and let Roman through without a second glance.

  The pair exchanged a knowing nod and the door clicked shut behind them. Before Roman left, he turned and peered through the bars at King.

  ‘You can put that gun down now,’ he said. ‘Won’t do you any favours after I leave.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ King said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You’re interfering with things you don’t want any part of,’ Roman said. ‘Should have stayed out of them while you had the chance.’

  With that he turned and left with the policeman. They spoke softly as they went, exchanging information. Clearly the entire thing had been a setup. Roman had never been a prisoner. He’d been inserted into the cell in an attempt to extract information from King. The relentless questions and constant probing had soon become suspicious.

  And now he was gone.

  King tossed the Zamorana pistol under the cell bars with grim resignation. It skittered away and came to rest on the other side of the hallway. There was no use holding onto it. It would only invite trouble. He couldn’t imagine Tomás being lenient if he discovered King was armed.

  He sat back down on the same bench, now alone. His cellmates studied him like he was an exhibition at the zoo. Peering in fascination, puzzled by the complicated chain of events. Their drug-addled minds would struggle to comprehend what had happened.
In their eyes, a man had just walked free without repercussion.

  King closed his eyes in an attempt to dull a pounding headache that had sprouted to life. He sighed. It seemed trouble was destined to follow him wherever he went. He didn’t know who had him falsely arrested, or why, but he was certainly not who they thought he was.

  You’ll never escape it.

  Violence and death and chaos.

  All he’d ever known, and seemingly all he would continue to know. Especially if Tomás kept his word of transferring him to prison without a trial. He’d heard the horror stories of Venezuelan prisons and began to regret ever stepping foot in the country.

  Gang wars. Drugs. Stabbings. Shootings.

  The system was a nightmare. If he ended up in its bowels, he doubted he would ever escape. Suddenly it dawned on him that no-one on the planet knew his location.

  Ten years of work for Black Force had taken their toll. It was a classified secret project by officials at the very top of the food chain in the United States military. All of it kept off the books. All of it accompanied by handsome financial compensation. All of it death-defying insanity.

  King had lost count years ago of the number of times he’d narrowly avoided death. They’d sent him into war-torn wastelands, put him up against ruthless cartels, used him as a one-man hostage extraction team. The memories had blurred together into a relentless barrage of warfare that visited him almost every night.

  So he’d retired.

  After an eventful stint in the countryside of Australia, he’d travelled slowly through Europe, healing up, enjoying life. Two months later he was in the state of Vargas. He’d seen a pamphlet outside a travel agency and decided to fly here on a whim.

  He’d never been to Venezuela.

  It meant he’d arrived with zero possessions. In an attempt to escape his past life he’d made himself uncontactable. No phone. No-one had been informed of his location prior to the trip. There wasn’t a soul on the planet who knew where Jason King was.

  He should have known better.

  The sound of the steel door grating open brought him back to the present. He opened his eyes and saw Tomás stride into view, pausing on the other side of the bars. He made eye contact with King and his features twisted into a grotesque smile. King stared back. His stomach tightened. He knew the worst had yet to come.

  By far.

  ‘We’ve processed you,’ Tomás said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Time for a change of scenery.’

  ‘I’m getting a trial?’

  ‘You’ve had your trial. You’re guilty.’

  King didn’t respond. With two sentences the policeman had condemned him to a lifetime inside one of Vargas’ hellholes. Just like that. No official processes. Not a shred of diplomacy. Nothing but a quick trip to the nearest prison and a lifetime of suffering.

  ‘This is beyond illegal,’ he said.

  Tomás just laughed. ‘We determine what’s legal and illegal.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You’re being transferred to El Infierno. You’ve been sentenced to life.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Oh, I’d be angry too. Nothing you can do about it though.’

  Tomás turned on his heel and disappeared from sight. None of the cellmates spoke English but they seemed to notice King’s change in demeanour. A quiet fury. Rage behind his eyes.

  Someone would pay for what had happened to him.

  CHAPTER 9

  They came for him at mid-morning.

  The hours between Tomás’ departure and their arrival later that day passed in absolute silence. King didn’t open his mouth the entire time. At one point, one cellmate got a little too curious. The man scurried over to him, wide-eyed, still high on something. He prodded at him with a single finger. King lashed out, throwing a punch but deliberately missing. It scared the man away into the corner.

  As he sat he mulled over what options he had. If he managed to get to a phone he could contact old friends from the military who would tear any prison apart to get him out. But he imagined he would not get the chance to. Tomás seemed good at his job, and his job entailed keeping King locked up, for reasons still undetermined.

  Four policemen entered the hallway at once, weapons raised, pointing them into the cell. Tomás led the group. He unlocked the cell and beckoned for King to come with them.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said.

  ‘What if I don’t move?’

  ‘We’ll beat you to death.’

  King nodded and rose. He knew they wouldn’t be able to touch him, but if he fought back one of them would get a shot off. It was useless to bother trying. He stepped out into the corridor, leaving the filthy cell behind. His cellmates watched him leave with a mixture of confusion and anger. Perhaps they thought he was an ally to the four men standing before him.

  He certainly wasn’t.

  They handcuffed him again and marched him back the way he had come the previous day.

  ‘How do you get away with this?’ King said.

  Tomás shoved a hand in his back. ‘Don’t talk.’

  ‘I’ll talk if I want to.’

  The butt of the man’s rifle struck him in the abdomen, sending a flare of pain up his torso. It hurt, but he didn’t let it show. He stayed upright. Masked the burning sensation in his ribs. Stared at Tomás with bemusement.

  ‘That was cute,’ he said.

  It angered Tomás. The man had put a considerable amount of force into the swing in an attempt to send a message. Any other victim would have crumbled.

  King made it look like the blow hadn’t bothered him in the slightest.

  Tomás wrapped a hand around the back of his collar and quickened his pace. They exited the police station almost exactly twenty-four hours after entering it. The congregation of officers led him to the same van that had brought him from Diamanté. They threw him in the back. A pair of them followed him in and the other two entered the driver’s compartment. Tomás drove.

  As they tore away from the station, King considered Roman’s involvement. The man had been working for whoever was responsible for his arrest, that much was certain. Perhaps it had something to do with the three thugs he’d beat down in the alley. Perhaps he had messed with the wrong people. A gang with inside connections in the law enforcement system, throwing him in prison to send a message — that they were not to be fucked with.

  But that made no sense. Such an elaborate procedure would be far more time-consuming than a simple bullet to the back of the head. If these people had such a widespread reach, it would not have been difficult to kill him. No, they wanted information. Roman had been loaded to the gills with questions, determined to try and snatch an answer out of him before he wised up to the man’s true identity.

  An answer he did not have.

  There was more to this. He was sure of it. But as the van rattled and shook, bouncing over potholed roads towards prison, King figured he may never find out what that may be.

  They screeched to a halt after a twenty-minute journey. The doors opened and King stepped down onto dusty earth, an officer’s hand wrapped around each arm to ensure he didn’t make a break for it. They had parked in an empty lot without another car in sight. Tomás rounded the van’s side and came face-to-face with King. He was smiling.

  ‘Welcome to your new home,’ he said, gesturing at the massive structure before them.

  From their position it was impossible to tell how large the prison truly was. King stared up at an enormous rectangular building, made of a haphazard amalgamation of brick and metal. Guard towers were positioned along the length of the structure, towering over everything else, complete with glass windows running the entire diameter. Reinforced, he assumed. Bulletproof. The top of the building had been coated seemingly at random with hordes of barbed wire. Bars ran along the windows facing out onto the street they stood on.

  ‘This is it?’ King said.

  Tomás laughed. ‘This is one side.
It’s a square, my friend. The prison’s in the middle.’

  The sheer size of the place dawned on King. This long building acted as one wall of the prison, clearly guarded around the clock. From here, it seemed impenetrable.

  King guessed he would not be breaking out anytime soon.

  One of the battered steel doors on the ground floor opened and a prison guard stepped out onto open ground. He was tall and wiry, dressed in an official-looking uniform. His wide eyes flicked over the group and came to rest on King.

  ‘There he is!’ he cried. His English seemed good, despite a thick Spanish accent. ‘The American pig!’

  King noticed the holster at his waist contained a pistol. He looked like he knew how to use it.

  ‘I’m Rico,’ the man said, approaching Tomás with an outstretched hand. ‘I’ll be looking after this guy for his stay here.’

  Tomás clasped his hand and exchanged a look with Rico. ‘He’s all yours.’

  ‘How long will you be looking after me for?’ King said.

  Rico turned. ‘The rest of your life, gringo. Which I’d say won’t be long. They don’t like foreigners in here.’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll like me.’

  Rico cocked his head. ‘Tough guy, huh? You haven’t seen a prison like this before.’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘No you won’t.’ The man turned to Tomás. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  The policeman nodded and signalled for his men to return to the van. As he walked off, he took a final glance at King.

  ‘Hope they make life hell for you, American,’ he said.

  ‘You’d better hope I die in here,’ King said.

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘You know why.’

  He shut his mouth and refused to elaborate. Inside he seethed with rage, yet he did not let it show. Tomás scowled and climbed back into the van. Ten seconds later its wheels spun and it peeled away from the prison. In a cloud of dust it crawled back down the narrow entrance path and exited onto a cracked asphalt road.

  King stood in the dusty parking lot and watched, his hands cuffed firmly behind his back. He felt Rico’s eyes on him.