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

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘You concerned about me all of a sudden?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m touched,’ he said, his tone mocking. ‘But first you have to hit me.’

  King yanked the fingerless mixed-martial-arts gloves over his meaty fingers and tightened the straps around his wrists. He breathed in and out, charging his muscles with oxygen to recover from the gruelling wrestling session. Even though he’d arrived in the Congo in peak physical condition, the relentless schedule had worn him down like nothing else.

  Brody seemingly didn’t rest, giving King barely enough time to catch his breath before powering into another drill. Despite that, he had the rare knack of understanding exactly where King’s breaking points rested, as well as possessing a clear understanding of the most technologically advanced forms of recovery. Hence the electrolytes and the compression pads and the nameless white pills he slid over the kitchen countertop at breakfast every morning.

  King didn’t ask what was in them.

  Some things were better left unsaid.

  He found himself thankful that the world of black operations felt no need to test for performance enhancing drugs.

  So as he shot to his feet and peeled his rash guard off, revealing an upper body that belonged on the front cover of a fitness magazine, he realised the non-stop training hadn’t taken as much of a toll on him as he’d initially feared.

  And it had been a full week now.

  Already, he felt different.

  He rippled with energy. The raw strength and power — as well as a healthy dose of technique — had already been there. By highlighting certain points of leverage, laying out the finer details and drilling expert combinations relentlessly, Brody had already set about forging King into an unstoppable force.

  The next level.

  The man himself swayed gracefully on the grappling mats, his toes sinking into the tatami-textured vinyl. ‘Ready when you are.’

  ‘One minute?’

  ‘One minute.’

  Before Brody had even finished uttering the last syllable King threw a jumping straight right, spearing across the narrow gap between them, his padded fist whistling through the air with an urgency he hadn’t felt before. Brody darted backwards, exploding off the mark as his chin whistled out of harm’s way. King mimed a left handed jab and threw the right like a whip, cracking it through the air only a couple of inches from the bridge of Brody’s nose.

  Brody adjusted with the grace of an elite mixed martial artist, sidestepping left and lurching back at the waist with every movement pinpoint accurate, as precise as one could be.

  Then it happened.

  Something shifted deep inside King and he sensed an opening he previously hadn’t noticed — he’d never possessed the mental sharpness or clarity to gain a window of opportunity against a combatant as skilled as Brody. In full combat mode, he couldn’t quite pull himself back in time. He hammered a left handed punch like a jackknife, a roundabout sweeping hook that sliced through the air towards Brody’s chin.

  It connected.

  The impact omitted a wet smack and sweat droplets sprayed in every direction at once, eerily similar to the slow-motion videos King had seen of a water balloon bursting. Brody’s head twisted, following the trajectory of his jaw, and all his limbs slackened simultaneously.

  The punch dropped him where he stood.

  It shook King for the half-second of hesitation necessary to make catching him impossible.

  Brody hit the foam mat and the back of his head cracked mercilessly off the vinyl covering.

  He lay still.

  King had enough combat experience to know that he hadn’t killed the man. Up close, knockouts looked vicious and barbaric, and the added weight of standing in a controlled environment struck fear through King’s chest. In the field, he always ended up wishing his adversary would never wake up from the knockout punch.

  Here, he had never been more fearful of a knockout turning permanent.

  He went through the practiced motions, kneeling down by Brody’s unconscious body and turning his head gently to the side to prevent him choking on his own tongue. In the movies, the hero hit a guy and he went to sleep for an hour. King knew how real life worked. Five seconds later Brody’s glassy eyes sparkled with electricity and he started to wake up, staring blankly around the warehouse in apparent confusion.

  ‘You’re alright,’ King muttered. ‘You’re fine. There we go. Breathe.’

  He snatched up the nearest water bottle strewn across the sweaty mats and poured a dose of cold liquid over Brody’s face. The man blinked hard, still silent, breathing deep. His shoulders slumped as he started to realise what had happened, and in that moment King was struck by the intense vulnerability in the man’s eyes. He had been knocked unconscious by a man twenty years his younger. He was no doubt facing the same power dynamic King had felt upon arrival.

  Brody was no longer invincible.

  ‘Come on, buddy,’ King said. ‘Up you get. Sit up.’

  Uncharacteristically quiet, Brody levered himself into a seated position and wrapped his hands around his knees, tucking them into his chest. He kept blinking, every now and then turning to stare out through the open warehouse door at Lake Kivu twisting away into the horizon.

  ‘Fuck,’ was all he could manage to blurt out. ‘That hasn’t happened in a while.’

  ‘Gave you a scare?’

  ‘You bet. I don’t remember the punch connecting. You were swinging at me and now I’m here.’

  ‘I know how it feels.’

  ‘You okay?’

  King cocked his head. ‘Of course. Fuck, that scared me though.’

  ‘Scared you?’

  ‘Thought you were dead for a second.’

  Brody smirked. ‘You would have had some explaining to do, hey?’

  King let out the breath that had caught in his lungs for the past sixty seconds and dropped to the floor alongside Brody. ‘Jesus Christ, brother. What kind of mad business are we in?’

  They both studied the Congolese sun twinkling off the lake outside.

  A poignant silence hung in the air.

  17

  Lars Crawford couldn’t believe what he was doing.

  He strode through plush corridors, ignoring his surroundings despite their regality, largely oblivious to the disjointed stream of officials moving silently past him, some of them casting inquisitive glances in his direction.

  He didn’t visit the White House often. His work simply didn’t demand it. He ordinarily worked off-the-grid, at some of the more secret locations in Washington D.C.

  Nondescript industrial sites and windowless rooms.

  Black operations demanded it.

  He didn’t exist.

  Except for when he did.

  Now he moved with purpose through the halls. There’d been no trouble getting in — he had his credentials to thank for that — but all the same he considered the trip an extraordinary waste of time.

  At least this would be the last time he would have to think about Rex Bernardi for the immediate future.

  The man himself was waiting patiently in one of the sitting rooms. Lars entered without knocking, finding Bernardi sitting with as rigid a posture as ever in one of the broad leather couches. The man made no attempt to rise to greet Lars, instead flashing a warm smile. Lars ignored it and dropped down in the couch opposite.

  They were the only pair in the room.

  ‘Rex,’ he said. ‘I hope you understand the risks your stubbornness has created.’

  ‘You really don’t like me, do you?’

  ‘I think you’re making the most unnecessary demands in human history.’

  ‘That’s a bit of a stretch.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s needlessly creating problems.’

  ‘What kind of problems?’

  ‘Your safety has to be taken into account.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you can. W
e don’t need to go into your military history. But the Democratic Republic of the Congo doesn’t care who you are. It’ll put a bullet in you all the same.’

  ‘You’re being awfully dramatic.’

  ‘If you die over there — and I’m not saying it’s likely to happen — I’ll have my head on the chopping block. I’m the one having to assure everyone that you’re going to be okay. That you’re a big boy who can make their own decisions.’

  ‘Jesus, Lars, I’m not even working under public scrutiny anymore. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘It won’t if anything happens to you. You’re famous enough to draw attention if your body turns up.’

  ‘The Congo’s not that barbaric. Yes, there’s a civil war, but I can visit for a few days without incident. Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I hope you can. The President just gave you the green light.’

  ‘I’m clear?’

  ‘You’re clear.’

  ‘I hope you know how much this means to me.’

  ‘I know. I’m not sure if I understand, but I know.’

  ‘Thank you, Lars.’

  ‘Good seeing you, Rex. Your flight leaves in four days.’

  ‘Four days?’

  Lars sighed. ‘Come on, Bernardi. I can’t hold your hand. Apparently you have some business to attend to before then. President’s orders that you stay a few days.’

  Rex paused. ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’

  ‘You’re new to this world, aren’t you?’

  ‘Relatively. It’s a little different to what I’m used to.’

  ‘Get used to it. And keep your head down in the Congo. Brody Hartman’s been instructed to bring King to Kisangani to meet you the day after you land. Don’t go causing trouble.’

  ‘Never,’ Rex said. ‘I just want to meet him.’

  ‘Well, best of luck with that.’

  He left Rex Bernardi in the sitting room without bothering to wish him farewell. He surged off the couch and ducked straight back out into the hallway, a million things on his mind, none of them good.

  18

  Training had concluded for the day, and the brilliant sunset washed a pale orange glow over the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Usually at the day’s end King retreated straight to the privacy of his bedroom, determined to soak up every last ounce of rest he had available. But today had consisted of relatively few drills — most of the time after Brody’s concussion had been spent making sure the man was devoid of any grievous symptoms.

  Now they sat side by side at the very edge of the warehouse’s interior, the giant roller door hanging far above their heads, beers in their hands.

  A serene setting, all things considered.

  They watched darkness fall over the terrain, allowing a long period of silence to settle over their surroundings. Neither felt the need to speak unnecessarily, instead savouring the view. King had no qualms keeping his mouth shut for an extended period of time, but Brody was a natural loudmouth — he figured the man had few opportunities to talk with acquaintances. It was a solitary life out here.

  Just what the man wanted.

  ‘How you feeling?’ King said, breaking the quiet as dusk fell over the Congo.

  ‘Fine,’ Brody admitted. ‘Bit of a headache, but nothing I haven’t felt before.’

  ‘Are you worried?’

  ‘About?’

  ‘The concussion.’

  ‘I guess. I prefer not to think about it. Add it to the list of knocks I’ve taken over my life.’

  ‘That’s not good, Brody.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was.’

  ‘Then why are you so calm?’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Panic? Scream and shout and run laps of the compound until I’m blue in the face?’

  ‘I just—’

  Brody turned to stare at him. ‘Don’t let this take away from the fact that you hit me.’

  ‘I wish I didn’t.’

  Brody shook his head. ‘I don’t get hit. Ever. You’re learning faster than I could have imagined. So look at it from that perspective. An old has-been took another dose of trauma to the skull, but it unlocked a world of opportunity for his underling.’

  ‘That’s how you’re looking at it?’

  ‘Makes me feel a bit better about being punched unconscious. It’s a valid point, though.’

  King paused, letting calm return, composing his thoughts. There were pressing issues on his mind, ones that he was keen to address. He simply didn’t know how to formulate the right words.

  ‘Something’s on your mind,’ Brody finally said. ‘You scrambled my brain but even I’m not that oblivious. What’s up?’

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ King said. ‘Coming all the way out here, and doing … nothing. You said you don’t leave this compound. A man of your abilities. Don’t you want to help … you know … out there?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I don’t buy it. There’s something else.’

  ‘I tried making friends out there. It didn’t work out.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I came here.’

  ‘How long have you been in the Congo?’

  ‘Three years.’

  ‘Something happened, didn’t it?’

  Brody gazed vacantly at the horizon. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Did you get yourself beat up?’ King said, even though he considered that idea as likely as Brody running into aliens.

  ‘I met a woman.’

  King soaked in the revelation. He became acutely aware of the emptiness of the compound, the sheer isolation, the lack of humanity for miles around, whichever way you looked. ‘Met?’

  ‘Samantha. She’s not with us anymore.’

  ‘That’s why you don’t leave? You’re intimidated?’

  Brody offered a sad smile, still looking out at Lake Kivu, rolling the long-necked bottle in tight semi-circles through the air.

  ‘She was an aid worker. Stunningly beautiful. About my age. She spoke a bit of English — she was Spanish. She’d come over here to help the rural villages, to support their infrastructure and teach their leaders some survival tactics. The Congo is a brutal place if you’re not prepared. She was trying to do good.’

  King didn’t respond, letting Brody pause until he felt it prudent to continue.

  ‘I met her on a day trip. I’d often go out and speed around the rural trails, never really sure where I was going or what I was doing. I had a lot of demons from my career. Then I met her, and the day trips started becoming less frequent. She’d come visit me, here. I was happy.’

  ‘She got killed?’

  Brody shrugged, tears in his eyes. ‘Little more sadistic than that. You need to spend a considerable amount of time here to understand. The Congo is … a horrifying place. Whole villages just get wiped out, and no-one notices. Another few tally marks on the daily death toll. Means nothing. I took a short day trip into the village she was assisting and found thirty corpses thrown across the road. Like kids’ toys. She was in there…’

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘I never went looking.’

  ‘You could have found them.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that. There hadn’t been much of a fight. Just a slaughter. All of them mowed down in the streets, and in their huts.’

  ‘Anyone investigate?’

  Brody bowed his head. ‘You don’t know the Congo.’

  ‘Lars said something about fifty thousand deaths per month.’

  ‘Something like that. No-one’s ever held accountable.’

  ‘There can’t be too many outfits with weaponry capable of conducting a slaughter. Not like that.’

  ‘They were expensive rounds,’ Brody said, his voice quiet. ‘I checked. I always had my suspicions — a month later construction started in the area. An expansion for the open-pit mines just north of here. They needed access to the land. They probably thought it was the easiest way…’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘I know what happened.’
/>
  ‘They’re only a few miles from here, Brody. Go get your revenge, for fuck’s sakes…’

  Brody reared upright and lashed out, seizing King by the shoulder, staring into his eyes with boiling rage locked away, compartmentalised in his head. King could see it, stewing just under the surface. ‘How? How will I know who did it? I’d have to tear through those mines without a conscience. I’d have to torture and kill to get to the truth. Then I’m no better than anyone out here. I’m a guy with a hunch who’s adding to the death toll. No. I’m not going on some kind of personal crusade. When I saw her body it … emptied something out of me. I gave up. Now I stay here and I train and I enjoy the view. And everyone out there can tear each other limb from limb for all I care. I have no attachment to it. I don’t care…’

  ‘That’s not healthy, Brody.’

  ‘You’re going to face the same thing soon enough,’ Brody said. ‘You’re going to realise what you can do with your strength and your anger and you’re either going to learn to control yourself or find yourself standing over a dozen bodies, wondering how you ended up like this. Choose wisely, King.’

  He took a final swig of the beer and left it sitting on the dusty concrete just inside the warehouse entrance. He stretched his limbs, glanced once at King, then set off for the house.

  ‘Morning session tomorrow.’ His voice floated back through the night. ‘Get some rest.’

  King sipped his beer, alone with his thoughts.

  19

  Nothing tore one’s mind away from deep and pensive self-reflection like a full-contact kickboxing circuit.

  King hadn’t slept well, mulling over what Brody had told him, likening it to his own situation. More importantly, words from days ago still rang around his head. He’d drawn frightening parallels to his own career trajectory with Brody’s tales. If he continued honing himself into the ultimate black operations soldier, soaring above the talents of the ordinary recruit, at what point would he call it a day? Would he be coerced into serving the government long past his natural expiration date, much like Brody had?

  The thoughts flooded out of his mind as he hammered a three-strike combination into an ordinary heavy bag, shaped like a teardrop and omitting resounding cracks as his shinbones and fists clattered against the thick leather.