Hunters

by Matt Rogers

  Violetta said, ‘That’s it, then. Our house is gone.’

  ‘“House,”’ King said. ‘It wasn’t home to you, was it?’

  She paused, thinking with her eyes closed. ‘It didn’t feel like it. We bought it quickly. Alexis put her heart and soul into the interior design, but there was still … something missing. Do you get me?’

  ‘I get you.’

  She lifted her eyes to meet his. ‘You felt the same?’

  ‘That’s how I feel everywhere,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the idea of a “forever home.” Not after the way I’ve lived. You need to be ready to do what we just did. Abandon every shred of material possessions and flee. I’ve done it before this. So many times. I guess that’s conditioned me…’

  She didn’t respond. She recognised he needed time to process it, sort out the mess in his head.

  Finally he said, ‘I think it’ll be different when the baby’s here. I’ll raise him right. We’ll raise him right.’

  ‘Have you thought of a name?’

  ‘No. Not yet. You?’

  ‘A few ideas. But they’re just that. Ideas.’

  ‘Let me hear them.’

  ‘Later,’ she mumbled, her blonde hair trailing down his arm as she settled into a comfortable position against his shoulder. ‘I’m exhausted.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘It’s hard to tell with you,’ she said. ‘You hide it well.’

  ‘I hide everything well.’

  She smirked, her eyes still closed. ‘I think maybe I’ve cracked through that tough exterior.’

  ‘You think?’ he said.

  He bent down and gently kissed her on the lips, then wrapped his arm around her so she could sleep. He realised it didn’t matter what they’d left behind. Cars, houses, clothes … there was always an identical twin you could replace it with. There was no other Violetta. No other unborn child.

  He hadn’t given the burned estate a second thought, but he would die for those he loved.

  Externals were replaceable. Internals were everything.

  Most of King’s life had encompassed his own interior. His body, his mind, his health, his fitness, his combat readiness, his firearms skills, his discipline, his psychological invincibility. He’d honed his mind into something to be reckoned with, and he’d taken that concept to the extreme because he’d been a solo operative most of his official career.

  Now, he realised, looking past Violetta to the next row, it encompassed three other people, and a fourth growing inside Violetta that trumped them all.

  Outside of Violetta, Slater, and Alexis, nothing in life mattered. They could be thrust into any situation and as long as they were with each other it’d all be okay.

  He thought he understood true freedom for the first time.

  He ruminated on that thought for most of the flight, then they descended into El Salvador and everything went to hell.

  47

  The landing was smooth, the wheels touching the tarmac with little more than a soft bump. No all-encompassing roar of engines, no shaking or rattling. The interior remained quiet.

  Slater sat up a little straighter, on edge.

  The plane taxied down the runway as the engines powered down.

  It slowed faster than normal.

  None of the scattered passengers looked around in confusion. Slater did. He pressed his face to the thick window pane, trying to get a better angle on what lay ahead. He couldn’t see anything.

  The plane coasted slower and slower until it came to a halt.

  They were nowhere near the terminal.

  Slater said, ‘Get up.’

  Alexis turned her head. ‘What?’

  ‘We need to move.’

  ‘Move?’

  She was confused, but she reacted instantaneously. She trusted his gut as much as he did himself. She unbuckled her seatbelt and stood up in the aisle.

  A flight attendant called out. ‘Ma’am, sit down, please.’

  Violetta and King were already on their feet.

  Slater stared out the window one final time. He thought he caught a flash of something going underneath the plane.

  A vehicle.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  The flight attendant raised her voice. ‘Ma’am! Sir!’

  The seatbelt sign flicked off with a soft gong.

  Every passenger on the plane reacted at once.

  There were roughly two dozen of them, and all their heads disappeared at once. Slater just managed to see it as he stood up, bringing his line of sight over the seat back in front of him. Had they vanished into thin air? He reeled, nearly off-balance from confusion. Was his concussion screwing with his sense of reality?

  But, no. They were still there. All twenty-plus people on the plane had reacted to the gong, like a signal. They’d squashed themselves down into their meagre footwells, shielding themselves from involvement in whatever came next.

  They were decoy passengers.

  The flight was a trap.

  King hadn’t reacted.

  Slater said, ‘Why aren’t you moving?’

  King’s face was a grimace of despair. ‘They were ahead of us. They planned this. Alonzo’s gesture was useless.’

  Chaotic movement up front. Big bodies aggressively storming the front of the plane, already on board. Slater made out the distinct uniform of the Armed Forces of El Salvador. Soldiers brandishing automatic weapons — huge, fearsome carbine rifles — and ready to use them.

  Game over.

  48

  King took in the situation and felt his stomach knot.

  Beside him, Slater whispered, ‘What now?’

  King was a realist. There was a time for hopeful optimism, but this wasn’t it. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘What do you propose we do?’

  It was a straight line from the front of the plane to the back. The decoy passengers that had been swapped out for the real ones before they got on the plane were skewered out of sight, having been told what to do long before they landed. King knew he couldn’t take a hostage. He was weaponless anyway. So was Slater, and Violetta, and Alexis.

  This was all a setup, to get them into custody as smoothly and uneventfully as possible.

  Then they could be extradited with a single phone call, and handed right back to the secret world they’d fled from.

  The soldiers moved down the aisle in a single-file phalanx. They were a human wall of physical mass, and that wasn’t taking into account the weapons. The carbine up front was aimed directly at King and Slater’s heads, and there were plenty more where they came from. Looking at the shuffling bodies, King estimated that more than ten soldiers had boarded the plane.

  Alexis said, ‘Will?’

  King sensed Slater calculating. Could they flee to the back of the plane, take the flight attendant hostage with their bare hands, use that threat to disembark and then run for their lives?

  No, King knew. No, we can’t. We’ll go down in a hail of gunfire. We’ll all die. The four of us, and the baby.

  King said, ‘We need to bide our time.’

  The soldiers up front screamed in Spanish. King could speak the language competently, and he knew they were all being commanded not to move.

  If they tried anything…

  Slater muttered, ‘How many attendants up the back?’

  ‘No,’ King hissed.

  Violetta said, ‘Will, no.’

  Slater was taut as steel. King felt the aggression rippling off him.

  He was a bull, hovering with indecision, ready to explode.

  Then Slater bent down slowly, giving himself a fresh line of sight out the window. King followed his gaze and noticed the plane was surrounded by army trucks.

  Slater stood up, exhaled, and slowly raised his hands. ‘We’ll find a way out of this.’

  ‘I know,’ King said. ‘Just not now.’

  Slater nodded.

  Relief flooded King. At least they wouldn’t d
ie in a blaze of glory. At least they had a chance to—

  The big man up front reached out and grabbed him.

  Violetta shouted, ‘I’m pregnant!’

  With credit to El Salvador’s military, the soldier that shouldered through to cuff her did so with restraint, making sure not to throw her into one of the hard seat backs and risk killing her child.

  It wasn’t the case for King and Slater.

  The man up front spun King around and shoved him hard, throwing him off his feet so he sprawled across an empty row of seats. The armrests dug painfully into his ribs as another soldier piled in and they wrenched his arms behind his back, slapping cuffs on. Based on the grunts coming from the next row, Slater was getting the same treatment. Alexis let out a sharp exhale as they cuffed her, too, then they dragged their hostages back the way they’d come.

  King never panicked in the field. It was useless and achieved nothing of note.

  This time, though, he had to force the sensations down harder than usual.

  This time, he feared they might have reached the end of the road.

  49

  King tried not to let his surroundings get to him, but it was close to impossible.

  The chair he sat on was cold metal, as was the table in front of him. There was another chair on the other side of the table, and that was the extent of the room’s decorations. One wall was a giant mirror, clearly one-way, and the other three walls were white brick. It was artificially cold, to the extent that he had to roll his shoulders and flex his hands to stay warm, but he guessed that was intentional. Every aspect of the interrogation room was designed to make detainees uncomfortable.

  He couldn’t let it seep in. If it affected his mindset, it was as good as over.

  Most opportunities pass people by because they’re too distracted or stressed to notice them. King was aware of that, and knew the only way he’d get out of this place alive was to stay composed and wait for an opportunity to strike.

  He had no idea where he was — the soldiers had hooded him as soon as they’d disembarked the plane and didn’t remove the rough sack until they were inside this room. He’d tried to time the drive from the airport. It was in the vicinity of thirty minutes. That tidbit didn’t help at all.

  King’s wrists were chained individually to bolts on the table. The table in turn was bolted to the concrete floor. His bad arm was almost completely numb from the awkward positioning. He could see his damaged forearm muscle spasming, laid out horizontally on the table.

  The door opened and an unarmed man in a cheap shirt and pants came in.

  He was pencil-thin with a thick moustache and a politician’s haircut — black locks parted and slicked to one side with not a hair out of place. His nose was slightly crooked, perhaps from a misalignment when repositioning a past break, but that was the only feature of note about him. He had the distinct aura of an intelligence official. Instead of flicking through documents as he entered, he tapped away at his smartphone, like his prisoner didn’t exist.

  He sat down opposite King, and when he spoke his English was perfect. ‘I need to know whether you’re going to give me the silent treatment or not. If you are, then I’m wasting my time here.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  A hint of a smile tickled the man’s lips. ‘Good. Very good. Do you understand the situation you’re in?’

  ‘I think I have a grasp on it. Where are my friends?’

  ‘“Friends”? Do you mean your terrorist accomplice, your girlfriend, and his girlfriend?’

  King stared. ‘By that logic we’re all terrorists.’

  The moustache wobbled as the man threw his hands in the air. ‘You’re doing my job for me.’

  ‘Am I?’ King said. ‘You really needed me to incriminate myself, did you?’

  ‘It was a joke. I don’t need anything from you. You’ll be back in the hands of the country you fled before the sun rises.’

  ‘So then what are you doing here?’

  ‘Have you been to our beautiful country before?’

  King didn’t answer. Didn’t give anything away.

  The man asked, ‘How old do you think I am?’

  ‘Forty?’

  ‘Fifty-four. Good genetics — I’ve got my parents to thank for that. So I’ve been in my role a long time. Sixteen years ago, I was doing the same thing I’m doing now. You know what that means?’

  King shrugged. ‘That career progression isn’t your strong suit?’

  No response to that.

  The man’s eyes were about to narrow at the insult, but he stopped himself short, refusing to allow King the minor victory. ‘Sixteen years ago, a man fitting your exact description went on a murder spree here in El Salvador. By its conclusion, six elected officials were dead. Brutally killed, the lot of them. The resulting political fallout was uniquely favourable for America. In its aftermath, they formed new deals with us. We were damaged, reeling, and we accepted. We, as your people would say, got the short end of the stick.’

  ‘We have different definitions of “elected,”’ King said.

  ‘Is that an admission of guilt?’

  ‘I think you should get to the point.’

  ‘Your government demanded we apprehend you today, and when we asked why, they were forced to reveal certain details about what you and your accomplices used to do. So I’ll only ask you this once. Did you or did you not serve as a black operative for the U.S. government sixteen years ago?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And did you kill those officials?’

  The early days. Pioneering Black Force, blazing a trail of destruction through the criminal underworld, taking no prisoners, moving from one operation to the next with relentless fury.

  ‘I don’t know anything about deals,’ King said. ‘What I do remember is the underage American girl who got swept up in their trafficking ring. I saw her body.’

  ‘I’m sure you saw a lot of bodies.’

  ‘I’m not sure if you’ve come to your point yet.’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ the man said with a treacherous grin. ‘I just wanted to be sure it was you.’

  ‘And now you’re handing me back to the people who told me to kill those officials,’ King said. ‘Simply because they asked. That’s a spineless move. That’s weak.’

  The man’s face turned to stone.

  King pressed on. ‘You should keep me here. Myself and my accomplices. Make us pay for the sins of the past.’

  There was hope there. If they remained in El Salvador, they might be thrown in a civilian jail to await a show trial, the outcome of which had already been decided. There was a better chance of escape than if America got their hands on them.

  The moustache didn’t waver. The thin face was devoid of emotion.

  King said, ‘I enjoyed what I did to your countrymen.’

  Silence.

  I have him, King thought.

  Maybe, just maybe, they had a shot.

  50

  There was dark fury behind the interrogator’s eyes.

  Indescribable anger.

  Then it faded. All the emotion disappeared like it had never existed in the first place and the man burst out laughing.

  King rocked back in his chair, stunned.

  The guy slapped his thighs as he stood up, shaking his head in glee.

  King’s voice came out low and concerned. ‘What is this?’

  ‘This is me fucking with you!’ the guy said, much louder, almost shouting. ‘You truly thought I’d keep you here? Disobey orders? No, I wanted to see the hope in your eyes. What did you think? That you’d be thrown in the prison system with the other scum and have the opportunity to get out? Silly, silly child. Yes, Jason, that is exactly what I’m going to do, now that you ask. I’ll hand you back to your country and keep my lips sealed no matter what indignity I might feel. I happen to know how angry they are with you. I didn’t climb my way out of the barrio by being stupid. When you need to stand down, you stand down. It tak
es a smart man to recognise his limitations. Maybe it would feel better to keep you here, see you suffer in the flesh, but that would make us too many enemies. No matter how much I despise your country, I have faith they’ll make you pay for what you’ve done to them.’

  He went to the door, opened it, and looked back. ‘That’s satisfaction enough for me.’

  He stepped out and slammed the door shut.

  King slumped forward.

  If he could put his head in his hands, he would have, but those hands were chained in restraints.

  It felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut. It was hard to breathe.

  That’s it, he thought. Nothing you can do now.

  The familiar reminders returned. Focus on what you can control. Let go of anything you can’t. There will be a way out of this. A split second’s opportunity. There must be.

  His ears picked up something.

  Faint. Barely audible. Coming from the other side of the steel door.

  Muffled shouting.

  He tensed up in his chair, ready to fight for his life, trying to dump as much adrenaline in his system as he could. But as he strained to hear, his morale dissipated. It wasn’t a physical confrontation. Slater hadn’t escaped. It was bureaucratic in nature, pleading and whining mixed in with the yelling.

  Then cold quiet.

  A moment passed, then another.

  The door swung back open. The same interrogator was standing there. He appeared even thinner now, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his face a mask of quiet desperation. Someone had ordered him to do something he really didn’t want to do.

  The interrogator shuffled over to the table, produced a key from his inside jacket pocket, and unlocked King’s restraints.

  King was frozen in disbelief.

  The man’s voice was defeated as he muttered, ‘You’ve got powerful friends?’

  King hesitated. ‘I don’t think so.’

  The man gave a helpless shrug, like it didn’t matter one way or the other what King thought.