Betrayed: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 4)

by Matt Rogers

  He struggled not to panic, too many thoughts racing through his mind at once. He had to fend off the two men in the car with him, while at the same time discerning a way to escape the rapidly-sinking Audi. Pulse pounding, he saw the outline of a fist flying at his head.

  He ducked.

  Not fast enough.

  Two of the driver’s knuckles hit him in the nose, firing nerve endings across his face. In an instant, he assessed the damage. It wasn’t broken. He hadn’t heard or felt a crack.

  He fired back, dropping a fist low into the driver’s abdomen then following up with a vicious elbow — incredibly efficient in close-quarters — across the guy’s chin.

  One-two.

  Both shots landed hard enough to stun the driver. He fell back into the seat, hurt bad.

  The Audi continued to sink, its chassis groaning all around them.

  King spun and grabbed the headrest behind him, fumbling for the release button on the side of its base. He found it and yanked the headrest free from the seat. The two half-inch-thick steel poles connecting it to the seat slid free. King spun the rudimentary weapon in his hands and braced himself for whatever the man in the back decided to throw at him.

  Sure enough, the guy was furious.

  The Audi’s interior light flashed on, revealing the man in the back wore a similar balaclava to the driver. King only glimpsed the outline of the guy for a second before the sole of a boot came shooting at his face. He fell back against the dashboard with a heavy thud, avoiding the up-kick with inches to spare. The guy had thrown everything into it, a primal action with sinister intentions. King reached out and snatched his ankle, holding it in place. Then — with his free hand — he thrust the headrest down with equally vicious intent. One of the steel poles penetrated the skin, sending a thick stream of blood out of the guy’s ankle.

  He screamed again and fell away from King, riding out the waves of pain that would undoubtedly come with a badly-broken wrist and a grievous stab wound.

  The entire Audi shook around them, jolting King out of his seat. He lost his balance and fell into the footwell, arms and legs awkwardly splayed in front of him. They had hit the floor of the Nile. King didn’t know exactly how deep the river was, but from the length of the descent he couldn’t imagine it would be more than thirty feet. He felt the deep throb in his ears as they equalised to the depth.

  You can make it.

  He had to act now. The two assailants would be out of the equation for the next few seconds, giving him enough time to reach up and slam the headrest into his window. With adrenalin and power behind the swing, the two sharp poles smashed the glass in a single impact.

  Chaos unfolded.

  Water flooded in through the frame, accompanied by an explosion of noise. The Audi’s interior had muffled all sounds except for the grunts of exertion and thuds of impacting punches. Now, the water was deafening. King swore as he realised he hadn’t given himself time to get out of the footwell. A torrent of liquid punched him in the chest, throwing him back into the cramped space.

  He sucked in a final breath of air and held it.

  Patience would be key in the coming minute.

  He tried his best to control a mounting sense of claustrophobia as the water rose over his head. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think. The other two men were somewhere in the vehicle, but it would be impossible to get his hands on them now.

  Not that he needed to. He’d dealt enough damage to buy himself some time.

  Escaping was the only thing on his mind.

  When the river water finished flooding into the Audi and reached the roof, the pressure equalised. King reached out and snatched the passenger door handle. He thrust it outward, hoping for the best.

  It flew open.

  He pushed out of the footwell in one stroke, keeping his resting heart rate measured and even. His head and torso made it out of the car before a hand wrapped around his ankle.

  He kicked out hard, bubbles of air spilling from his lips, possessed by a savage intensity that he knew was necessary if he wanted to make it to the surface. The grip on his ankle loosened and he broke away, swimming out of the vehicle.

  This deep into the Nile, nothing was visible. It was difficult to get his bearings when everything had turned to darkness. He paused, treading water, refusing to let the fear get through to him. He calmly looked left and right, seeing nothing but the abyss. He gazed up and glimpsed a faint shimmer glinting off what appeared to be the surface.

  He began to swim.

  Using measured, even strokes, he ascended out of the murky depths. He didn’t care what happened to the other two. Whether they made it out or not was none of his concern — all that mattered was making it to dry land and getting back to Zamalek. A searing sensation grew stronger along the bridge of his nose and he thought he felt warm blood in front of his face. His lungs started to ache, the slightest tickle of pain intensifying into chest-pounding agony.

  He knew it was only another few feet to the surface. His surroundings were visible now, the sun breaking through the upper half of the Nile. He controlled the pain, isolating it from his mind, and then his head broke free into the Egyptian heat.

  He sucked in mouthfuls of air, stabilising his breathing. Above, two sections of the wire fence hung off the edge of the bridge where the Audi had torn through. A handful of curious civilians peered into the water below. King saw them, and they saw him. He flashed a thumbs-up and a smile, trying to dissipate the tension, hoping to make witnesses believe he was the only one in the car. Then he turned and swam for Zamalek.

  He had travelled further distances in water using just his limbs before. It would be a sizeable journey, but the SEAL training instilled in King many years ago had yet to wear off. Even in retirement, he had kept his physical fitness at a level which enabled him to take full advantage of his decade-long training regimen. The distance didn’t worry him.

  He didn’t look back, focusing instead on putting as much distance between himself and the crash site as possible. Attention was the last thing he wanted. He intended to make it to shore and disappear into the district before any witnesses could catch up to him and get more of a look at him. He imagined police would be on the bridge within the hour.

  By then, he wanted to be safe and secure in his room at the Marriott.

  He reached the shore within minutes. The swim took less time than he originally anticipated, and he clambered onto the short stretch of sand only slightly out of breath. He composed himself for a moment, water dripping off his clothing. Then he grew conscious of the traffic roaring past to his left and hurried into the tree line ahead, shielding himself from view of any inquisitive eyes.

  Once in cover, he let out a long exhale, relieving the tension.

  Situations like those never became ordinary, no matter how many times he found himself in grave danger. The uncontrollable flood of energy and the closeness to death never lost their edge. He shook off the shiver that ran down his spine and stepped out onto El Gabalaya Street, running the length of the Nile on the western side of the island.

  Ahead, an enormous mosque loomed over its surroundings, facing the river. Locals bustled around the entrance, creating a hive of activity that King happily welcomed. He noticed a sign in English labelling it the Zamalek Mosque. He crossed the street, still soaking wet, and integrated with the crowds.

  There were a handful of tourists in these parts, which he did well to blend in with. The heat coupled with the unrelenting sun dried his clothes quickly. Within minutes, there was nothing obvious to link him to the commotion on the bridge just minutes earlier.

  He had successfully avoided detection.

  He brought up a rudimentary map of Zamalek in his mind and formed what he believed to be the quickest path to the Marriott Hotel. If he was right, it would simply be a straight path along the 26th of July Corridor cutting through the heart of the district. That would lead to the other side of the island, where he thought the Marriott was
located — if he could remember correctly.

  He began the walk, touching a hand to his face to assess the damage to his nose. His quick assessment in the Audi had been correct. There was no serious damage — but it hurt like a bitch. He wiped away a small patch of blood below his nostrils and straightened himself up. A couple of Europeans chatting animatedly passed him by, and they exchanged a curt nod. He sensed no hesitation or fright from either of them.

  Hopefully, his appearance had remained respectable.

  He would need to ensure his face was unblemished by the time he was ready for a visit to the Cairo Opera House.

  CHAPTER 15

  As he approached the Cairo Marriott Hotel & Omar Khayyam Casino complex, King marvelled at the sheer scale of the building. It took him a five-minute walk through palace gardens to reach the vast lobby, but by the time he did so it had shifted from afternoon to early evening.

  At five p.m. on the dot King strode up to the Marriott, just as the sun grew close to touching the horizon and melting into dusk. Floodlights lit up around the complex, bathing the enormous hotel in a dim shade of yellow. A fountain the size of an Olympic swimming pool was situated in the courtyard out the front of the building. He passed wealthy tourists, expats, and Egyptians, all relishing in the balmy evening at one of the most luxurious destinations in Cairo. The entire complex had an air of tranquility about it, far from the tension he had experienced earlier in the day. He tried his best to acclimatise to the atmosphere — but it was impossible to shake his wariness. That was the nature of his work. There was always someone looking to tear his head off.

  He approached an Egyptian man in a suit standing behind the vast reception desk. ‘Hi.’

  The man looked up and gave a clearly false beam of joy. ‘Hello, sir! How may I be of service?’

  Always too polite, King thought. Nevertheless, the man’s English was perfect, without even the hint of an accent.

  ‘I believe I have a reservation,’ King said.

  ‘What name would that be under?’

  King paused for a second, wondering if Isla had used a false name she had yet to inform him about. Then he shrugged it off. That portion of the secret world had never been a part of his prior operations. There hadn’t been a lingering emphasis on secrecy and anonymity. He simply went in and got the job done. If he needed to change his identity down the line to avoid trouble, then so be it. Until then, he would throw caution to the wind. ‘Jason King.’

  The man nodded. ‘Yes, sir. That was booked earlier. Impeccable choice, might I add.’

  ‘Thank you,’ King said, knowing damn well that he had no say in the matter.

  ‘Only here for one night?’

  King cocked his head. Clearly Isla had faith in his ability to act quickly and efficiently. ‘That’s the plan. Is there an option to extend my stay if necessary?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Great. Hopefully it won’t be needed.’

  The man nodded curtly, not really understanding the statement. He went through the standard process of checking off forms on the flat-screen computer in front of him, before handing King a room key. ‘You’re on the sixteenth floor. Phenomenal views, might I add.’

  ‘Looking forward to it,’ King said. He made to turn away, then looked down at his casual attire and grimaced. He hadn’t thought that through. He didn’t doubt that the Cairo Opera House would have a rigorous dress code — especially for the type of event Nasser would attend. Whatever his intentions were in Zamalek, they clearly had to do with acquiring capital. As such, he would be drawn to the most extravagant features of the district in an attempt to woo potential funders.

  ‘Is there somewhere I can buy a suit around here?’ King said.

  The man nodded and smiled. ‘There’s a precinct right nearby. Restaurants and all manner of shops. Keep walking that way then make a left. You can’t miss it.’

  King raised a hand. ‘Thank you.’

  He found a suitable place fast enough. A short stroll through decadent marble hallways and past gourmet five-star restaurants and he came across a sprawling men’s fashion outlet complete with thousands of impeccably-crafted dinner jackets, suit pants and collared shirts. He spent some time browsing through the racks with the help of another overly-polite employee, who was more than happy to help him drop thousands of dollars on the perfect fit.

  He eventually settled on a navy Tom Ford O’Connor suit with an obscene price tag and an even better fit. It tapered perfectly to his broad shoulders, massive chest and reasonably narrow waist. He hadn’t found a suit that fit so well in years. That said, he hadn’t found the need to wear one during that time either.

  Looking himself up and down in the bank of full-length mirrors, he couldn’t help but admire the sophistication a nice suit brought to one’s appearance.

  Maybe it’s time to start dressing like James Bond, he thought somewhat sarcastically.

  He paid without hesitation using his personal credit card, aware that if he spent any longer lingering over the price he would quickly abandon the idea of forking out thousands for such a well-fitting number. He bought matching dress shoes and a simple burgundy tie and left the store with a much lighter wallet.

  On the way out, the employee called out to him. ‘Sir, your old clothes?’

  King turned and shrugged. ‘Throw them out. I’ll buy new ones.’

  He headed for the bank of elevators with a smile on his face.

  He couldn’t help but admit that he felt good.

  He unbuttoned the jacket and shoved his hands in his pockets as he walked. He knew he would blend right in with the wealthy socialites and royals and affluent Egyptian businessmen who likely flocked to certain shows. He could see why Nasser had decided to attend.

  But who was he meeting?

  He stopped outside the bank of elevators and slapped one of the buttons. A pair of doors toward the end slid open within a minute. He passed a pair of relatively young European women sporting short skin-tight dresses and long toned legs. They eyed him up and down as he stepped into the elevator.

  ‘Hello, handsome,’ one of them said flirtatiously.

  King knew exactly what they were there for. Prostitution would be a lucrative industry at the Marriott given the level of wealth required to simply book a room. He shook his head as the doors began to slide close. ‘Sorry, ladies. Try someone else.’

  ‘Prick,’ the same woman scowled before the doors slammed shut, blocking them from view. The elevator shot toward the sixteenth floor.

  Twenty seconds later it opened with a whisper and King stepped out into the same kind of luxurious corridor he had seen a million times before. By now he barely paid any attention to the ornate decorations and regal atmosphere. He made his way to the very end and slotted the keycard into the large wooden door resting on its own. An electronic click sounded and the door swung open, revealing a suite fit to rival Studio 57 back in New York.

  King whistled softly and gazed out across Zamalek, which made up just one portion of Gezira Island. The rest of Cairo sprawled out on the other side of the Nile, connected to the island by a handful of bridges — one of which King had driven the Audi off just over an hour ago. He looked further into the distance and saw Nasr City and Al Marj beyond that. As the sun disappeared on the horizon and the sky darkened, lights flared bright across the cities.

  Somewhere out there, Khalil Nasser was planning something radical…

  King felt no need to linger in the hotel room. When on an operation, he felt most at ease when in constant motion. Patience was a virtue he didn’t appreciate on missions such as these. He needed to find Nasser and get to the bottom of what he intended to do. Sitting around in a lavish hotel room would do nothing to achieve that. Besides, the performance at the Cairo Opera House started in just a couple of hours…

  Before he left, he took the smartphone out of his suit pocket. He’d transferred it — along with his wallet — across from his old clothes in the suit store. Thanks to the w
onders of modern technology, its waterproof capabilities meant it still functioned perfectly. He dialled a number from memory — it hadn’t been saved in his contacts for a reason.

  Isla answered in seconds, ‘What happened on the bridge?’

  ‘That was quick,’ King said.

  ‘We’re paying attention to every shred of information coming out of Cairo. You think we wouldn’t notice?’

  ‘I ran into a slight problem at Nasser’s hotel.’

  ‘Where Lopez and Price disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No sign of them?’

  King shook his head. ‘It’s not looking good. A couple of Nasser’s thugs forced me into a car at gunpoint. Hence the bridge.’

  ‘They’re dead?’

  ‘I don’t know. Didn’t hang around to check. Does it matter?’

  ‘He’ll have more men.’

  ‘That’s my point.’

  ‘Did you get anything before that went down?’

  ‘I know Nasser’s going to be at the Cairo Opera House at seven. Found the receipt for a ticket purchase. I don’t know anything else other than that.’

  ‘We have new information,’ Isla said. ‘It might be of use to you.’

  ‘Go for it.’

  ‘You heard of Andrew Walcott?’

  King paused. ‘I think he was on my flight…’

  ‘Big tech tycoon. Sold his company last year for over a billion. Massive deal.’

  King whistled. ‘That’s the life.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he’s been using an encrypted phone for the last couple of months. We tried to scour his message and call history after we heard he was flying to Egypt — just as a precautionary measure. Someone that important is worth checking out — especially given the Nasser situation. But we couldn’t find a thing. That raises alarm bells.’

  ‘He’s a billionaire. He probably wants to keep his personal life private.’