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

by Matt Rogers

  ‘I think so too. But he doesn’t have the cleanest reputation. Screwed his business partners out of their share of the company, and he’s pretty ruthless judging by co-worker accounts. Half of Silicon Valley hates him.’

  ‘Still doesn’t mean anything,’ King said.

  ‘I know. Just keep an eye out for him at the Opera House. If he’s speaking to Nasser, they might be attending together.’

  ‘I doubt he’d be that stupid.’

  ‘You never know,’ Isla said. ‘For all they know, there’s no-one onto them.’

  ‘I think they know now. Two of their men are at the bottom of the Nile.’

  ‘Then get moving. I’ll send over a data package on Walcott.’

  ‘No need,’ King said. ‘I saw him on the plane. I know what he looks like.’

  ‘Give it a read,’ Isla said. ‘Humour me.’

  King shrugged and ended the call. He tucked the phone back into his pocket, took one look around the decadent suite, adjusted his jacket, then made for the same door he’d entered through.

  Time was ticking.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Opera House was situated at the southern end of Gezira Island, which was a one-and-a-half mile walk according to King’s phone. He thought about strolling through the evening and enjoying the balmy air, but opted instead to employ the services of a chauffeur. It was better to arrive in style than by foot. In certain parts of the world, stepping out of a Rolls-Royce attracted less attention than walking.

  He made for the ground floor and approached the same receptionist who had handed him his room key.

  ‘Pleasure to see you again,’ the man said. ‘Looking very sharp, might I add.’

  King adjusted his jacket. ‘Thank you. Do you have chauffeur services on offer?’

  ‘We do,’ the man said. ‘I must warn you that it comes with an additional fee of—’

  King handed over his credit card, cutting the guy off. ‘Sounds good.’

  It took less than two minutes to organise. King appreciated the sense of urgency that reared its head when a great deal of money was thrown around. He had places to be, and things to do. There was no time for the ordinary coasting of civilian life. Khalil Nasser needed a greeting.

  A brand-new Mercedes G63 AMG arrived in the courtyard outside the lobby moments later. The receptionist left his co-workers to tend to the needs of the other guests, and ushered King into the back seat of the luxury vehicle. ‘Please enjoy your night, Mr. King.’

  ‘I’ll try my best,’ King muttered. He nodded farewell to the receptionist and pulled the door shut.

  A bespectacled Egyptian man in a cheap but well-presented suit sat in the driver’s seat. He turned and greeted King animatedly. ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘The Opera House,’ King said.

  The man hesitated for a second, probably wondering why his passenger felt the need to pay hundreds of dollars for a three-minute drive. Nevertheless, his job didn’t involve questioning his clients’ intentions. King saw him shrug and shift the G63 into gear. The big four-wheel-drive peeled away from the lobby entranceway with a rumble.

  King didn’t take his eyes away from his phone throughout the entire trip. He scanned briefly through the notes Isla had sent over on Andy Walcott, yet most of it was useless. To summarise, the man had always possessed an insane work ethic, which had led to his company’s success and subsequent sale. This had made him rich beyond his wildest dreams. King couldn’t imagine the guy would need to associate himself with the likes of Khalil Nasser.

  You never know, a voice whispered in his head.

  After what felt like seconds, they arrived at the Cairo Opera House.

  The structure was suitably impressive, a massive cluster of smooth cream buildings topped with glowing domes and surrounded by beautiful gardens. A horde of luxury supercars lay idle in the courtyard, either in the process of being moved by valets or simply left in designated lots for passers-by to gawk at.

  The driver took the G63 around the bend and dropped King right at the grand entranceway. He stepped down onto the gravel and the big Mercedes rumbled quietly away. He found himself amongst a posse of socialites — all dressed to the nines — flowing in and out of the Opera House at whim. He buttoned his suit jacket and strode into the vast lobby, doing his best to appear as if he belonged.

  No-one gave him a second look. The price of his clothing meant he fitted in seamlessly, integrating with the dozens of other wealthy Caucasians floating around the lobby. He kept his eyes peeled to the floor, knowing that if Nasser had access to his hotel’s security cameras or if either of his two men had survived the Audi wreckage then he would have a rough physical description of what King looked like.

  Thankfully, there were quite a few tall men amongst the procession milling about the lobby. The suit couldn’t hide his bulk, but it did well to soften his musculature enough to be unable to ascertain his exact physical condition. He didn’t stand out much. He hoped that would be enough to get him through.

  Without a ticket, he knew he had no hope of getting into the performance itself. He wondered if attendees were asked to provide their proof of purchase in the lobby at random, or if they had to present their ticket upon entrance to the theatre. He guessed the latter, which gave him thirty-eight minutes — according to his watch — to find Nasser before the opera began.

  He found a narrow hallway leading to what was labelled in several different languages as the “Refreshment Room”. It seemed to be deliberately separated from the main lobby, acting as a private respite for many of the wealthiest visitors. Taking his chances at finding Nasser somewhere within, King approached the white-suited security loitering by the door and flashed a knowing smile, as if he had spent half his life within the walls of the Opera House. He looked straight past the guy, raising his eyebrows in greeting as if he were meeting a couple of acquaintances inside.

  The security guard took one look at the act and was convinced immediately. He stepped aside to let King through.

  Either anyone is allowed in, or your acting skills are better than you thought.

  A lavish bar ran the length of the far wall, with a handful of sweeping carpeted hallways on either side leading to various other sections of the Opera House. Patrons sat along the length of the polished wooden countertop, sipping fine wines and swirling glasses of hundred-dollar cognac. King knew Egypt’s strict alcohol regulations meant that it was nigh on impossible to serve alcohol anywhere that wasn’t a hotel or tourist facilities approved by the Minister of Tourism. This was the latter. Therefore it would be one of the only places that wealthy locals could order drinks publicly — and it showed. The bar was a hive of activity.

  He had an idea.

  King strode up to the counter and flashed a glance at the bottles adorning the shelves behind the bartender before ordering. He requested a glass of Rémy Martin Louis XIII Cognac, which he knew retailed for close to three thousand USD a bottle. The bartender informed him it would be almost two-thousand Egyptian pounds for a glass — over a hundred USD.

  King nodded satisfactorily and the man poured him exactly two ounces of the outrageously expensive liquor.

  The men on either side of him took notice — which had been his intention all along.

  ‘I have not seen you around,’ one of them said.

  King turned to look at the guy. He was late forties, with thick grey hair and olive skin. Either native Egyptian, or from somewhere in the Middle East. That given, he spoke English well. King guessed he was some type of businessman. He had that air about him. Superiority seemed to waft out of his pores.

  ‘I’m new here,’ King said. ‘Seeing the show with a friend of mine.’

  ‘Who is this friend?’

  ‘His name is Khalil Nasser.’

  The man pondered that for a moment. ‘I have not heard of him, either.’

  ‘You know everyone who comes to the Opera House?’

  The man scoffed. ‘Everyone important.’

  ‘S
o I take it my friend is not important.’

  ‘You are correct.’

  ‘On that note, I seem to have lost him,’ King said. ‘Have you seen him? He’s got eyes that sink right back into his head. Not a good look, if you ask me.’

  The businessman roared with laughter, loud enough to draw the attention of everyone at the bar. King already deeply disliked him. ‘I have not seen a fool like that tonight.’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ the guy on the other side of King said.

  King wheeled around. This man was younger, without the thick lines set into his forehead or the massive ego. That said, his suit was a little nicer. The watch wrapped around his right wrist looked to have cost at least fifty grand. He seemed like he belonged.

  ‘Does he have a comb-over?’ the guy asked.

  King nodded, remembering the photo Isla had shown him back in New York. ‘He does.’

  ‘I passed him a few minutes ago with another white guy.’

  King’s pulse quickened. If it was really Andrew Walcott, then Isla had been spot-on with her assessment. ‘Where exactly?’

  ‘Go back the way you came, turn right, keep walking. I think he went that way.’

  ‘Somewhere private?’ King said.

  ‘I think so.’

  The businessman behind him cackled violently. ‘You sound angry, my friend. Someone stealing your lover, eh?’

  King finished the glass of Louis XIII in one gulp, having no further need to continue the conversation. He placed the empty glass on the counter and slid it to the bartender, who gave a satisfactory nod. Feeling the warmth of the alcohol trickle down his throat, he turned to leave. Before he did so, he stuck out a foot and whisked the bar stool out from under the businessman as effortlessly as hurling a child’s toy away. The glass of red wine clasped between the guy’s fingers splattered all over his dress shirt as he tumbled to the floor, slamming into the wood hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

  ‘Awfully sorry about that,’ King said, and walked quickly away from the bar.

  He stepped back into the deserted corridor and turned right, just as the younger man had instructed. There was no-one in sight. He heard the familiar murmuring of a large crowd from the opposite direction, out in the lobby. He set off the other way.

  He made sure to move quietly across the carpet, making sure his footfalls weren’t audible. The last thing he wanted was to be heard coming. He navigated through a complex labyrinth of halls and passages, each as empty as the last. This seemed to be a rarely-visited section of the Opera House. He briefly wondered whether he was allowed back here.

  King didn’t hear them whispering in hushed tones.

  If he did, he wouldn’t have rounded the corner so fast.

  He stepped out into another identical hallway, with a stark red carpet and mahogany walls and dim yellow lighting. Two men stood to one side, leaning against the wall, talking in low voices. As soon as one of them caught a glimpse of King rounding the corner, they both shut up instantly.

  King identified both men in a fraction of a second.

  Khalil Nasser, with his sunken eyes and awful haircut, dressed in a poorly-fitted cheap suit that hung past his wrists and sagged around his ankles.

  Beside him, Andrew Walcott, sporting a perfectly-tailored three-piece suit that accentuated his lean and sculpted physique. His fingernails were manicured and his hair was swept back like something out of a glamour magazine.

  His eyes were cold and hard.

  Walcott saw King first. The man sealed his lips and stared at King in such a way that wasn’t menacing. He didn’t recognise him.

  Nasser did.

  The wide eyes and dilated pupils grew even wider. He opened his mouth to shout for help, but by that point King had registered the shock in the man’s face and ducked back the way he had come, out of sight.

  CHAPTER 17

  King stayed where he was. He had no inclination to flee, because that would lead to nothing. He wanted to discern what kind of security Nasser and Walcott had, and if it was any good.

  If not, he wouldn’t let them leave the corridor.

  His questions were answered nigh on five seconds later. A door was thrown open violently in the corridor ahead — King heard the clash of wood against plaster. Then rapid footsteps against the carpet.

  Thud, thud, thud.

  Big guy. Heavier than King, probably. Some kind of muscle that one of the two men had employed to keep them safe. He’d been waiting in a side room — likely due to the privacy needed for their conversation.

  Idiots, King thought.

  The muscle wasn’t much smarter. King heard him bull-rushing towards his position, keen to catch the intruder and receive a healthy bonus from whoever was funding the operation. He pressed his back against the wall only a few inches out of sight and waited for the big guy to come bounding past.

  The security ran straight into him. They clashed hard, body-on-body, close to five hundred pounds of force colliding, but King had seen it coming from a mile away. He’d planted his feet and dropped his shoulder and braced for impact. The other guy had expected King to be at the other end of the corridor, and had planned accordingly.

  The big guy sprawled off his feet, hitting the carpeted floor hard enough to send vibrations through the wooden planks below. King saw something fly out of his hands.

  A handgun.

  Sig-Sauer P228.

  Safety off.

  The guy had been ready to kill him. King realised that he was onto something sinister. Walcott and Nasser weren’t part-time crooks. They had intentions evil enough to warrant an instant death-wish to whoever happened across their little conversation.

  King saw the big guy make a lunge for the weapon, ready to use it. He burst forward and stamped down on the guy’s splayed fingers, crunching bone under the sole of his dress shoe. The man screamed, loud enough to be heard for dozens of feet in any direction.

  King snatched up the P228 and put a round through his arm.

  He didn’t feel like killing so freely. Not yet. This man — no matter how stupid his intentions — was just following orders.

  King knew that might change soon enough.

  The shot rang out through the Opera House, deafening in the confined hallway. He heard screams from somewhere further inside the complex. He clenched his teeth and moved back into the corridor, ready to lead the two men by gunpoint out of the Opera House.

  They were gone.

  King saw a flash of movement as two bodies hurried into a side room, ushered through by a three-man team of security. They spotted King at the end of the corridor and scrambled for their firearms. One man had his Sig-Sauer already drawn. He raised the barrel in the blink of an eye and fired a shot instinctively — not aiming properly, just desperate to hit something.

  The shot whistled past King’s ear, displacing air against his cheek. He recoiled violently and let his legs give, dropping to a prone position on the carpet, minimising his target area. He raised his own Sig-Sauer with a steady hand and fired three times, not letting adrenalin and panic affect his aim.

  Two hit the man in the torso, blowing holes in his shirt. The third took the top portion of his scalp off. He was dead before he hit the floor.

  The first death of the evening signified a shift in tone. King saw the other two guards panic, eyes widening, skin paling. They scrambled into the room after Nasser and Walcott, hurrying away from Jason King.

  He rose off the floor and paused tentatively, aware that following the four-man party through the doorway would be unimaginably foolish. He decided to wait.

  Then he heard it. Adrenalin-charged voices — at least five men. Coming from the same doorway. Getting closer. King realised that there Nasser and Walcott had more security than he could have ever imagined. He heard safeties flicking off, magazines being thrust into weapons.

  Shit.

  He fell back into the previous corridor just as a cluster of bodies swarmed out of the doorway and the sharp staccato
of gunfire tore through the silent corridor.

  He ran for his life, arms and legs pumping like pistons, one finger inside the trigger guard of the P228, ready to return fire at a moment’s notice.

  He quickly realised he wouldn’t reach the end of the corridor before Nasser’s men rounded the corner. He spotted a wooden door to his left — firmly sealed shut — and threw himself into it, putting all his bodyweight behind the act. It hurt his arm badly, sending waves of pain up through his shoulder into his chest. But he crashed through the locked door all the same, slamming it aside in a blaze of adrenalin.

  Bullets shredded the doorway just as he passed through it.

  He found himself stumbling into a vast ballroom, empty at this time of the evening. Hundreds of ornate tables and chairs were positioned in formation across the room. At the other end, a glittering ball twirled over a deserted dance floor. The ceiling curved away from him, forming a dome that covered the length of the room. The entire space was eerily quiet. King leapfrogged a cluster of tables and took off down an open stretch, pushing himself as fast as he could.

  He heard bodies rush into the doorway that he’d come through, only a few dozen feet behind.

  He ducked wildly and threw himself behind one of the tables just as a swathe of gunfire tore through the space all around him.

  The shots were wild, but the men were going for overwhelming firepower as opposed to accuracy. King buried his head under the table’s thick wooden column and rode out the waves of fully-automatic ammunition tearing his surroundings to shreds. He knew that if a single bullet found its home anywhere in his body, he would be either dead or too incapacitated to escape.

  Thankfully, nothing struck home.

  During a brief reprieve in the all-out assault, he thrust his head out of cover for a moment and emptied the rest of the clip in the direction of the security. He thought he counted seven men. One fell from his shots, splaying backwards against a chair at an unnatural angle, the life sapped out of him.

  Six left.

  King knew he wouldn’t get through the resulting conflict with an empty weapon. He cast his gaze briefly over his surroundings. To his left, vast stained-glass windows looked out over the courtyard in front of the Opera House, home to an enormous fountain and a fleeing crowd of screaming civilians. Clearly, the noise of the firefight had reached the lobby.