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

by Matt Rogers

  He felt his shoulder flare with agony and heard the crunch of two heavy bodies running full-pelt into the other side. A grunt of exertion came from the corridor outside. They had been surprised by the shift in momentum, fully expecting to charge into the suite unrestricted. King grabbed the door frame and smashed it into them again. He felt the men fall back. A bullet punched through the wood, missing King by a few inches. His heart rate skyrocketed at the sight. He threw the door aside and dove through the frame, crash-tackling the two men to the carpeted floor outside.

  In a wild tangle of limbs, they brawled.

  King felt a hand wrench at the top of his Sig-Sauer, significant weight behind the tug. He couldn’t get his finger out of the trigger guard in time. He felt the joint catch against steel and knew if he didn’t act, it would snap clean. It bent at an unnatural angle just before he whisked his hand off the weapon. Hot pain shot through his wrist, but nothing snapped. He grunted, rolling with the agony, and fell away from the weapon, kicking out viciously at the same time. His foot caught a weapon and Price’s handgun spun away.

  Lopez had lost his gun when King ran into him…

  The trio launched to their feet, desperate to gain the upper hand. King had a split second to get a glimpse of the two faces.

  They were identical to their military photos.

  John Lopez had the face of a hardened killer, currently twisted into a scowl. His nose had swollen into a giant wound, rudimentarily patched up by a few thin bandages. He had been the driver the day before. King remembered the feeling of breaking the bones and shattering the soft tissue in his nose. He knew it would take weeks, if not months, to heal.

  Samuel Price had slightly less assuming features. There was nothing to distinguish him from an ordinary civilian. Lopez had the soulless eyes of a man who had seen inexplicable horrors over his career, yet Price had seemingly kept his youth. Still, the sheer hate in his green eyes was apparent even to King. The savagery of a life-or-death brawl often created such emotions. King flicked his gaze to the man’s wrist, which hung limply at his side. He had done his best to disguise the injury, but King knew he was fighting a one-armed opponent. There would be many shattered bones in the lower arm after what had occurred in the Audi.

  Price was closest, so King targeted the bad arm first. He swung a body kick like he was targeting a heavy bag back in Colt’s complex, turning at the hip and throwing all his weight into it. After ten years of training, his kicks had enough power to break bones of their own accord. He felt his shin slam into Price’s battered arm and knew the feeling would be horrendous in the already-damaged ligaments.

  Price stumbled back, away from his dropped weapon.

  King spun to meet a charging Lopez.

  The Black Force operative slammed into his chest, knocking him backwards. King stumbled. The loss of balance took his mind off combat for the fraction of a second that Lopez needed. Next thing King knew, a fist crashed across his jaw with enough force to rattle his senses.

  He staggered back, and felt his foot press down on some kind of metal object. He looked down and saw his own Sig-Sauer resting on the carpet. He started to reach down, but Lopez made a dive for the weapon. Noticing this, King kicked the gun behind him, putting enough distance between them for Lopez to fall short.

  In mid-air, the man changed his trajectory, seizing hold of King’s ankle.

  He yanked him down to the ground.

  King slammed into the carpet and felt Lopez going to work, employing jiu-jitsu skills to slice a leg over King’s stomach and trap him on the floor. Lopez adopted the full mount position.

  ‘Shit,’ King muttered.

  He raised his massive forearms to ward off the incoming punches, but three sliced straight through. Knuckles smashed his nose, sending blood streaking across his face. He bucked and weaved, but Lopez held his position expertly. The man dropped his entire bodyweight behind an elbow that cracked off the top of King’s head, slamming the back of his skull into the carpet.

  King used the shift in momentum to roll Lopez off. With the nerve endings in his face screaming for mercy, he erected a mental barrier against the pain and leapt to his feet.

  Lopez scrambled up after him and threw a deceptive head kick, feinting one way before lurching back in the other direction and swinging a shin like a baseball bat at King’s unprotected face. He recoiled away from the blow, aware that if it landed he would be knocked unconscious and left to the mercy of the two operatives.

  He lost his footing as Lopez’s boot flicked past his face, coming within inches of shutting the lights out. He rolled back, stumbling further down the corridor.

  Past Lopez, King saw Price — recovered enough to act — reach down and snatch up one of their handguns, which he noted was a Glock 22 with suppressor attached. No doubt supplied by Black Force. King saw the weapon in the man’s hands and knew there was no fighting back. He spun and sprinted at full pelt down the last burst of corridor before crashing through the door to the same stairwell he’d ascended the night before.

  Bang.

  A shot ricocheted off the door frame as he sprinted through it, so close he could feel it. He ducked wildly and ran for his life, throwing caution to the wind. He leapt seven or eight steps at a time, desperate to put at least a few floors between himself and the other two. They had seized the upper hand, which he had anticipated they would. In a fight as evenly matched as that, more numbers always came out on top.

  Still dressed in his tattered suit from the night before, he burst out into the lobby not a minute later. His chest rose and fell in drastic fashion as he sucked air into his lungs. With his hands shaking and his heart pounding he sprinted for the revolving doors by the entrance.

  Thankfully, he had left none of his personal belongings in the room — so there was nothing for Lopez and Price to capitalise on. He had no such items to begin with, just the phone and wallet in his pockets. As he strode across the marble floor of the lobby and into one of the compartments of the revolving door, he checked his phone.

  The screen was shattered beyond recognition.

  Still moving, he tried his best to navigate through the applications and find the keypad. He dialled Isla’s number and waited for the call to go through as he jogged along the ramp leading to the underground garage.

  She answered almost immediately. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Huge news,’ he said, then hacked up a glob of blood and spat it onto the concrete.

  Isla took a deep breath as she heard his struggles. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said, making it into the underground garage in one piece. Panting for air, he found the sedan and unlocked it, pausing only to wipe a warm trail of blood off his chin. ‘Lopez and Price are alive.’

  ‘Oh, thank Go—’

  ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. They tried to kill me.’

  ‘What?!’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going on. I’m just as confused as you are. But they baited me to Nasser’s hotel and tried to kidnap me there. That’s what happened on the bridge.’

  ‘Holy shit…’

  ‘They just ambushed me again.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ King fired up the engine and reversed out of the lot with one hand, using the other to keep the phone pressed firmly to his ear. ‘I barely made it out alive.’

  ‘Nasser’s paying them?’

  ‘It’s not connected. This is something else. They’re doing it for themselves — I don’t know why.’

  ‘What the fuck…’ She said nothing for a long while, contemplating her options. ‘I can send more operatives.’

  ‘Don’t,’ King said. ‘I can handle this.’

  ‘King…’

  ‘I’m rusty,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve made mistakes already, but I need to take care of this. You don’t have enough time to send other operatives. This thing is happening tomorrow.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘Nasser’s causing so
me kind of incident at the Giza pyramid complex. Walcott’s funding all his hired guns, and has some kind of stock market shit in place to make an obscene amount of money off the attack. That’s what all this is.’

  ‘If you know that, we can move in on Walcott straight away…’

  ‘I know,’ King said. ‘I don’t care about the fact that we can arrest him. It’s too volatile to bring in the big guns. We have no idea what collateral they’ve got in place. I need to stop this from happening as quickly and efficiently as I can.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’m working on something.’

  ‘That sounds like you’re grasping at straws.’

  ‘I am,’ King said. ‘But there’s not many other options.’

  A traffic light ahead turned orange and King braked hard, opting to err on the side of caution instead of blasting through red lights and attracting unwanted attention. As he did so, something clattered against the back of his seat, carried off the rear seats by the momentum of the halt. He spun around to look and saw a black smartphone resting in the footwell behind him. Its screen had a deep crack running along its surface — but it seemed to be functioning otherwise.

  ‘Hang on,’ he said to Isla. ‘I might have something here.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ she quipped sarcastically. ‘Just now you’ve found the magic solution to all your problems?’

  ‘Didn’t say that. But it could be. I’ll call you back.’

  He hung up and tossed his own phone onto the passenger seat. He loosened his seatbelt, leant over and snatched up the other phone. The screen flickered on as he thumbed the home button but it was password-protected. The wallpaper had no unique features, just a simple default design. Nothing to hint at the phone’s owner. He cursed and dropped it into the passenger seat along with his own, hoping it was Nasser’s.

  His own phone rang again. He took off as the lights turned green and glanced across, noting the number displayed across the screen.

  Isla again.

  He lifted the device to his ear.

  ‘What?’ he said, irritated.

  ‘Finished chasing up your lead?’

  ‘Yeah. Nothing so far.’

  ‘That was quick.’

  ‘I’m trying to fit this puzzle together. Why do Lopez and Price want me dead?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have a clue,’ Isla said. ‘But we need to bring them in or eliminate them. I’m telling you, you’re going to need backup. Also — I’m going to reach out to the very top. We might be able to alert the Egyptian authorities and get the pyramids shut down for the day tomorrow.’

  ‘Don’t,’ King said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Nasser seemed incredibly sure of himself. I’m worried he or Walcott will set something else off if they get the sense that the authorities are onto them. So far, I’m just a guy looking to disrupt his plans. He knows nothing about me or the ties I have.’

  ‘You’re playing a dangerous game.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to do.’

  Then the mystery phone on the passenger seat rang.

  King jolted in surprise and glanced across. The caller ID was unknown — a blocked number. It was the only way he would be able to get access to whoever the phone belonged to. Instinctively, he hung up on Isla and snatched up the device. He took a deep breath. He would only get one shot at this. Palms sweaty, he answered.

  ‘Yes?’ he said, imitating Nasser’s voice as best as he could. He kept his voice quiet and muffled to distort his tone.

  A firm American-accented voice answered. ‘It’s me. I assume you dealt with the man from the Opera House.’

  Walcott.

  King felt a wave of relief overcome him. He had something. It was thin, and he had all likelihood of getting killed in the process, but it was better than trawling around Zamalek without a single lead to speak of.

  He grunted an affirmation.

  ‘Good. Are we still on for lunch at one p.m.?’ Walcott said. ‘I’ve been finalising everything and need to bring you up to speed.’

  King paused a beat before responding, making sure to get his accent as accurate as possible. ‘Where?’

  A pause on the other end. ‘Are you being serious?’

  ‘Yes, my friend. A lot has been going on lately.’

  ‘Cairo Tower… we booked this weeks ago.’

  ‘Sorry. See you there.’

  King hung up the phone and threw it away. He had a time and a place. The rest he could improvise along the way. As long as he had a destination and remained constantly in motion, he knew he could get this done. The odds were against him, and he had unrelated threats from a number of different avenues.

  But he could succeed.

  He had to.

  He accelerated past a line of slow-moving civilian vehicles and turned into a wide avenue lined with cafés, restaurants and department stores. He knew the Cairo Tower was one of the major landmarks of the city — and also lay somewhere within the boundaries of Gezira Island.

  He made a mental note to check the tower’s location when a blacked-out SUV roared up alongside him and swerved into his car, obliterating the passenger side of the sedan.

  CHAPTER 23

  In vehicular warfare, the bigger ride always came out on top.

  King could do nothing to stop the sedan careering into the sidewalk, smashing its wheels against the concrete and overturning in a second. He held onto the steering wheel for dear life. Before he could comprehend who was attacking him now, his world went mad. His vision spun and the sound of twisting metal filled his eardrums, deafeningly loud. His stomach lurched as the sedan landed sideways on the pavement and skidded at a blistering rate toward an open café.

  King was powerless to stop the resulting destruction.

  Thankfully, the impact had been loud enough to scatter the handful of civilians sipping tea and coffee outside the joint. In his peripheral vision he saw them dive for cover, avoiding the out-of-control car heading straight for them. King breathed relief, but knew his own safety wasn’t guaranteed.

  The sedan smashed into the shopfront.

  Debris shattered all the windows and the contents of the interior were flung in all directions. King felt something sharp and jagged arc across his cheek, drawing blood. The sedan rolled once, denting the roof. He felt the thin aluminium dent hard over his head, coming close to slamming against the top of his skull. He pressed his chin to his chest and hoped for the best.

  It righted itself, demolishing tables and chairs and ornate decorations lining the front windows of the café. When it came to rest inside the store, ruined beyond repair, King was thrust back into his seat at an incredible rate. He coughed and wiped the blood off the side of his face, head pounding.

  In the middle of the road, Lopez and Price stepped out of the SUV.

  They ignored the screaming passersby who fled the scene of the accident. King saw the speed at which civilians were dispersing and understood what they felt. The sheer terror of a confronting situation was a shocking thing, and if he hadn’t become so used to the constant battle between life and death, he would have felt very much the same. The pair had wasted no time hiding their faces. King had seen them before. He had identified them.

  Their anonymity meant nothing.

  King stared in resignation as the two men advanced into the café.

  He knew his options had run out. Unarmed, battered, hurting everywhere, he didn’t stand a chance. Lopez and Price carried a Glock each.

  Both with suppressors attached.

  Both pointed right at King’s head.

  Even if he had a weapon, he knew it would be futile putting up a fight. They were just as fast as he was — and they had gained the upper hand.

  They stepped through the shattered front-end of the café and strode up to King’s vehicle. One man took each side of the car, aiming their weapons inside. King had nowhere to go. He slumped against the headrest, resigned to what would hopefully be a quick and painless death. He had come so f
ar just to be killed by two members of his very own organisation…

  And then, somewhere in the darkness of his mind, when all hope had trickled out of his system and he had come to the uncomfortable conclusion that his death was imminent, he made a realisation.

  It could possibly save his life.

  ‘You shoot me,’ he said, sitting in the wreckage amidst a sea of destroyed furniture, ‘and you die.’

  Lopez leant inside the window frame, brushing shards of glass off while he rested his elbows on the ledge. He shoved the barrel of the suppressor against King’s temple hard enough to pin him against the headrest. He looked at King with cold eyes. ‘Try disarming me. I guarantee you I’m faster.’

  King made no attempt to lunge for the weapon. ‘No point.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘You’re saving face now,’ King said. ‘Scrambling to pick up the pieces ever since I foiled your foolproof plan on the bridge. Am I right?’

  Silence — which meant he couldn’t have been more accurate.

  ‘That’s why you were masked,’ he continued. ‘Just in case I escaped somehow. Which I did. You knew if word got back to Command about your change in morality, then that would be the end of you.’

  Not a shred of emotion entered Lopez’s eyes, but his face paled ever so slightly. King flicked his gaze over to Price, who he figured wasn’t able to hide his emotions as well. He was right. Standing by the passenger door with a barrel pointed square at King’s chest, his hand shivered — despite the heat.

  He was scared to death.

  ‘They know,’ King said. ‘Isla knows. Everyone knows.’

  Neither of the two said a word.

  ‘I’m your last shot, boys. I’m the only one who can reverse the call. I’m your last chance at making sure this was all one big misunderstanding — or Black Force will hunt you to the ends of the earth.’

  Lopez shifted his gloved finger on the trigger. A nervous tic, easily identifiable. ‘We can disappear.’