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

by Matt Rogers

  Abdul would not let the months of preparation go to waste.

  He would not disobey his mentor.

  Sweating profusely as he walked, he crossed the precinct and ran his hand across the object lining one of the deep pockets in his frayed cargo shorts. He had brought the electrical detonator with him this time, given to him by Nasser a week ago. Everything had been set into place over the previous days. He had been informed that when he activated the safety-protected switch on the side of the small black box, a powerful shock would be transmitted to the explosives dotted across the complex.

  The result, he was told, would be spectacular.

  It would signal a new chapter of Abdul’s life. The fire would be blessed with Allah’s will, and the boy would be rewarded with a comfortable existence for the rest of his days after Nasser came through with the discussed funds.

  Even if he could not — even if he perished over the next few hours — Abdul would go through with the plan. This plot had grand implications. He was just a cog in the great machine, and if he carried out what he had been instructed and kept his word, it would pay dividends in the future.

  Abdul — despite his youth — was a man of his word. He never made a promise that he could not keep. To him, a promise was sacred.

  He had promised Khalil Nasser that he would carry out the task.

  The man had saved him from certain death a couple of months ago, and Abdul owed him a life debt. Nasser had come across him at the lowest point of his life, when he had been a few coins off being evicted from the small flat and thrust out to live on Cairo’s dangerous streets. He hadn’t eaten for days. He couldn’t afford it. He remembered his state back then, ghastly and broken, wandering aimlessly through the hot streets — looking for anything to relieve him of the emotional and physical pain.

  A nondescript grey coupe had pulled up alongside him and one Khalil Nasser had asked him if he was okay.

  The days following had been eye-opening. He had been introduced to a new way of life, fed and clothed and promised grand riches if he could carry out a simple favour for the man.

  Of course, he had accepted.

  Then, he had believed.

  He thought he might continue to help Nasser in his overarching mission once this task had been completed. The last few weeks had given him a purpose that he had never previously felt. It was quite unlike any prior experience. He felt like there was a reason for his existence, a concept which had never truly taken hold given the nature of his past.

  He would devote himself to Nasser’s cause.

  And sacrifices would be made.

  Starting tomorrow.

  Abdul made his way over to the least-populated area of the complex — the land behind the Pyramid of Khufu. He navigated his way through a course that he had plotted earlier in the day — it ran along a gravel track and darted into a small alcove inside a cluster of rubble and rock, tucked away in the western cemetery. He found an inlet inside the space, barely wide enough to fit his tall and lanky frame. He wedged himself in and patted his pocket reassuringly, double-checking that the detonator was secure.

  He burrowed further into the space until the overhang from the rubble all around him cast him into shadow.

  And there he waited.

  It would be a long night. He didn’t plan to sleep a wink. If any kind of threat presented itself in the coming hours he would not hesitate to detonate the Semtex while within the confines of the complex. It was better to die as a brave man than run for the hills as a coward.

  Nasser had taught him that.

  He let his breathing settle and felt the warmth of the alcove draw sweat from his pores. He listened to the hushed murmurings of tourists floating across the complex and imagined them all dying the next day.

  He smiled.

  CHAPTER 29

  Nasser sipped on a chilled glass of water and stared across the table at Andrew Walcott.

  His hands shook, and it wasn’t entirely due to the nerves. They had claimed one of the tables against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows running the entire perimeter of the Revolving Restaurant. Five hundred feet in the air, the structure rotated ever so slowly, providing extravagant views over the land for a hundred miles in every direction. Heights had never been Nasser’s favourite experience and now he found his palms sweating as he gazed out across Cairo.

  The Cairo Tower dwarfed every building in sight. It felt like they were dining in the clouds, but there were none around. Nasser would have preferred if there was. It might have masked the sheer drop to the pavement almost half a mile below.

  He might not have worried if there wasn’t a trained killer hunting for his head.

  He was certain his arm was broken, and in all likelihood he had fractured his shin. The bruises and blotches covering almost all of his skin made the simple act of being conscious an unforgiving experience. The hospital beckoned, but he didn’t dare concentrate on his wounds until the operation had been completed. He didn’t have time to waltz around worrying about himself when the man sitting across from him was risking his life’s work.

  Walcott broke an uncomfortable silence, ‘Tell me everything you know about this man.’

  Nasser tried his best to appear nonchalant. ‘I do not know much.’

  ‘Does he know who I am?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Walcott’s eyes narrowed and his expression turned to stone. ‘That’s not good enough. If anyone is made aware of my involvement I’ll never be able to set foot in a developed country again.’

  Nasser took a sip from the glass in front of him and wiped sweat from his brow. ‘I know nothing about him. Or his two enemies.’

  ‘Do you think they’re government agents?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He is too reckless. He threw me out of a building. I do not think government agents do things like that.’

  Walcott shrugged. ‘You can’t be sure. If he is, I might be screwed.’

  ‘But everything is still good to go ahead, yes?’ Nasser said. ‘All your investments are under different names?’

  ‘Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course. Most of it is riding on a stock market index for securities in Egypt. The rest is diversified, but if the Semtex does its job, the attack will send shockwaves through the world. I’m counting on the decimation of the tourism industry here in Egypt. The stock exchange will plummet like it did when the Revolution broke out, and I’ll cash in on the futures I placed. Then we all get paid.’

  His words fell on deaf ears. Nasser did not concern himself with the details. He simply wanted a lump sum deposited into his account so that he could carry on with his ulterior motives undisturbed. That was all Walcott was necessary for. He imagined the tech tycoon viewed him in a similar way.

  Just a means to an end.

  ‘Take me over the layout,’ Walcott said, leaning onto his elbows.

  ‘Most of the explosive has been buried or stuck around the Great Pyramid. That area is the largest hub of activity. We have a few pounds scattered around the most densely populated sections of the other five pyramids.’

  ‘Estimated casualty rate?’

  ‘Over three hundred. That is conservative, too, I am told.’

  Walcott nodded satisfactorily. ‘That would make it the second largest terrorist attack in the Middle-East in history. That’s what we’re going for.’

  Nasser smirked. ‘You are correct.’

  Walcott lifted a glass of hundred-dollar scotch off the table in front of him and downed the mouthful in one gulp. ‘That’s good business. I’ll drink to that.’

  ‘It will create the crash you are looking for?’

  ‘Of course,’ Walcott said. ‘I must say, the phrase is true. You need money to make money. This will be the easiest billion of my life. Might buy a yacht.’ He paused, contemplating that statement, then shook his head. ‘No, you know what, fuck it. I’ll build a yacht. Largest one on the planet.’

  �
��Our deal still stands?’

  ‘Of course. Fifty million USD. You deserve it.’

  Nasser wanted to sigh with relief, but controlled his emotions in front of the billionaire. Internally, he felt a flood of elation. It came with the knowledge that all his hard work had paid off. Manoeuvring that much Semtex into a public area and remaining undetected in the process had been a painstaking endeavour, to say the least. It had required an army of hired help and an indescribable work ethic. The sheer stress involved with smuggling a couple of ounces at a time past the dim-witted security patrolling the precinct had almost broken him.

  Yet here he was.

  On top of the world.

  Toasting good business.

  A couple of days away from having enough funds to finance his wildest imaginings.

  Curious, he leant forward. ‘Andrew, we come from different cultures, yes?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ Walcott said, wiping his mouth after finishing a small plate of caviar.

  ‘I take it you are not a believer in Allah.’

  A pause. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Does it bother you what I will do with this money you are providing me? I am just curious, nothing more. You must not believe in my cause.’

  Walcott stared at him. ‘You being serious?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The man laughed in his face, then lowered his voice. ‘I’m killing hundreds of people to make a fortune. You think I give a shit what you’re going to do with it? Use it to start a sex slavery ring for all I care.’

  ‘You have a very interesting viewpoint,’ Nasser said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘You seem to do things just for money. I do this for my God.’

  Walcott shrugged. ‘Whatever gets you through the day. Everything is business to me. If you pull the short straw and don’t capitalise, bad luck. Your fault. That’s my opinion. Survival of the fittest. Which brings me to the question — where the fuck did that waiter go?’

  He turned in his seat and raised a hand to signal for another round of the scotch just as a muffled gunshot resonated through the wall on the other side of the room.

  Surrounding diners screamed, and a moment later Jason King thundered into the room, the barrel of his weapon raised.

  CHAPTER 30

  King sized up his surroundings in an instant.

  The Revolving Restaurant covered the entire floor, stretching from one end of the tower to the other. He noted the floor-to-ceiling windows aimed diagonally outward but had no time to admire the view. What he focused on was the number of patrons in the restaurant and the level of security Nasser and Walcott had employed up here.

  First, the civilians. He felt relief wash over him as he counted only four or five populated tables. Clearly, the meeting had taken place on a quiet day at the restaurant.

  He spotted Nasser and Walcott by the far window, talking in low and hushed voices. Walcott turned in his seat and looked over his shoulder just as King charged into the room.

  He raised the Glock-22 and aimed it directly at the sick bastard’s head.

  Scraping chairs and hurried footsteps beside him unnerved him. He threw his aim off and glanced across, watching as a table full of security in identical suits leapt to their feet and charged at him.

  Hands scrambled for holsters.

  King wheeled his aim around — aware that neither Nasser or Walcott appeared to be armed — and fired at the horde of charging men.

  Two of them fell, either injured or dead. King had no time to check. One of the men at the back succeeded in wrenching his pistol from its holster and squeezed off a wild shot. Possessed by a burning desire to kill King, his hands shook as he fired. The bullet arced wildly away, tearing through the ceiling above King’s head.

  Patrons scattered in all directions.

  King dove behind one of the tables as the two remaining men locked their aim on and opened fire.

  He heard the vicious crack of unsuppressed ammunition and buried his head below the line of fire. Everything had unfolded too fast for him to ascertain exactly how close he had come to death. Whatever the case, he scurried deeper behind the tight maze of dining tables and fired blindly in return until the security ducked for cover themselves. He kept his ammunition count fixed firmly in his head.

  The last thing he wanted was to let it slip his mind and wind up with an empty clip at the worst possible moment.

  He sensed a pause in the action and made for an advantageous position. With one hand he shoved the circular table over, forming a rudimentary barricade. It would do nothing to protect him from a gunshot, but he needed something to steady his aim. He rested his elbow on the edge of the table as he gripped the Glock-22 double-handed, lining up a trajectory.

  Three remaining targets — all spread across his field of vision.

  He exhaled and locked his arms rigid. Entering a calm state in the heat of battle took years of training and experience to enact. He still hadn’t fully mastered the tactic, but he knew he could employ it a hell of a lot better than the men he was facing.

  A gun barrel swung in his direction. The man holding the trigger had unshaven stubble and a buzzcut. He looked European, but his ethnicity didn’t matter. What mattered was the bullet that would eject from the gun when he pulled the trigger and pulverise the soft tissue in King’s brain.

  King lined up his shot and pumped his own trigger twice, controlling the kickback as twin capsules of lead covered the distance between them in a half-second.

  The first hit the man in the jaw — with grisly results. A second shot wouldn’t have been necessary, but by then King had already unleashed the follow-up. It pulped through the guy’s throat as he went down, turning the lower half of his skull into a bloody mess. If he let his gaze linger on the dead man he might have struggled to keep down the food in his stomach, but by that point all his focus had shifted to the other pair.

  He fired a single round at the nearest man, who had hesitated like a deer in headlights when caught in the midst of a very real, very intense firefight.

  The same sensation the men in the lobby had likely experienced.

  The sensation that separated King from the common criminal.

  The consequences for such a reaction were death.

  At this level, nothing else would suffice.

  The bullet cut through his chest, shattering bone and sinking into something vital. He dropped, letting go of his gun as he did so. When he did, King forgot all about him. It didn’t matter if he had been killed or simply maimed by the bullet. The only note of importance was that he had been disarmed, and as such was out of the action.

  It was a numbers game.

  Nothing more, nothing less.

  Unfortunately, the sole remaining security guard was smarter than his co-workers. He had sensed that King was leaps and bounds ahead of them in terms of sheer talent, and had acted accordingly to level the playing field.

  By the time King whipped the barrel of his Glock-22 over to the last man, he found himself aiming directly at a screaming Middle-Eastern woman in a burqa.

  A civilian, likely dining nearby. The man in the suit had one hand around her throat, squeezing hard enough to cause serious physical distress, and the other had a Sig-Sauer pressed against the side of her temple. His wide eyes — charged with adrenalin — dared King to attempt a shot. He kept the majority of his bulk behind the sobbing woman, eliminating most of the target area King had to work with.

  King grimaced. He kept a level head and a tight trigger finger.

  Waiting.

  Watching.

  Unflinching…

  It didn’t take long. He knew at any moment the man would rip his shaking hand away from the woman’s temple and attempt to squeeze off a shot at King. Confidence and the hesitation of his enemy would assist him in making such a stupid decision.

  Any second…

  There.

  King noted the flash of movement as the barrel of the Sig-Sauer peeled off the soft flesh abo
ve the woman’s ear and began to arc towards him. The man probably thought he had a speed advantage.

  Foolish.

  King had the utmost confidence in his own abilities. The absolute devotion to act on a hunch had come to him over many years, but now he employed it to full effect.

  As soon as the man took his gun off the hostage, King shot him through the nose.

  The bullet spat out of his Glock-22 and sliced through the small window of space beside the woman’s head, close enough for the displaced air to blow the burqa against her face. It continued past her, obliterating the guy’s septum and sinking through into the soft tissue within his head.

  During his graphic demise, he fired a single shot, a natural instinctive reaction to dying. The gun hadn’t completed its trajectory and as such the bullet went wide, shattering the floor-to-ceiling window behind King. The man collapsed between two of the tables, blood pouring out of the hole in his face.

  The woman fell forward, screaming, thinking she had been shot in the crossfire. When she realised she was unhurt, she scrambled away from the scene.

  King inhaled for the first time in a half-minute and wheeled on the spot.

  He scoured the restaurant, noting for the first time the howling wind roaring into the room through the window frames. For a brief moment he experienced a wave of vertigo as he glanced out and saw Cairo stretching away in all directions, like a roadmap far below. Beyond, the Sahara Desert rolled off into the horizon.

  He continued his analysis of the room and saw two things at once.

  Nasser had taken off across the floor space, heading for a cluster of doors on the far side of the restaurant. He had his head down and his arms pumping with exertion. King made to aim at the man’s wide back but something stopped him. A brief flash of movement in his peripheral vision.

  He turned his head.

  Walcott had a sleek black handgun in his right hand, arm raised. King stared down the barrel and leapt for cover with animalistic desperation.