Corrupted: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 5)

by Matt Rogers

  He threw caution to the wind and darted into range, desperate to finish the fight before he collapsed.

  The guy sensed the urgency and threw a punch in retaliation.

  To an observer, it would have seemed like a light jab — flicked out with minimal effort like a soft whip. It was true that the blow had little power to it, but it wasn’t needed. That had been the intention. It made King realise the knowledge this man possessed in the field of martial arts.

  It was the punches that sliced like lightning strikes that posed the most danger.

  He couldn’t take his head off the centre line in time. He saw a blur of movement, then something shattered under his skin.

  The jab caught him square on the bridge of his nose, hard enough to crack the bone. King experienced every sliver of the pain that came with such a gruesome injury…

  …but he pressed forward.

  The natural reaction to a badly broken nose was to recoil. The man would have heard the sharp crack as he broke King’s nose and expected hesitation.

  King gave him none.

  He wasn’t prepared for that.

  King delivered a staggering uppercut into the guy’s ribs, then drew his fist back and repeated the move with the same hand — his left wrist was still unusable.

  Bang. Bang.

  The punches dealt horrendous damage, gifted with the kind of power that only came from the primal energy released by the urge for survival. The man buckled, unable to help himself keeling over to deal with the pain.

  King dropped a thunderous elbow into the back of his neck, then wrapped both arms around his waist and lifted the man off the walkway.

  He was heavy. Muscles straining, King let out a grunt as he picked up speed, taking several bounding steps with the man draped over his shoulder.

  Just as the guy had started to recover from the barrage of strikes, King threw him over the edge of the railing.

  45

  As the last of the threat dissipated, King’s knees gave out. He fell on his rear to the metal, his senses disoriented and his vision swimming.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, wincing involuntarily.

  He couldn’t deny the condition he was in any longer. Before the hit squad had arrived, his injuries had been significant yet manageable. Now, with a broken nose and another fresh round of punches to the head to deal with, he had reached his limits. The repeated blows were starting to take their toll.

  Bleeding profusely from both nostrils, he rested his head against the rock wall behind him and closed his eyes.

  ‘King!’ Léo cried.

  He heard footsteps hurrying towards him, clanging along the walkway, getting closer and closer. He forced his eyes open as the man reached him.

  ‘Hey, Léo,’ he muttered through hazy vision.

  ‘You did it,’ Léo said, panting hard. He sat down opposite King and rested against the railing. ‘You fucking did it.’

  King could barely see. He felt the throbbing agony in his broken nose, in his broken wrist, in his skull. His ribs seared with each breath. He wondered if any of them were broken too.

  ‘This isn’t going to work, Léo,’ King said, speaking low, at the edge of his limits. ‘That was one team of mercenaries. There’s plenty more where they came from.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Léo said. ‘You don’t know what’s up there. That was probably all their forces.’

  King smiled wryly, exposing blood-stained teeth. He admired the man’s optimism. ‘Maybe so, Léo. But I doubt it.’

  ‘We have to give it a shot. There’s no other option. Let’s get the others and get on the elevator.’

  King perked up at the final statement. He felt a second wave of energy roll over him, threading feeling back into his limbs. He had forgotten about that.

  He passed Léo the flashlight from his belt. ‘Go check if the elevator’s still there. That’s our last chance. I need to deal with this pain alone.’

  Léo nodded understandingly and set off back down the walkway. King watched him hurry into the tunnel they had come from and disappear into the shadows.

  He let out a long and laboured breath.

  The battle with his mind had begun.

  He had been here before — on the verge of falling into a sleep he knew he would not return from. If he let unconsciousness take hold now, it would be hours before he woke up — and he might not be the same man when he did. If he gave up now, the five health workers wouldn’t stand a chance. He wondered if they had ever fired a weapon in their life.

  A death squad similar to the five men he had just dispatched would have a field day with a group of such inexperienced combatants.

  So he needed to stay awake. It was paramount to their survival. It would be selfish to let death take him.

  He thought of Klara nervously anticipating his return in Stockholm. He thought of Ray King making a life for himself in the small town of Aregno, Corsica. They both wanted to see him again.

  He would make sure that they did.

  He clambered unsteadily to his feet, and instantly a fresh wave of agony seared through him. He leant all his weight against the wall, sucking in harsh breaths of air.

  There he waited.

  Ten minutes later, Léo returned, flashlight in hand. The man’s face sported obvious concern and disappointment.

  King knew immediately what he’d found.

  ‘The elevator’s gone,’ Léo said. ‘They must have pulled it back up to the surface electronically.’

  King nodded slowly. ‘They have control of it.’

  ‘How do we get out of this? What’s to stop them continuing to send those squads down? How many do they have?’

  King had no response to any of the questions. He stared at the health worker blankly, his alertness levels spacing in and out. On top of all the pain, a certain resignation began to set in. ‘I don’t know, Léo. I don’t know.’

  He had been banking on the elevator to be there. He would have likely died in a blaze of glory on ground level as the elevator reached the surface amongst a horde of Russian military and mercenaries, but if he could get the health workers out alive then he would be satisfied in the process.

  They were his only objective.

  He hadn’t come this far to let them all die.

  ‘Help me back to the production room,’ he muttered. ‘We’re no use out in the open.’

  Léo looped an arm around his back and helped him stagger toward the tunnel. They dipped back into the maze, a maze that King was all too familiar with by this point. He still lost his bearings, though, unable to focus on anything for longer than a few seconds. Each time he did, the agony resurfaced. He concentrated on the sensations, isolating each stabbing pain and compartmentalising it.

  He wasn’t succeeding.

  By the time Léo found the door to the production room, King had become dizzy from the physical damage. Léo called out before he opened the door, announcing his identity to the four health workers.

  Despite his warnings, they were met with two loaded handguns trained directly at their faces as they entered.

  King managed a half-smile. ‘Good job. Don’t trust a voice until you’re sure it’s friendly.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ one of the men said.

  The other three audibly gasped.

  King imagined he didn’t look too attractive. By that point his nose had swelled to three times its usual size, and the blood had caked dry across his face. Léo helped him over to the office chair and sat him down.

  He fell into a heap on the plush material and focused on keeping his breathing measured and even.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Marcus said. ‘It sounded like there was a war echoing through those tunnels.’

  ‘There was,’ King muttered.

  ‘And then—’ the man said, gesturing out the pane of glass. ‘That happened.’

  King rolled his head groggily over, following the guy’s line of sight.

  ‘Oh…’ he said. ‘That’s right.’


  The bodies of two of the hitmen rested gruesomely on the cavern floor.

  It had been a long way down.

  King turned to the five men. ‘Could…’

  He trailed off.

  Léo grimaced, aware of the extent of his injuries.

  King took a deep breath before continuing. ‘Could you guys step outside, please?’

  ‘What?’ Marcus said.

  ‘I… I need to make a phone call.’

  ‘Um, yeah,’ Léo said, pondering the statement. ‘Sure thing.’

  They filed out into the tunnel reservedly, concerned by King’s strange behaviour. When he was sure they were out of earshot, he scooped up the satellite phone and dialled a number with shaking fingers.

  Ray King answered on the second ring.

  ‘Hello?’ the man said cautiously, likely wary of the unknown number.

  ‘Dad,’ King said. ‘I know I promised to visit in a couple of days time. But I don’t know if I’m going to make it back to Corsica. I…’

  Then he choked on his words and forced back tears, waiting for his father to respond.

  He had never wanted it to come to this.

  46

  ‘Where are you?’ Ray said.

  King half-smiled. Always optimistic, his father was. ‘Nowhere you can help me.’

  ‘I can try my best. You’re my son.’

  ‘Trust me,’ King said.

  ‘Jason…you’re not going to die, are you?’

  Ray spoke the words as if he were suggesting that an impossible feat were about to take place. His voice faltered with each word. King sensed the pain in the question.

  ‘I’m human, Dad,’ King said. ‘I’m not invincible.’

  ‘You said you just had to take care of things while your organisation got their shit together. You promised you’d be back.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Then you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Dad…’

  ‘You’re not dying.’

  ‘I don’t know if…’

  ‘Hang this phone up and get back to work,’ Ray said. ‘I won’t even entertain the possibility. Look what you’ve done in your lifetime. There’s no way you’re dying now.’

  ‘I needed to call,’ King said. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Get your ass out of there, Jason. Wherever you are. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

  ‘I’ll try my best.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Ray’s voice cracked on the last word, distinctly noticeable. The machismo demeanour threatened to disappear.

  ‘If I don’t,’ King said, his voice stuffy due to both nostrils congesting with blood. ‘I wanted to say thank you. For everything. I lived a full life. I don’t want it to break you. I want you to keep living your own life, okay? Happily.’

  A pause. ‘O-okay.’

  ‘I’ll have died doing what I’m best at.’

  ‘No you won’t. You’ll make it out.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ King said. ‘It’s looking grim.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘But it was my choice to come here. Mine and mine alone. So it’s no-one’s fault. Don’t blame anyone if it happens.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Goodbye, Dad. I’ll fight tooth and nail to get out of here. This call is just in case I don’t make it.’

  ‘Wait—’

  King ended the conversation with the click of a button. He didn’t want to drag it out unnecessarily. He let out an exhale filled with all the pent-up emotion in his chest. Staying on the phone any longer would have amplified the hurt.

  And the fog of unconsciousness was settling over him with each passing second.

  Emotionally and physically exhausted, pushed to the literal edge of what was tolerable, his eyes drooped and he fell into the sleep he had been so desperate to avoid.

  47

  He didn’t dream. His mind went dark. Every now and then a bolt of sensation from any one of his injuries penetrated the murky depths of his subconscious, reminding him that he was still alive.

  He resurfaced from the darkness to a sea of bright lights above. He squinted against the glare, coming around slowly. He realised someone was tilting his head back, trying to force something between his teeth.

  He raised a hand in protest.

  ‘Painkillers,’ a distant voice said. ‘Found them in the cabinet. Swallow.’

  He gulped the tablets down, beyond the point of protesting. He couldn’t see who was delivering the medicine — some of his senses were still muddied, in a semi-conscious state. For all he knew, Mikhailov could have found him and forced poison down his throat.

  He could have just complied to his own death.

  The thought was ridiculous.

  A bullet was faster and more efficient.

  He almost welcomed the quick end. Anything to put him out of his misery.

  Then — sometime later — the pain dulled slightly. Nowhere near enough to restore his abilities, but enough to clamber out of the slumber one last time.

  He opened his eyes and gazed around the room.

  The five health workers sat on the opposite side of the tables, watching him intently. He noticed their concerned looks.

  ‘How long … have I been out?’ he muttered. Sweat coated his face and the inside of his khakis.

  Léo checked a grimy watch on one wrist. ‘Almost seven hours.’

  King’s pulse rose. ‘Fuck.’

  He started to scramble off the chair but his nose burned hot and painful, forcing him back into the seat. He grimaced and felt his neck muscles twitch. The familiar headache sprouted back into life and his wrist became agonising.

  He was nowhere near out of the woods yet.

  ‘You haven’t heard anything?’ he said through clenched teeth.

  Marcus shook his head. ‘Nah, man. We kept wandering up to the mine shaft and checking it out. The elevator hasn’t come back down yet.’

  A thought flashed through King’s mind.

  Slater.

  Was it possible? Had he eliminated everyone above?

  ‘When’s the last time you checked?’ King said.

  ‘I went twenty minutes ago,’ Léo said. ‘It doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘Sound?’

  ‘There’s noises drifting down from above. You can hear them pretty clearly. It sounds like there’s twenty men up there. Speaking in Russian.’

  Shit, King thought.

  He ruled Slater out.

  The Russians were gearing up to make a move. They didn’t know how injured he was. Maybe they thought he had dispatched the first squad with ease.

  They’re preparing for an all-out assault…

  ‘You’re right,’ King muttered. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

  ‘You can’t fend them off any longer,’ Léo said, looking him up and down. ‘That’s clear enough.’

  ‘No,’ King admitted. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything else to do except try. We can’t hide. They’ll flush us out.’

  King nodded. Even that hurt. He grimaced and leant back in the chair.

  They all heard it simultaneously. The soft metal thud of the elevator cage slamming home in the sub-levels.

  King’s pulse quickened.

  Its arrival spelled their death.

  Rising on shaky legs, he hefted the M4A1 off the table near his chair. He fished the final magazine out of his breast pocket and reloaded the carbine.

  Thirty bullets.

  That was all that was left.

  The weapon was intensely heavy in his hands. It felt like a foreign object. He wondered if the injuries he’d suffered had affected his cognition…

  There was only one way to find out.

  ‘Stay here,’ King said softly. Defeated before he had even set off into the mine.

  ‘We’re coming with you,’ Léo said. ‘More firepower.’

  King shook his head. ‘You sta
nd more of a chance in here. Don’t let anyone through that door. You hear me? Fight until the end.’

  None of them responded. It seemed the sobering truth of the situation had finally struck them. Maybe they had been waiting for King to surface out of unconsciousness with a foolproof plan to survive.

  He had nothing for them.

  He could barely walk.

  He limped to the door and swung it open. He stepped out into the gloomy tunnel and switched on the flashlight on the underside of his rifle. He swung the beam in the direction of the mine shaft and prepared to set off in what could only be described as a suicide mission.

  Before he took his first step, he heard the approaching party.

  There were at least ten of them this time. The sound of their gear rattling and shaking as they descended towards the production room spelled his inevitable death.

  Then he picked up a fresh sound.

  Close by.

  In fact — right behind him.

  The beating he’d suffered had thrown off his reaction speed. Before he could even begin to turn around, the cold barrel of a handgun touched the base of his neck.

  ‘There is more than one way into this mine, my friend,’ a voice said, laced with sadistic glee.

  King bowed his head, recognising the inflection.

  Mikhailov.

  ‘Drop the rifle,’ the man commanded.

  King dropped the rifle.

  ‘Hands on your head.’

  King placed his hands on his head.

  ‘Inside.’

  Barely even making it a step out of the production room, he turned and strode through the open doorway. When he stepped back into the room the five workers stared at him with a mixture of confusion and panic.

  Then they noticed the hulking brute holding a gun to King’s head, and they froze in place.

  Mikhailov gripped King by the back of the neck and hurled him into the same chair he’d been sleeping in moments earlier. He landed hard, sending pain flaring through his skull.

  He let his shoulders roll forward, dejected. He had no weapon. No energy. His entire body throbbed with the culmination of the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t been expecting success when he stepped out of the production room. In fact, he had been mentally preparing himself for his own death.