Warrior: A Jason King Thriller (The Jason King Files Book 2)

by Matt Rogers

  She looked up. ‘Oh — no, thank you. I’m perfectly fine where I am.’

  ‘I wasn’t offering you a job. I was just asking…’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, a little too curtly. ‘I don’t want anything to do with the world you operate in. It’s my job to look after you while you’re here, then I’m going straight back to protecting these fine men and women.’

  She gestured around the communal space, where six peacekeepers were spread out across the warmly-lit room, halfway through meals or playing cards. They were all of African descent, and all of them seemed worn out by the day’s proceedings. They would sleep well tonight.

  Besides the language barrier, King didn’t know what he’d say to them in any case. Small talk wasn’t his forte, and he had already disclosed an uncomfortable amount of information to Beth, information that probably should have stayed private.

  He grimaced as he realised that she had inadvertently managed to wring some sensitive facts out of him over the course of the day.

  ‘Look, I’ve already said too much,’ he said. ‘Just let me go about my business.’

  ‘Don’t go to the port.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Look how well it worked out for Reed. And if you’re looking to recruit him, then it means he’s on your level. So can you really expect a different outcome? What do you need to go there for anyway?’

  ‘I need to see what kind of disruption he caused.’

  ‘So you’re actively looking for the smuggling ring?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He could have bullshitted ninety percent of this story to make himself seem more talented than he really is. If he’s restless, and he wants out of here, that’d be the way to do it. Make up a tale about how you thwarted a crime ring and hope to God that no-one investigates your story. You see what I’m getting at?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s not like that.’

  ‘You never know. So I need to see it with my own eyes. If I stumble across a band of disgruntled drug runners, I’ll know I have my guy.’

  ‘And if they catch you?’

  ‘I can handle myself.’

  ‘I’ll need to tag along,’ she said, but there was no determination in her tone. He could tell that she wanted him to beat the proposition down.

  He simply stared at her. ‘You know you don’t.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Like you said, you’re perfectly happy to guard a perimeter. There’s nothing wrong with that at all. In fact, you’re probably saner than me.’

  ‘Would you do this kind of thing?’ she said. ‘Protect peacekeepers?’

  ‘Sitting around this place all day?’ he said.

  She nodded.

  ‘I’d rather shoot myself.’

  ‘You keep running around like this and you won’t have to worry about shooting yourself. Others will do it for you.’

  He smirked. ‘Hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘You look about twenty. Give it time.’

  She left him there without realising how deep her words had cut. Underneath the veneer of confidence, he sat back in the seat, letting the cushions mould around him, and thought long and hard about his own mortality. Tijuana had brushed off on him, giving him a certain aura of invincibility. He had survived a handful of close encounters with death — and now what?

  Did he really think he was going to storm into the midst of an international crime syndicate and simply stroll away like it was nothing?

  He certainly hoped he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have any time whatsoever left to think about the ramifications of his actions.

  As darkness fell over the war-torn city, King slipped through the crowd of peacekeepers, nodding to each man and woman in turn. They seemed pleasant enough. They were here for all the right reasons.

  So are you, he tried to convince himself.

  It didn’t work.

  In reality, he recognised the fact that he was probably going to get himself killed in the not-too-distant future.

  When Beth had retreated to her own quarters — no longer around to keep an eye on him — he slipped out the front door and set off into the darkness, with nothing but the heavy duffel bag across his back to keep him company.

  14

  During the flight over, Lars had loaded the bag with certain items that would prove beneficial should King find himself in a compromised position.

  Before he made it to the perimeter of the compound, he swung the duffel off his back and yanked an M45 MEUSOC pistol from the top of the bag. Lars had informed him that a batch of the firearms were to be delivered to Beth and her colleagues by the same cargo plane, and if King decided to borrow one it wouldn’t be missed. The weapons were the default sidearm of the Force Recon Marines, weighing just over two pounds and loaded with ACP calibre rounds. King had used them before, in Delta training.

  He’d happily accepted the extra firepower.

  The seven-round magazine was fully loaded — a little less firing capacity than he would have liked, but enough to suffice. There were plenty of spare magazines in the duffel, but he had no intention of using them. Despite the example he’d set in Tijuana, he would prefer if only a small portion of his operations unfolded in similar fashion. He could only survive by the skin of his teeth for so long, and he preferred to minimise that level of engagement as often as he could.

  He spotted a shadowy figure outlined against the sheer darkness beyond the perimeter fence. Fear bolted through his chest and he jolted momentarily, stunned by the appearance of the motionless silhouette.

  Then he recognised the man from earlier that day.

  ‘Johnson?’ he called, his voice cutting through the hot night air.

  ‘Who are you?’ the man said, curt and adversarial.

  ‘Jason King. The new guy.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry, brother. Didn’t recognise you.’

  ‘No problem.’

  King approached the man, his boots crunching against the gravel trail. He pulled to a halt a foot away from Johnson. The only illumination came from the terrace light in the centre of the compound, and King’s eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the light yet. He squinted to make out the man’s complexion. From a foot away, he could smell the sweat on Johnson’s skin. The hot wasteland had hardened the man — he barely budged as King closed the distance.

  ‘How long do you stay out here for?’

  ‘Until late,’ Johnson said. ‘We’ve had all kinds of undesirables sniffing around lately. No thanks to dipshit up the back.’

  ‘Reed?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You’re not a fan, I take it?’

  Johnson scoffed and spat into the gravel alongside his boots. ‘Fucker’s gone and ruined it for the rest of us. There’s men and women trying to do good work here, and all we’re here for is to make sure they can go about their business without interference. Then this Reed guy decides to get on his fucking high horse and go act like a noble warrior around the docks. What’s he doing there in the first place? I hope you’re here to chew his ass out.’

  ‘Something like that,’ King said, hesitant to divulge his true purpose.

  That drew Johnson’s attention to a different matter. ‘As a matter of fact, where the hell are you off to?’

  ‘Doing some snooping around,’ King said. ‘I’m from a different division. We deal with this kind of thing hands-on. Me and my superiors need to know Reed was telling the truth about what happened at the port.’

  He neglected to mention that in the event that Reed’s story was accurate, he would be recruited into their organisation.

  Johnson might not have appreciated that.

  The man scrunched up his nose at the news. ‘What did he even do? He’s being a dick about all of this. Barely talking about it. Apart from the three al-Shabaab mongrels he killed — that’s all anyone’s talking about for miles around. I’m worried the entire faction
of rebels will take it personally and come mow down everyone in this compound. It’s on Reed if they decide to do that.’

  ‘That’s what I’m here for,’ King said, and then regretted opening his mouth.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  King paused. ‘For protection. In case shit hits the fan.’

  Johnson visibly stiffened, noticeable even in the lowlight. ‘No — that’s what we’re here for.’

  ‘I know,’ King said, backtracking. ‘But—’

  ‘You’re a babyface,’ Johnson said, echoing Beth’s sentiments. The man’s temperament had flared, his tone turning hostile. ‘Built like a truck but you look about eighteen. We don’t need you to take care of us.’

  ‘I know,’ King said again. ‘That’s not what I’m here to do.’

  ‘You just said you were here for protection.’

  ‘And discretion. You’re not allowed to go chasing Reed’s claims. I am.’

  ‘So you’re off to the port? That’s what this is?’

  King nodded.

  Johnson looked him up and down, checking his outfit for any sign that he belonged to the United States military. Noting an absence of official gear, he shrugged, suddenly nonchalant. ‘Well, if you get yourself killed, that’s no skin off my back. As long as they can’t trace it back here.’

  ‘Glad to hear I mean so much to you,’ King muttered.

  ‘You’re the one willingly setting off on a suicide mission. If Reed’s telling the truth, then the port will be manned like crazy. In fact, if you find out he is telling the truth and manage to make it back here in one piece … we might have to pull all the peacekeepers out. It’s serious business if he’s managed to instigate such a goddamn volatile situation.’

  ‘I’m not planning to get myself killed,’ King said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not even planning to engage. Just going to snoop around and see how things are panning out.’

  Johnson gestured to the M45 pistol in King’s hand, the barrel of which remained pointed at the dirt between them. ‘Seems like you’re planning to engage.’

  ‘Precautions. I’d be stupid not to take them.’

  Johnson nodded. ‘I’d do the same. Well, good luck out there. Don’t make things worse, or you’ll fuck up the operation for the rest of us.’

  ‘I have the feeling Reed’s already done that.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And he didn’t stop for a second to consider the consequences. He should be in prison, and you know it.’

  King paused. ‘I don’t know anything yet. And neither do you.’

  The hostile temperament resurfaced. ‘It’s pretty obvious. No-one’s bothering us, and then a trio of al-Shabaab thugs ambush Reed on the outskirts of the camp. What if they didn’t find him patrolling the suburbs? What if they barged straight in here? What would the damage have been like?’

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing they found him, then. And it’s a good thing he had the nerve to act. They could have gunned him down and pushed straight through into the compound. He stopped them in their tracks, and it’s probably causing the rest of the dock workers to hesitate. It’s probably why we’re not outnumbered by militants right now.’

  ‘Reed instigated everything in the first place. They wouldn’t be bothering us if he’d stayed in his lane.’

  ‘But he didn’t. And here we are.’

  ‘Here we are,’ Johnson mused. ‘Well … I won’t keep you waiting.’

  He moved across to the small wood-panelled booth erected right near the perimeter gate and thumbed a button on a grimy console. The space within was shrouded in darkness, sparse and utilitarian. Little funds had been expended on this place.

  The gate whined open, piercingly loud in the balmy night. King flinched involuntarily and tightened his grip on the weapon. The gaping maw in the perimeter fence beckoned him, inviting him out into the wild. He had no vehicle, no instructions, no-one watching over him to pull him out if the going got tough.

  He turned to Johnson. ‘How far’s the port?’

  ‘About two miles.’

  ‘Nice night for a walk.’

  Johnson shrugged. ‘Your choice. I can’t let you take one of the jeeps. You’ll stand out like a sore thumb out there. Remember, you’re not affiliated with us. Under any circumstances.’

  King nodded. ‘I’m a nobody.’

  ‘Good luck,’ the man repeated. ‘Hope you find enough evidence to nail that scummy fucker.’

  ‘That’s not what I have in mind.’

  ‘You should.’

  King let the conversation die out, realising that allowing it to drag on any further would only mean doubling back on topics they had previously touched on. Johnson’s resentment toward Reed was starkly obvious, and any more time King spent loitering around would serve him no good. He was determined to keep a neutral perspective.

  From what he’d seen so far, all signs pointed to Reed posing a welcome addition to Black Force’s ranks.

  King nodded farewell to the perimeter guard and stepped out into the night.

  15

  El Hur

  Somalia

  The container ship breached a violent wave with a roar of exertion, its hull groaning under the strain of the Indian Ocean. Then, all at once, the crippling swells dispersed, replaced by a sparkling field of turquoise for as far as the eye could see, illuminated by a full moon overhead.

  The bearded man breathed a sigh of relief as he stared out one of the portholes along the bridge. Beside him, the ship’s crew calmed themselves. They had overcome the last major hurdle of the journey, and were now free to trawl along Somalia’s coast for as long as their guests needed. They had little choice in the matter.

  The bearded man reached up and wiped a bead of sweat off his forehead — he hated the seas. He would die before admitting it to any of the crew around him, but he had been reluctant to accept the task that had been put before him. Eventually, the potential profits outweighed the fear and he had stepped aboard the container ship with bated breath.

  Now they’d made it to the coast, he soaked in the view of Galmudug state, a portion of Somalia several hundred miles north of its capital. Their payload would soon make its journey from Mogadishu to the tiny village of El Hur, where it would be intercepted by the container ship. The bearded man — along with his unit — would make off with their riches in stunning fashion. No-one would be the wiser, and they would live out the rest of their days in opulent luxury, having employed a number of methods to ensure that they received a sizeable monthly cash flow until the day they died.

  He could hardly wait.

  He wanted off this damn ship, and he wanted more money than he could possibly imagine.

  It had been a laborious, complicated procedure. The business he and his men owned had to be restructured in preparation for the massive explosion of wealth they were set to acquire. The majority of the money they received would be cold hard cash. Whenever this kind of dirty operation was concerned, cash reigned king. It couldn’t be traced, couldn’t be regulated and scrutinised and taxed. It proved cumbersome to manhandle, but the bearded man considered himself up to the task. It would be injected sporadically into their pre-existing business, piece by piece, entering the system legally without having to do any of the work to earn the money honestly.

  The bearded man smiled.

  He studied the ship workers milling about the bridge, sweating and focused. They would be paid scraps for their hard work, forced to maintain their positions for years — if not decades — to come.

  If only they knew.

  The bearded man had only recently experienced the revelation. There were men on this planet who worked harder than him — even when taking into account his violent past. But all it took was a single power move, a set of actions that were rather simple but most chose to avoid. He would take advantage of the way the world worked — all the business dealings that governments and countries allowed to go ahead under the table because they kept the economy running.

  In planning th
is operation, he had discovered that almost anything could be achieved if you made the dealings complicated enough. Carry out the deal in international waters, where jurisdiction was confusing and muddied, and no-one felt the urge to come after you. Set up accounts and systems in five or six different countries across the globe and money is forced to pass through a route that no-one will care to follow to its end.

  After all, most countries only give a shit about what happens within their borders.

  Now that he could see the coastline, the bearded man experienced a wave of anticipation. It made him giddy with excitement. He didn’t let it show, but hope began to trickle into his system. He had remained sceptical for longer than necessary, just in case everything went belly-up and he found himself at the mercy of a foreign judicial system.

  But the endgame was right there.

  Just a couple dozen miles away.

  Soon the payload would make its way to the container ship with the help of a convoy of work boats hired off the locals. They would cram it into one of the TEUs, which he’d been told would ensure its safety for the return trip.

  The details had been explained to him in painstaking fashion.

  The likelihood of their container getting inspected was almost nonexistent. Roughly one percent of the containers that passed through the major ports were stopped for inspection — any more than that, and there would be such massive delays as to disrupt the natural flow of the international shipping industry. He had asked his men to compile as much data as possible on the size and scope of the maze, more for reassurance’s sake than anything else. He had come away satisfied — the transnational web of ships that ebbed to and fro across countries and continents was almost immeasurable. Finding their dirty profits would be like finding a needle in a haystack the size of a skyscraper.

  Besides, he’d come to learn that almost everyone broke the rules in one way or another. The open ocean was effectively lawless, and certain advantages were taken.

  The bearded man excused himself from the bridge and hurried along an open-air walkway, seeking privacy. He turned his face to the open skies and stark moonlight and soaked in the sights — much of the last week had been spent indoors, crammed into a claustrophobic box, riding out the storms.