by Matt Rogers
‘Mabaya,’ one of the men said in Spanish. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I should ask the same question,’ Mabaya said, his deep voice resonating. King instantly recognised it. It was the same voice behind the camera in the hostage video. ‘We have a hostile watching us, and you useless fucks are standing around doing nothing.’
King’s pulse quickened.
‘How do you—’
‘He is watching. Trust me. I heard him on the radio kill Alois. Slimy fucker. I know what he’s here for.’
‘The hostages?’
Mabaya nodded. ‘Let’s make this tricky for him.’
He stepped back inside. King watched as the men outside shuffled restlessly. They were nervous. This was a foreign situation to them.
Within a minute Mabaya returned.
This time dragging a man by the collar.
The guy’s face sported dried blood and several bruises. He was also bald, dressed in a dirty security guard’s uniform. King knew who it was. With a sinking suspicion in his gut of what was about to unfold, he witnessed Mabaya drag the ex-soldier Roman Woodford into the middle of the clearing. Visible from all directions to anyone watching from the jungle.
‘American!’ Mabaya roared, switching to English. It reverberated off the trees. ‘See this man? Five seconds before I kill him! Five seconds! You show yourself!’
King didn’t move. If he gave himself up, they would all be executed. The most likely result of this operation anyway, but one he would strive to avoid. He wasn’t sure if Mabaya was bluffing. Many times, he’d watched volatile enemies make bold claims. They rarely followed through. Executing hostages removed the valuable advantage of possessing a safeguard to attack.
‘Four seconds!’
Mabaya didn’t stutter. He stayed supremely confident. Unwavering in his tone.
‘Three!’
Still no sign of hesitation. A shadow of doubt crept into King’s mind. Woodford was on his knees, motionless, staring at the ground. His expression was steely, but beaten. There was no fight he could put up without being shot to pieces. His face sported the saddening look of reserved acceptance.
‘Two!’
King could do nothing. Revealing his location would result in certain death for him and all three of the hostages. He pictured the young kid Norton’s face right before the Phantoms executed him. It sent a shiver down his spine.
‘One!’
No turning back. What happened next would reveal the situation at stake.
The situation proved to be catastrophic.
King watched in silent horror as Mabaya slid a large machete from a holster at his waist and swung it fast and hard through the air. A downward scything motion. It entered Woodford’s neck in just the right place.
Thunk.
Blood arced from the wound in three or four separate locations, spurting to the clearing floor. Woodford’s eyes glazed over instantly. Mabaya was a powerful man. The blow had almost taken Woodford’s head clean off. King clenched his fists and screamed internally as he witnessed the man collapse, all tension gone from his limbs.
Unquestionably dead.
Just like that.
‘You see!’ Mabaya roared, even louder than before. King could see the adrenalin in his expression, twisted and leering and full of energy. Murdering a man in cold blood would do that. ‘I do not fuck around! American, you have until sunset to show up here. Or I’ll kill the boy and the woman. Much more slowly. Much more painfully. Your choice!’
King could not shake the feeling that the operation was already irreversibly fucked.
CHAPTER 14
Of the seven Phantoms outside the building, three walked inside with Mabaya. The other four held their positions, peering in different directions. Looking for any sign of movement in the trees. Woodford’s corpse remained on the clearing floor, blood pooling around his upper body.
King quickly reconsidered his next move. With Woodford’s death, his last hope of finding an ally with combat experience had also vanished. Jodi Burns and Ben Norton were somewhere inside the complex, no doubt guarded by several men at a time. There would be no easy way to them, save an all-out assault.
And that was a scenario he was entirely unprepared for.
He had no intel on the facility. It remained unclear how many people were in the compound. So far he had seen seven, but it was a large structure. He saw living quarters for at least twenty individuals. On top of this, everyone was ready for action. His element of surprise had disappeared following the confrontation on the riverbank.
It was time to retreat. At least for an hour or two. A difficult decision given the circumstances, but really the only viable option given the recent turn of events. He would have to give the Phantoms’ enough time to drop their guard. Surveillance was a tough slog of an activity. Even on his missions, King had trouble keeping watch for hours at a time. Staying at a high enough level of alertness to detect all unnatural activity took practice and immense patience. He predicted these men didn’t have the skills necessary. After a while, they would grow tired. Their eyes would get sore. And then King would return and attack ruthlessly, when they least expected it.
He sprawled down to the rainforest floor once again and began to head away from the facility. Right now, the guards would be on their highest level of alertness, still jacked up on nervous energy after witnessing a murder. There was nothing to be done now. King had to let that energy dissipate.
When he was far enough away from the compound to break the line of sight, he got to his feet. His khakis were covered in mud and leaves. They clung to his skin, held there by sweat. Less than ideal conditions.
The rainforest looked the same for the next two hundred feet. He walked in a straight line away from the compound so that it would be easy to find his way back. Before long, the river materialised up ahead. He heard it before he saw it; the soft sound of running water. In these parts, it provided a brief moment of tranquility. King saw slivers of the riverbank ahead through gaps in the trees. It was further upstream than where he had come face-to-face with the two mercenaries. He could tell that much. That meant he was much closer to the compound. He would have to be cautious not to make excess noise.
He scouted the area for a minute, trying to find a suitable location to store his gear. It was important for the spot to be sheltered from prying eyes. He wasn’t sure if the Phantoms made regular patrols of the area. That’s what the two thugs he had run into before could have been doing. King recalled the four small boats they’d been standing next to, nothing but wooden hulls with motors attached. Maybe that was how the Phantoms transported their supply to Iquitos.
Maybe this river spiralled its way towards the city.
King stepped out of the rainforest briefly and peered downstream. Sure enough, he spotted the watercraft far in the distance, nothing but specks from here, bobbing on the flowing river’s surface. They would provide a useful getaway instrument if he happened to successfully extract Burns and Norton.
Within five minutes he’d found a suitable shelter inside the rainforest. It was at the base of a small rocky outcrop jutting out from the side of a hill, situated close to the river. The natural formation created a dent in the hill, covered by plants and ferns and winding branches. A cove, hidden away from anyone in the area.
He nodded in approval and threw the duffel bag into the space created by the indentation. Now his gear was safe. The duffel had been a burden ever since he’d crashed into the trees earlier that morning. King looked up through the gaps in the canopy of trees, searching for the sun’s location. It had reached its peak in the sky and was now in the long process of descending. He guessed it was around two in the afternoon. Plenty of time left to plan his attack.
He ducked into the shelter and unzipped the bag. Inside lay everything he needed for the rest of the operation. First, it was time to eat. He pulled out one of the ration packs and tore it open. The small package contained a power bar, a small tube of electrolytes
and a tin of pre-cooked penne pasta. He wolfed the bar down, gulped the electrolytes then took his time with the pasta.
For the first time in the last twenty-four hours, he took a short break. He spent the period reflecting on where he was as he ate. He still had no backup, but he had a little more confidence now after laying eyes on the compound. It was larger than he thought it would be, and he had no doubt there was a means of communication somewhere within the main building. He would find it. He was sure of it. As for the hostages, that was a much more tentative situation.
Mabaya and the other Phantoms were fully prepared for a firefight. They were expecting him, and he was certain they would not hesitate to kill the two Americans without a second thought. King knew how hostage situations worked. Even if he managed to gain the upper hand in the battle, the thugs would still be able to kill the hostages with ease. And they would, if they were losing. A last resort to ensure King remained unsuccessful in his mission.
With a sick feeling in his stomach he tucked the remnants of his ration pack into the duffel and withdrew the MP5SD. For a submachine gun, the weapon was extremely precise. Exactly why King favoured it over other firearms. He’d used it for the past three years, and knew it inside and out. 30 round magazine. Just over seven pounds in weight. It could fire roughly 800 rounds a minute, which meant he could empty a clip in three seconds if he held down the trigger.
Useful for overwhelming violence.
His favourite kind of violence.
King slotted a spare magazine into his belt, brushed the ferns aside and rose out of the indent. It would do no good sitting on his rear and waiting for an opportune time to strike. He figured he would take some time to scout the surrounding area. Get used to the jungle. It would be disastrous if he got lost in the heat of combat.
He barely made it a step.
A stick snapping caught his attention, off to the side of his vision. He glanced over and saw three figures. Interspersed throughout the rainforest. All Phantoms. All armed.
They saw him.
CHAPTER 15
Two waves crashed through King at once.
The first was panic. His heart skipped a beat as he saw the three men make eye contact with him and begin to raise their weapons. They all appeared to be just as shocked to see him. Perhaps they hadn’t been expecting someone to really be out in the rainforest. Perhaps they were rusty, having avoided combat for so long by setting up their facility in such a remote location.
The second thought that flooded his system was an urge to act. If he was to live, he had to rely on instincts and simply follow what felt natural. In this case, he raised the suppressed barrel of the MP5SD until it was level and pulled the trigger. The move was fast and fluid. Faster than the Phantoms. The kind of practiced reaction that came from spending half one’s life in the heat of combat.
In just over two seconds he unloaded the magazine.
He swept the field of gunfire from left to right, drawing a horizontal line across the space in front of him.
When the gun clicked dry, thirty 9mm bullets were embedded in the torsos of the three men in front of him.
There had been no time for any of them to get a single shot off. King’s reaction speed was unparalleled and he had used it here to devastating effect. Two of the men were thrown back by the force of the bullets, their chests scattered with holes. The third wasn’t hit by as many. He remained standing. King got ready to dive for cover, but there was no need.
The man’s gun — another Kalashnikov — fell from his hands. He looked down at his stomach, punctured by at least three rounds, then up at King. The blood had already drained from his face. He was pale.
On death’s door.
He clutched feebly at his wounds, then fell back into a mass of branches. Already slipping from consciousness. He would be dead in seconds.
King was alive. His quick thinking had saved him from certain death. Now, though, there was a serious problem on his hands.
The MP5SD was equipped with a 5.7 inch barrel that decreased the noise of each bullet’s report. It did this by reducing the pressure from each burst of gas that came from the ejection of a round. This was effective in situations where a slight reduction of noise would be beneficial. But the suppressor did not fully silence the submachine gun. No device could.
In the quiet of the rainforest, emptying a thirty-round magazine still sounded like a cacophony of unloaded ammunition.
Which — if King was back by the boats — would be inaudible to the compound.
But not from here. He was too close. He froze and listened for the sounds of chaos from the clearing.
Sure enough, there they were. Faint yelling. Commotion.
‘Guns! Over there!’
‘Did you hear that?!’
‘Boys! Move out! He’s here!’
‘No, no, no, no,’ King repeated under his breath.
The situation was disastrous. Three men were out of the equation but now every Phantom in the jungle had been made aware of his location.
They were coming.
King had to make sure of the impending pursuit before he took off. He stayed still for a moment longer, leaning against a tree, peering in the direction of the compound. Perhaps they didn’t know exactly where the noises had come from.
Not ten seconds later he realised they knew.
Shapes began to materialise in the distance. The shapes formed rough silhouettes, which formed men. Lots of them. King counted at least ten, maybe even fifteen, growing closer fast. That was all he needed to see. A small army was heading for his position, armed to the teeth and more than ready to kill.
He turned and broke into a sprint for the river.
CHAPTER 16
Inside the compound, Mabaya crossed the main production room. This area was roughly the size of a warehouse, packed full of twisting steel pipes, shiny machines and industrial-size freezers. All carted in from the mainland, piece by piece. An operation that had taken years to set up, and had been running smoothly for the last eight months. Revenue had doubled over the last four. The Phantoms had risen from the laughing stock of the underworld to an unrivalled superpower in the narcotics industry. Half of Iquitos used their product. All from Mabaya’s organisation skills and hard work.
There was no way he would let a single American fuck it all up.
He wiped the sweat off his brow and pushed open a door on the other side of the room. The hallway he stepped into was deserted. Most of his men had run off to kill the American pig. They would succeed. They outnumbered him ten to one.
Mabaya headed to the end of the hallway and kicked open a rickety wooden door, letting out some of the frustration of the morning. He stepped into a small dirty room with flaking white walls, stripped bare of any furniture. Previously, they’d used it as a storage area.
Now it held the hostages.
Mabaya looked down at them with contempt. They were separated from him by a wall of steel mesh, shoddily nailed into the walls halfway across the room. It divided the room into two halves, trapping his two prisoners on the other side. There were no windows in the room, no natural light. In here, there was no time. Nothing to base sleeping patterns on. Just a flickering halogen bulb screwed into a metal holster on the ceiling, dimly illuminating its contents.
And what abysmal contents they were.
The woman sat in one corner of the cell with her knees tucked up to her chest. Her eyes wide, her clothes torn. It had been a rough trip from the embassy to the compound. Many of his men had wanted her, but for now he had kept them at bay. He would save her for himself.
The boy in the corner looked shell-shocked. He’d never seen anything like this place. A sheltered little pussy, he was. He knew nothing of hardship, or violence, or fear. Mabaya would show him all three.
‘Woman,’ he said in English. She looked at him. Shivering. ‘There is an American out there, in the jungle. Trying to save you. This makes me very angry. He has already killed a few of my men. Do you know a
bout this?’
She shook her head. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘I think you do,’ Mabaya said, barely able to contain his rage. ‘I think you’ve told the American where you are. No-one has found this place for years. Then when we take you two, someone stumbles across it. What are the chances of that?’
‘I have nothing to do with this,’ she said. He saw a tear roll down her cheek. The boy let out an audible sob.
Mabaya sneered. ‘What the fuck are you crying about? You have nothing to cry about. Nothing’s happened to you. But this American has made me very, very angry. When we kill him, I’ll let all my men do whatever they want to you. You understand?’
A mixture of disgust and fear spread across her face. It was the reaction Mabaya was looking for. He turned to the boy, sitting in dishevelled clothing in the opposite corner. ‘Some might want you too, bitch. I’ll let them. I’ll let them all.’
With that, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him. He despised foreigners.
The mental image of the horror on their faces would give him comfort for the rest of the day.
CHAPTER 17
King broke out of the trees into open space and took off along the banks of the river. He ran in a beeline, straight for the four boats in the distance. It was imperative that he got the fuck out of the area before he was shot to pieces.
It was paramount that he cover as much ground as possible before the men behind him made it out of the rainforest. There was nothing but wide open ground along the riverbank.
If his pursuers were half-competent, they would shoot him in the back without a moment’s hesitation.
