Hard Impact: A Jason King Operation (Jason King Series Book 0)

by Matt Rogers

  He had one clip of ammo on him. The rest of his gear was in the duffel bag, which would hopefully remain in the shelter he’d found. If that was located and removed, he was as good as dead.

  Just as the boats came within close proximity, he heard shouting amongst the trees. He threw a glance back over his shoulder and baulked at the sight. Nine men had burst onto the riverbank, all carrying automatic rifles. A few of them were taking aim.

  King wouldn’t reach the nearest boat for at least three seconds. There was no cover to dive for. No action to take other than run for his life. He grit his teeth and pushed his legs as fast as they could possibly go, speeding across the uneven ground.

  The first bullets whizzed past his head.

  Usually King was prepared for any scenario. Even when rounds were flying, he had a talent for remaining calm.

  Now, there was no staying calm.

  He had never found himself in such a precarious scenario. If one bullet found its home, he would fall. The worst part was he would never see it coming.

  Metal slugs hit the mud all around his feet. He heard the sound of their impact, ringing through his ears. Any moment he expected to have the lights go out. For a fleeting second, he wondered what death would feel like.

  Then the boats were right there, and he was still alive. Using every ounce of energy he leapt into the footwell of the nearest vessel. He came down hard on the wooden floor. The pain of landing was almost a welcome feeling. At least he could still feel something.

  The mercenaries were rusty with their aim, and it had saved his life. There wouldn’t be much opportunity to practice firing at moving targets this far out in the rainforest. On top of that, ammunition was valuable out in these parts. Iquitos was a hundred miles away. He guessed the Phantoms did not churn through countless magazines of ammunition honing their aim.

  As a result, they’d missed him. And now he would do everything in his power to ensure he seized the upper hand. He would never put himself in such a terrible situation again.

  Bullets still flew above his head, but for now he was safe. The chassis of the boat blocked the Phantoms’ line of sight. If King didn’t get moving, they would catch up to him and unload their magazines into the boat. He was a sitting duck in his current position.

  He crawled to the back of the boat and reached for the outboard motor. He wrapped one hand around the pull cord and gave it a heave. It spluttered, but did not start. Another hard tug and the motor roared to life. He slammed the throttle to its maximum output and pushed on the tiller so the small craft swung round in the water. A sudden jolt rattled him, throwing him across the floor. He realised the boat was still attached to its moorings, tied to the shore. It wouldn’t budge.

  He stayed flat on his stomach and reached up, searching for the attached rope. A bullet whisked by, so close that he could feel the displaced air. He wrapped his fingers around the thick nylon and wrenched it free. Then he re-engaged the throttle and the boat tore away from the shore.

  He didn’t dare raise his head. If he could see them, they could see him. Which meant a stray bullet could take his head off, no matter how terrible their aim was. They only needed to get lucky once.

  He gauged his position in the river by lying flat on his back and studying the overhanging trees. The branches let him know if he was getting too close to either bank. Using this method he adjusted the tiller accordingly and guided the boat downstream at breakneck speed.

  The river was shallow, and as a result the hull crushed against rocks at high velocity. King felt the reverberations through his body after each impact. Behind him he heard the revving of engines and realised that the Phantoms had spread out amongst the three remaining boats.

  They were giving chase.

  Not ideal.

  King took a moment to gather his thoughts, then switched to a crouch. The men would be preoccupied with steering their boats. They wouldn’t have him in their sights. Not yet.

  Even if they were waiting for him to show himself, they wouldn’t come close to landing a shot. The river flowed fast, making it impossible to hold a weapon steady. The only way he would be hit was through blind luck. Which was possible, but worth taking a risk to check their position.

  The three boats were at different stages of giving pursuit. One had surged ahead from the others, gaining rapidly on King. Four men perched in its small frame. The others were in the process of leaving shore. One boat contained three men and the other housed a pair.

  Nine Phantoms in total.

  The men in the lead boat saw him. One steered the outboard motor while the other three scooped up their weapons. King saw three barrels swing in his direction and dove back underneath the frame, just as a wave of bullets lit up the space over his head. He’d been wrong about the accuracy of the hostiles. They were much closer than he originally assumed.

  The shooting did not stop. King flattened himself against the floor and listened to all three men unload their magazines at his boat. A few bullets punctured the flimsy wooden hull, but none struck him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the barrage ceased.

  An idea came to him.

  He reached up and eased off the throttle, then swung the tiller round so that the bow aimed toward the opposite bank. The boat slowed and began to drift. King stayed out of sight of the pursuing Phantoms. Within a few seconds, he felt the craft run into a cluster of low-hanging branches on the other side of the river and grind to a halt, firmly entangled in the scrub.

  He killed the motor.

  Silence.

  Now he could hear the whining of the other three boats. He managed to roughly gauge their position from what was audible. The first boat was fast approaching. His plan was working.

  They thought he was dead.

  To them, it appeared he had been riddled with bullets and lost control of the boat, and his corpse now lay in the bottom of the damaged wreck.

  They were coming to check.

  That would be their downfall.

  Silently, King reloaded the MP5SD. He ejected the empty magazine and slotted in the fresh 30-round clip attached to his belt. It was all the ammunition he had left. Hopefully, it was all he would need.

  He waited, lying prone, until it felt like the other boat was right on top of him. He heard the four men shuffle around, creaking wood. The man driving let off the throttle. The engine grew quieter.

  Now.

  King burst off the floor of his boat and unloaded all thirty rounds into their vessel before any of them had the slightest chance to react.

  CHAPTER 18

  Their boat turned to a bloodbath.

  The entirety of his magazine poured across the vessels. It had a devastating effect on the occupants. All four men jerked like marionettes on strings. All four lost their lives in a single moment. All four careered out of the boat, splashing one by one into the murky water.

  King fired until his gun clicked empty. He knew if he successfully eliminated all four of them, there would be spare weapons in their boat that he could ravage. It was worth overcompensating by unloading his whole magazine to ensure he was the only one in the vicinity left breathing. It would be disastrous to leave one man alive and risk getting shot back.

  The enemy boat had been drifting toward his. In an instant it was empty. It continued on its path, carried by momentum and the current of the river. King watched it enter the same branches his had. Then its bow slammed into the side of his boat.

  At that exact moment, he leapt across. He landed on a smear of blood left over from the deaths of its four occupants. The puddle was slick and unstable. He slid on the wet patch and crashed to the floor, coming down hard. It didn’t matter. He was in. There were six men left to take care of, and then Mabaya’s forces would be severely incapacitated.

  ‘Light work,’ he muttered, trying to convince himself that what lay ahead would be an easy task.

  This boat was slightly different, he noted. Its frame rose a little higher on all sides, giving him enough
room to crouch and remain out of sight of the other two boats. Two guns had been discarded on the floor. The other two had stayed with their owners as all four men fell overboard, heading straight for a watery grave.

  King checked the position of the four bodies around the boat. The corpses were already out of sight. They’d sunk fast. Even a couple of feet below the surface, the river was murky enough to make them disappear. King breathed a sigh of relief that they had died instantly. Drowning was a method of death that he wished on no man, not even those trying to kill him. He believed that — save a few exceptions — everyone deserved a quick death.

  The two boats behind him had finally left shore. They roared toward him. The vessel on the left held the pair of Phantoms, while the other held three. King used the short time he had in which there was significant distance between them to swing the tiller of his new boat around and gun the engine in their direction. The bow arced through the water until it aimed for a collision course with the boat on the left, then held still. A game of chicken on the rough waters of the river.

  As soon as King guided the boat on course, he dropped. The gunfire from the Phantoms was inevitable. And the closer they got, the higher their chance of landing a shot. It would only take one to eliminate him from the fight.

  The two rifles on the floor beside him were both Kalashnikovs. It seemed the Phantoms had ordered a bulk lot of the same brand. Probably off the black market. Whatever the case, one was another AK-74 and the second was a newer, cleaner AK-105. Very similar weapons. They both used the same caliber of ammunition. It would not matter which he selected. What did matter was which one had any bullets left in the magazine. There was no time to check. He simply had to guess.

  He heard the enemy boat buzzing closer. It wouldn’t be long before they collided, unless someone swerved out of the way. And King sure as hell wasn’t going to. He couldn’t even see what lay ahead. A few bullets thunked into the bow. The Phantoms were firing warning shots. Attempting to scare him into changing course.

  He didn’t budge.

  Still crouching low, he snatched up the AK-105, pointed its barrel towards the sky and held the trigger.

  Bang, bang, bang.

  Three bullets left in the magazine, all loud and unsuppressed and ejecting from the barrel in rapid succession.

  He knew it would send them ducking for cover.

  Now, the hard part. Would they swerve to the left or the right? He had one attempt at his next move. If the timing was a fraction of a second wrong, he’d die. If his reflexes were not sharp enough, he’d die.

  If anything at all did not go according to plan, he’d die.

  He guessed the Phantom driving the boat was more than likely right handed, and as such his instincts would cause him to involuntarily swing to the right in order to avoid a collision. He tensed the muscles in his legs and took a deep inhalation. Ready to jump.

  Just as the whining of the enemy boat’s engine reached a crescendo, King sprung off the floor of his, took a single step and launched off the side of the boat.

  He’d guessed correctly.

  The enemy boat was in the process of passing by. Exactly where he’d decided to jump. Both members of the boat had their heads down, still reeling from the sudden burst of gunfire that had come from King’s craft. They weren’t expecting what came next in the slightest.

  King landed double-footed, effectively leap-frogging between the two boats. He never stopped moving. Using his forward momentum he charged at the nearest hostile. The man held an automatic rifle, but he wouldn’t have time to use it. King dropped his shoulder low. Pushed off the floor with all the power in his glutes. Thundered his bulk into the man’s chest.

  Two hundred pounds of sprinting muscle knocked the mercenary senseless. The gun flew from his hands and the impact took him off his feet. Straight off the edge of the boat.

  King didn’t even pause to watch him hit the water. He heard the splash as he turned to face the second man, registering that the first was momentarily out of the equation. The driver wasn’t armed. Both his hands still rested on the tiller. His Kalashnikov lay at his feet. It would be no use to him there.

  King wound up and threw a well-practiced uppercut with his right hand. He planted his feet before the swing, lending it the power of his legs. Momentum transitioned from his feet to his thighs to his torso, shooting through his shoulder as he arced around. The driver didn’t stand a chance. King’s knuckles crashed against the soft tissue under his chin. His brain rattled hard in his skull, which was the only thing necessary to strip away his consciousness. His legs gave out and he collapsed to the floor, out for at least the next thirty seconds. This wasn’t the movies. He would soon come to his senses. No-one stayed down for more than a minute. But the concussion would disorientate him enough to put him out of the equation for the foreseeable future.

  King’s plan had worked flawlessly so far. There was just one boat left, still a fair distance away. Three hostiles were perched within.

  He dropped his guard for a single second.

  That was all it took.

  One of the thugs in the final boat fired a round from his automatic weapon, probably a Kalashnikov. A single round shot across the space of the river before King had time to blink and buried itself deep in his left wrist. A white hot burst of pain flooded his senses and he instinctively dove to the floor of the boat.

  Blood began to pour from the wound.

  CHAPTER 19

  King was prepared for injuries, but it didn’t change the pain associated with such a grievous wound. The bullet had embedded itself deep in his skin. It was a grisly sight, already dripping crimson.

  He recognised the pain associated with a 5.45x39mm round. They were often labelled “poison bullets” from those hit by them. They fragmented and tumbled upon impact, causing massive damage to tissue. King wasn’t sure of the severity, but he needed a temporary fix for the problem before the final boat caught up to him and filled him with lead.

  He withdrew two items from a small pouch on the side of his belt. Thankfully, both were untouched by the chaos of the morning. One was a sterilised set of tiny pliers, and the other was a minuscule canister of superglue. The two things King had found most effective for quickly stopping blood flow on the battlefield. He’d experienced his fair share of combat wounds in the past. He stayed level-headed as he got to work.

  Being the most effective method did not make it the least painful. In fact, King found it quite the contrary. He dug the pliers into the wound, crushing his teeth together in an attempt to combat his screaming nerve endings. Each tooth of the pliers locked onto either side of the bullet and he ripped it free. He let out a roar as fire flooded his brain. The pain began to verge on the edge of unbearable. Any worse, and he would pass out from the agony.

  The hole in his wrist needed patching up, fast. Thankfully King had the other item. He unscrewed the small lid to the superglue and upended the container into the wound. It came out as a clear liquid and instantly began to set. It stung like all hell. King clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. A feeble attempt to ride out the pain.

  He heard the last boat closing in.

  He snatched up the unconscious driver’s AK-74 and fired a blind volley of shots over the edge of the frame, aiming in their general direction. A simultaneous burst of fire greeted him back, splintering the wooden hull of his boat. One round punctured the flimsy frame and whisked past his face, close enough that he could feel the displaced air against his forehead.

  He panicked. The boat was a death trap. These men had watched their comrades get shot to pieces. They were ready for any assault King threw at them. They had their aim locked on. There was no way he could win this one.

  King managed to stay alive in these types of situations partially because of his combat skills, but mostly because he could recognise when it was time to retreat. By the time he rose out of cover and managed to achieve any sort of decent aim on the enemy boat, they would riddle his bod
y with bullets.

  Time to go.

  King sucked as much air into his lungs as possible and held the breath for five long seconds. Then he exhaled slowly, forcing the precarious situation he was in from his mind, doing everything in his power to calm down. He would need it for what lay ahead. He ignored the sound of the final boat droning steadily toward him. It would do no good to worry about that. Reducing his heartbeat was the only thing on his mind. He let the adrenalin of combat flow out of his system.

  He took a final inhale, deep and full, letting it resonate throughout his body. Then wrapped one hand around the frame. Got his legs underneath him. Rolled over the side. Dropped silently into the murky river.

  They would have seen him enter the water, but he would be impossible to locate. The river was filthy, and as King plunged into it his vision turned to black. Nothing was visible under its surface.

  To guarantee he wasn’t spotted he swam a few feet straight down. Now they would be clueless as to his location. Underneath the water, there was no sound. It was eerily quiet in contrast to the constant gunshots and the screaming of outboard motors.

  King set off, his pace measured. A year of training with the Navy SEALs at the very beginning of his military career had left him with the ability to hold his breath for up to four minutes. He hadn’t spent long with the SEALs. Even as a novice in terms of military experience his potential had quickly been realised and he had shot through the ranks, eventually contracted to a division that the public wasn’t aware existed. But the training stuck with him.

  All his training stuck with him.

  He tried to forget that three hostiles were somewhere above his head, their guns most likely trained toward the water. It would only take one fluke shot to kill him. He forced the thought from his mind and focused on a steady breaststroke, aiming for the opposite riverbank. His current priority was making it ashore without any of the three remaining Phantoms realising.

  Then a bullet sliced through the water less than a foot beside him.