by Matt Rogers
‘I doubt it.’
‘I don’t really talk much,’ King said. ‘And when I do I don’t exaggerate. I mean it.’
‘Then thank you, Jason.’
They kissed for a blissful, drawn-out moment — both of them recognising the finality in the gesture. When they parted, King understood exactly what the atmosphere signalled. It had shifted slightly, as if instructing him that there had never been a better time to move on. Any unnecessary lingering would increase the attachment, and deep down he knew he couldn’t stay.
No matter what.
So he slid off the four-poster bed and dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting tee, covering up everything but his massive, tanned forearms. He took one last look at Beth, sprawled out leisurely on the mattress, and admired her physique.
He doubted he would ever see her again.
‘I still don’t know what it is you do exactly,’ she noted.
‘Neither do I,’ he admitted, ‘but I need to get back to doing it.’
‘You’re a strange guy.’
‘International man of mystery? Does that work? I’d like that title.’
‘Not really,’ Beth said. ‘You’re a bit too violent for all that intrigue and suspense.’
‘Oh, well. Someone’s got to knock heads together. I’ll take a good old-fashioned fistfight over an exploding pen any day.’
‘Are you really only twenty-two?’ she said.
‘Unbelievable, right?’
‘And that was only your second operation?’
He nodded.
‘How was the first?’ she said.
‘About the same. I took a little less damage, though. I’m getting worse with time, so it seems. Or the tasks are getting harder.’
‘You’ll be dead in weeks if you keep up this pace, Jason,’ she said, her tone suddenly filled with concern. ‘Get out while you still can. That’s all I’ll say.’
‘That’s just not who I am,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know what it means to stand still. These last few weeks played with my head. I need forward movement. I’ve needed it since I was eighteen. I don’t expect you to understand — I’m a weird case.’
She shrugged. ‘I get it. Just a shame.’
‘Trust me — I feel the same,’ he said, his eyes lingering on her naked form. ‘Maybe I’ll see you down the line.’
‘Somehow I doubt that,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘Good luck. I mean it. I want the best for you.’
‘The best for me is to keep soldiering on. I wish it wasn’t so.’
‘Then go knock some heads together. You seem to have a particular talent in that regard. How many men have you killed since you started in this new role?’
‘I stopped counting,’ he admitted.
‘And yet, I don’t feel a shred of fear lying here, being with you. It’s weird. I never thought I’d sleep with a trained killer.’
He snatched up the sports bag that contained all his possessions in the world and slung the strap over one shoulder. ‘Maybe some sociopaths are nice guys after all.’
‘I don’t think you’re a sociopath. Do you?’
He paused. ‘I’ve never had time to stop and think about it. That’d leave me with too many intrusive thoughts. Hence the forward motion, I guess.’
‘You’re not crazy. That speech you gave after you killed the gang above El Hur. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I’d say ninety percent of people in your position wouldn’t consider something like that. They’d do what they thought was right at the time. They’d go with their instincts.’
‘I do that too.’
‘Then you have a damn good moral compass. And the military’s lucky to have you.’
‘Technically they don’t have me. I’m a lone wolf, remember?’
‘Well, whatever you are, keep doing you. I like it. And I like you.’
‘I like you, too.’
‘Goodbye, Jason.’
‘Goodbye, Beth.’
With that he turned on his heel and left the penthouse quietly, allowing Beth to fall back into a slumber. He strode down a carpeted corridor to a bank of shiny elevators and took the waiting carriage down to the ground floor. The vast lobby was choked with tourists, all of them with somewhere to be and checklists of attractions to visit.
King had a checklist to complete, too.
Albeit a little more dangerous than most.
The familiar twangs of phantom pain that had shot randomly through his wrist and torso throughout his recovery were gone. The injuries had healed faster than anyone had anticipated, as if his own body knew the need to return to the fray.
He was a well-oiled engine of athleticism and ability, as close to a hundred percent as he’d ever be and ready for more. He wasn’t sure how much of his enthusiasm could be chalked up to a youthful exuberance, but he hoped it wouldn’t fade too quickly with age. Having stopped Bryson Reed in his tracks, and the cartel leader Joaquín Ramos before that, he found himself energised by the prospect of striking down others. That was all the internal motivation he needed to send him straight back to work.
Briefly, as he exited the lobby into a warm Miami morning, he wondered whether it was psychologically healthy to swap another dozen days of downtime for an immediate return to combat and war.
But, then again, if he experienced the same apprehension as the rest of the general population he never would have made it to this position in the first place.
Across the ocean, a dark streak of grey hovered ominously in the sky, threatening to approach the coast and quickly turn the weather sour. King paused to observe the brewing storm for a moment, fascinated by the rapid pace at which a sunny day could be ruined.
He crossed the street to the opposite sidewalk, where a long ornate stretch of railing looked out over the beautiful Miami Beach Marina. A handful of chartered yachts milling around in the turquoise waters were in the process of casting off, turning their broad bows out to sea. Their occupants were clearly undeterred by the swelling storm clouds, opting to go about their business despite the threat. King couldn’t help but think they would be safer postponing their activities for better weather.
‘“But that’s not what ships are built for”,’ he muttered under his breath, recalling an old John A. Shedd quote he’d found during childhood and had stuck with him ever since.
Resolute, focused, he forced all traumatic memories of his recovery from his mind and turned away from the marina.
He now knew what hell felt like.
He’d taken the worst punishment imaginable.
And here he was. Recovered. Unfazed.
In his prime.
As he made for the road, entirely undeterred by the prospect of heading back into a war zone, he realised this career would be infused with his soul for a long, long time.
War hadn’t caused him to wilt.
Instead it had strengthened him.
Jason King hailed a cab for Miami International Airport, wondering just what the world would throw at him next.
He’d be ready.
JASON KING WILL RETURN.
MORE BOOKS BY MATT ROGERS
THE JASON KING SERIES
Isolated (Book 1)
Imprisoned (Book 2)
Reloaded (Book 3)
Betrayed (Book 4)
Corrupted (Book 5)
Hunted (Book 6)
THE JASON KING FILES
Cartel (Book 1)
Warrior (Book 2)
THE WILL SLATER SERIES
Wolf (Book 1)
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About the Autho
r
Matt Rogers grew up in Melbourne, Australia as a voracious reader, relentlessly devouring thrillers and mysteries in his spare time. Now, he writes full-time. His novels are action-packed and fast-paced. Dive into the Jason King Series to get started with his collection.
Visit his website:
www.mattrogersbooks.com
Visit his Amazon page:
amazon.com/author/mattrogers23
