by Matt Rogers
‘Fifteen minutes. You should know that. We’ve made this journey enough times.’
‘I never pay attention. You’ve never let me drive.’
‘I enjoy it. Soothes the mind.’
Thorn smirked. ‘I’d take all the soothing I could get if I were you.’
‘You do the same work.’
‘I don’t have a conscience.’
‘Neither do I. You think this bothers me?’
‘Never said it did.’
‘We’re close.’
Kisangani reared up out of the earth, a sprawling mass of rundown dwellings, so congested and clogged with dilapidated houses and sweat-soaked civilians that it stirred a sense of claustrophobia in Wyatt’s chest every time he entered the city. The scenic backdrop of the Congo fell away, replaced by stuffy rancid one-way streets and the relentless stream of pedestrians shuffling along cracked sidewalks.
Wyatt guided the enormous Ford Raptor through the streets, fully aware of how much the vehicle stood out. It attracted both astonished gazes and grimaces of fear from passers-by — Wyatt understood. Anyone with money in these parts had to be a fearsome individual. No-one got anywhere in this lawless land by bowing their head and moving along with the masses. And to stand out in a country that claimed nearly fifty thousand lives per month in cold-blooded murder, one had to be particularly vile.
Wyatt had never considered himself vile.
He was a mere opportunist who crossed the line every now and then.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
The Raptor pulled into a dingy three-storey complex, screeching to a halt in an underground parking garage in horrific condition. Mould covered all the walls and some kind of foul-smelling liquid dripped intermittently from the ceiling. The structure above their heads had proved lucrative — Wyatt and his crew made an intimidating combination, which was often all one needed to exploit the masses.
The four men got out and moved in a cohesive unit. They had made this trip many times before. Even if they’d visited Kisangani before, they moved with such a practiced urgency and calmness that anyone would have mistaken them for frequent visitors. Wyatt had learned long ago that acting like you belonged could take you anywhere in life.
But they belonged.
The grimy reception lay empty, except for an emaciated Congolese man in a dirty singlet and faded cargo shorts behind the desk. He simply bowed his head as the four-man unit hurried straight past. From somewhere in the bowels of the complex they heard the muffled roar of a crowd. They ignored it, barging straight down a narrow hallway and into a locker room devoid of life.
Except for the shirtless man in the corner glistening with sweat, his elbows on his knees, hunched over, staring at the floor.
Dripping blood and perspiration onto the cracked tiles.
Wyatt took the lead, allowing the other three to fan out in as intimidating a fashion as possible. Thorn, Link, and Crank stuck their chests out and crossed their arms, shooting daggers across the room. Wyatt moved forward. The sole of his boot squeaked on the tiles underfoot.
The bloodstained man lifted his head, turning his face to the light.
A horrific hematoma had sprouted to life above his right eye, like a golf ball had been placed under his skin and the surrounding area sprayed purple. The rest of his face was a mess of cuts, bruises, and welts. He stared up at Wyatt, only able to see out of one eye, and Wyatt thought he saw a tear trickle down the man’s cheek.
‘All went as planned?’ Wyatt said.
‘Yeah.’
‘They paid out?’
‘Yeah.’
The battered man handed over a wad of hundred-dollar bills. Wyatt stared down at the face of Benjamin Franklin on the topmost note.
The only currency worth a damn in this part of the world.
‘This all of it?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m going to count it later. If I find out you’re fucking me over I’ll come back here and finish what the other guy started. Final warning.’
The shirtless man whimpered — Wyatt couldn’t tell whether it was from the pain or the implications of what he’d said — but the guy only hesitated for a brief second before reaching back and removing what looked to be another three or four thousand dollars from the back of his shorts.
Internally, Wyatt seethed.
He snatched the money out of the guy’s bloody fingers and added the stash to the bills stuffed in his right fist. Every part of him wanted to lash out and connect with a strike, but something told him the guy might pass out from the pain. So he simply peeled a couple of hundred dollar bills off the haul and tossed them to the floor between the man’s feet.
The guy stared down at them, defeat plastering his broken face. ‘You … promised me double that.’
‘I should give you nothing. You just tried to steal from me, you dumb fuck.’
‘P-please. This is all I have. I won’t be able to go again for months.’
‘Should have thought of that a minute ago. Let’s go, boys.’
On cue the trio behind Wyatt pivoted and hurried out of the locker room, leaving the pair alone. Wyatt paused for a beat, sensing the desperation in the air. He found himself captivated by the urge to say something … anything.
‘See you in two months for your next bout,’ he said with a smirk.
He followed the other three out into the sterile hallway, leaving the broken shell of a man on the wooden slats where he sat.
15
King adjusted his position on the faded couch, sinking a little further into the cushions. The giant puffy cylinders attached to each of his legs made his lower half look like an inflatable doll, but the compressed air pulsing over his aching muscles were doing wonders for his recovery.
Brody dropped onto the seat next to him, passing him a beer to commemorate a successful fourth day of training in the books. The time had passed in a blur of agony and exertion — nothing King wasn’t used to, though. And this was far from the pain he’d experienced on the battlefield. This was physical effort in a deliberate and calculated ploy to get better.
There was nothing else he’d rather do.
By this point he’d come to understand that Brody was gifted beyond anything he could feasibly imagine. The man couldn’t be touched in combat — no matter how hard King tried, he hadn’t been able to land a decent shot on the man over the course of four full eight-hour days, despite Brody screaming at him to swing with all his might. A combination of head movement, unbelievable reflexes and understanding of the human anatomy had honed him, over the course of ten or twenty years, into an incredible athlete.
In this game, King was just getting started.
The living room was sparsely furnished, as was the rest of the house. Over the last few days King had come to understand that Brody lived a spartan existence — although most might dismiss his life as outrageous and uncomfortable, King understood perfectly.
But there hadn’t been much time for in-depth discussion, and now on the fourth night King felt the slightest dose of energy crawl through his insides.
He hadn’t headed straight for his mattress in the spare room, opting to use the compression gear to recover.
It finally gave them a chance to talk.
‘What are you?’ he said, starting the conversation with verve.
Brody adjusted his ponytail, sipped his beer, and glanced across. ‘That’s a broad question.’
‘Can you talk to me about your military career?’
‘Not really.’
‘Because of personal reasons, or because you signed some non-disclosure agreements?’
‘Bit of both.’
‘Can you talk to me about anything?’
‘I assume you’re wondering how I can wipe the floor with you.’
‘Basically.’
‘I started my military career late. By that point I was a mixed martial arts champion in two separate organisations.’
‘No kidding.’
&
nbsp; Brody nodded. ‘I was on my way to stardom, if we’re being honest. 38-0 in the kickboxing ring. 6-0 as an amateur MMA fighter. All finishes. I remember it like it was yesterday. The big leagues were starting to turn profitable. MMA was becoming mainstream. Big money was being discussed. I’d already been made an offer. The household names you hear of today… I could have been one of those.’
‘And you gave it all up?’
‘Some things are more important than money.’
‘What’d you do? In the military, I mean. I know you can’t talk about it. But — same thing as me?’
‘Roughly.’
‘So I’m not the first?’
Brody’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Kid, if you think you’re the first solo operative in the history of the United States military, I’ve got a bridge to sell you.’
‘And you gave up the life of a pro athlete for it?’
‘I was worried.’
‘About?’
‘Concussions.’
King paused, noting the intense silence. ‘You built up a few of them?’
‘Far too many. I wasn’t training responsibly.’
‘But … if you did what I’m doing…’
‘I did it in a way that protected my brain. Which — if what Lars is telling me is anything to believe — you’re certainly not taking into account.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘What?’
‘If I make it to the end of my career, and I’ve done a thousand good deeds, and I’ve saved untold lives and destroyed anyone who got in my way … does it matter if my brain’s so battered that I can’t remember any of it?’
‘I guess that’s something you need to think long and hard about.’
‘You’re saying there’s another way.’
‘Take your abilities seriously. Just because you hit hard and react with lightning speed — it doesn’t make you superhuman.’
‘You and Lars talk the same. But I don’t get it. If I’m up against three, four, five guys — there’s no way to come out of that unscathed. The fact that I can take so many knocks and keep moving forward is the only reason I’m here today.’
‘You can come out of those situations unscathed. I’ve done it.’
‘By the end of this goddamn training camp you’re going to tell me what you used to do for Uncle Sam.’
Brody smirked. ‘Maybe. You’ve got to earn it. Early start tomorrow.’
‘I want more.’
‘About what?’
‘About you. You’re a puzzle. Why the hell are you living out here? You take one step outside your fence and you could get maimed by rebels. There’s a civil war going on in this country. Who’s to say a convoy of militants won’t break the door down tomorrow and shoot you dead? You can be the best fighter on the planet, but bullets are bullets. I just don’t get it.’
Brody paused. ‘This is the end of the earth out here. You don’t come here unless you have a death wish. And you’d be surprised — very, very few people on this planet have your mentality. I bet you didn’t hesitate when Lars told you you were going to the Congo…’
King thought back. ‘I was a little apprehensive.’
‘But you came. Most would outright refuse. In fact, ninety-nine percent of the population would. There’s a thousand ways to die out here, and none of them will result in justice. A thousand people are brutally murdered every day in this place. Nothing happens. Life goes on. No-one is held accountable. That sets people on edge.’
‘This isn’t explaining a thing.’
‘I … want to be alone.’
‘Why?’
‘I didn’t want to be bothered.’
‘Why?’
‘Washington got to me.’
King paused. ‘The military?’
‘I was obviously incredibly talented when I started my journey. They threw operation after operation at me. Like it was nothing. Like I could take it all in stride. And they consistently told me I was the best. A prodigy. Only person to ever come through the ranks with that kind of skill set. And I believed them. So it broke me down over time — I couldn’t quit, because I’d be sacrificing lives. I’d be abandoning innocent people in trouble. So I pushed on, and I got older and slower, and I took more hits, and when I finally mustered up the courage to leave I was a broken man. I’d lost all faith in the good of people and my brain had been rattled around in my skull enough times to almost guarantee I’ll run into trouble down the line.’
‘Was it Lars? Who forced you to continue?’
‘No. He’s a pup in this game. Don’t feel like you need to rant to him about this story. It was men now retired, who coerced me to keep soldiering on long after my expiration date. The old way of doing things. The hard way. The take-no-prisoners mentality. Even within their own ranks. So that’s why I came to the Congo. Because I wanted to find somewhere where hard-nosed bureaucrats couldn’t come scurrying to my front door, pressuring me into returning from active duty. And — so far, at least — it’s been successful. Until one Lars Crawford got in touch to ask if I could train a successor.’
‘Successor? That’s what he said?’
‘In no uncertain terms.’
‘I’m not sure. If he lied to me about being the first solo operative…’
‘Did he ever explicitly say that?’
‘I’m not sure…’
‘Then maybe you had the wrong idea. Maybe you’re different in other ways. In terms of reflexes, and power, and intuition. Maybe you’re better at making things up on the fly. Maybe Mexico and Somalia weren’t luck, like everyone’s saying they are.’
‘Everyone’s saying that?’
Brody squirmed. ‘Maybe you weren’t supposed to know.’
‘Don’t worry. I knew there was a reason Lars is keeping me away from the upper echelon. Like I said earlier, I don’t think they like me.’
‘They don’t like you because you’re different. That’s not a bad thing.’
‘Am I, though? I’m nothing special. You kicked the shit out of me without batting an eyelid.’
‘For your age, you’re a prodigy. At twenty-two I was gambling my life away and sniffing as much blow as I could find. Took me five years of adulthood to find martial arts. It changed my life.’
‘That’s why you train so much now? Even though the threats aren’t there anymore?’
‘You seen where I live? The threats are always there.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Yeah,’ Brody said. ‘Keeps me sane. And I don’t have to think too hard. I guess that’s what I’m worried about.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know — if I find hobbies that take serious thought, I’ll be useless when the brain damage takes hold.’
‘You’re really convinced it’ll come?’
‘It has to. Might be delayed a few years, or decades, but it’ll happen. I took too much punishment.’
‘I thought you were the best at avoiding that.’
‘Too little, too late.’
‘So all of this is so I can learn from my mistakes?’
‘More or less.’
‘But are you happy? With everything you did?’
‘I did a lot of good.’
‘Would you take it back?’
Brody drained his beer, got to his feet, and padded across the living room, heading for his tiny bedroom. ‘Not for a second. Goodnight, King.’
16
‘Yes, like that! Now squash your head against my chest! Drive down! That’s—’
Dripping with sweat, King snatched hold of one of Brody’s ankles and crushed all two hundred pounds of his muscle mass into the guy’s sternum, forcing him off his feet, bundling him against the padded wall of the warehouse. He grunted as he smashed his foe down, refusing to budge an inch, leaning all his weight on certain hotspots across Brody’s torso to ensure the man couldn’t move.
Brody grimaced, cut off from offering any kind of resistance.
J
ust how King had been treated on the deck one week previously.
King adjusted his position ever so slightly to set himself up, finding the correct opening to rain down blows. If this was a live combat situation, his adversary would be incapacitated or dead in seconds.
Then, off his back, Brody threw a scything upward elbow with full power, the point of the bone digging into the soft tissue of King’s throat. He recoiled away from the shot, worried he’d crossed the line and messed up. Spluttering, he collapsed back on his rear, enabling Brody to roll into a seated position.
He expected a tirade of abuse to follow. Perhaps he’d put too much weight on one of the man’s limbs and come close to breaking it.
But instead, he met a perplexed expression.
‘Why’d you stop?’ Brody said.
Still reeling from the shot, King caught his breath and gulped back apprehension. ‘Did I do something wrong?’
Brody offered a sly grin. ‘That was one hundred percent of my strength off my back. I wasn’t holding any power back. How do you feel?’
‘Not great.’
‘But still able to function. You see what I mean? You get me into a position where you’re crushing me into the ground and gravity does the rest. It adds weight to your shots. It limits mine. I can only throw strikes straight up in the air, which don’t connect with enough power to put you out. You could kill me in three shots. I’ve felt your strength on the pads.’
‘Got it.’
Brody gulped down water flavoured with electrolytes and tossed the bottle aside. He fetched a pair of sweaty gloves and threw them over to King. ‘You ready to try and take my head off again?’
‘I don’t like this game. Not after our talk a few days ago.’
‘Why?’
‘What if I connect?’
‘You won’t connect.’
‘There’s always a chance.’
‘You get to our level of the secret world and you can’t afford any chances. Trust me. I’ll be fine.’
‘But don’t you want me to be able to connect? If I can land punches on you I’ll be ready, but I’ll knock you out cold.’
‘If I sense you getting close, I’ll call it a day.’
