by Matt Rogers
‘But he didn’t,’ Wyatt said, trying not to bow his head in resignation.
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘You want me to fire him? I’ll go now. He’s in our bunkhouse. Or, at least, he was ten minutes ago.’
‘Did you hear what I said? A couple of hundred thousand dollars isn’t nothing.’
‘I’m not going to beat him up. You can do that yourselves.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ the eldest man said, and lifted an IMI Desert Eagle handgun up from his lap. He placed it silently on the table, never taking his eyes off Wyatt, not even for a second.
Wyatt squirmed. ‘No.’
‘Then we’ll drain your accounts and send you on your way. That’s an expensive vehicle you’ve got out there. How are you going to cover the payments?’
‘I’ll find a way.’
‘I don’t think you will. You’re not an idiot, Wyatt. You know this kind of job only comes around once in a lifetime. You think you’re going to get those weekly salary packets anywhere else?’
Wyatt said nothing.
‘He stole from us. That is unforgivable.’
‘You can’t just kill him.’
‘I think you’re forgetting where we are. What kind of land we’re living on. We can do whatever we want out here. It’s the Wild West.’
‘I won’t do it.’
‘Then pack your things. You’re no longer welcome here.’
‘My last four weeks pay?’
‘Due tomorrow. You won’t see a cent. Thank you for your time, Wyatt.’
Wyatt froze in place, unwilling to do anything but stand and ponder. He sensed multiple sets of eyes boring into him, wondering if he might lash out in rage. He could sense the tension in the air. He thought of his oldest friend — the times they’d shared, the morals they’d lost, the tens of thousands of hours they’d devoted to a field most would baulk at.
He thought of the cash flow ending, stranding him in limbo, forcing him to sell off his material items and sink back into alcoholism and depression.
He shrugged.
He could always find another friend.
He took a single step forward and the executives closest to him recoiled, expecting an open-palmed strike or a vigorous shake of the collar. But Wyatt kept his anger contained, instead reaching across the giant conference table and snatching the Desert Eagle off the wooden surface. He twirled the gun once in his palm and turned on his heel, refusing to look at the eight monsters before him.
Power corrupts.
‘Good decision,’ the eldest man leered as Wyatt strode out of the room. ‘There might even be a bonus in it for you.’
He slammed the door behind him, internally torn, gnashing his molars together in an attempt to compose himself. Despite his best efforts tears appeared in his eyes as he hurried down the stairwell and barged straight past the same receptionist, her smile now sickening. He hadn’t dealt with emotion like this for as long as he could remember.
He was a cold man, and cold men didn’t cry.
Not in this business.
As if fate chose that moment to mock him, he stared across the gravel lot to see Ethan step out of their living quarters and light up a cigarette under the blistering Congolese sun. He had his back to the mine, facing the perimeter, ever the vigilant guard.
Ethan. Not Crank.
The man was human. A real person. Not just a childish nickname.
Wyatt prayed the man would stay facing the other way up until the final moment, so that he wouldn’t have to look his oldest friend in the eye.
Alas, Ethan heard boots scuffing across the gravel.
He turned, a sheepish grin flooding across his features as he eyed the Desert Eagle in Wyatt’s palm. ‘They gave you an upgrade, did they?’
Then the man’s gaze wandered up to Wyatt’s grief-stricken face and his expression faltered. Wyatt could almost see him thinking, No, not possible.
‘Wyatt?’ he said, curious.
Wyatt raised the gun and blasted a single deafening round through the top of Ethan’s head.
The body collapsed — one moment a living, breathing person, the next a cold corpse.
Wyatt stood alone, seething, squashing down the rage so that he’d receive a wire transfer the next day. This was the business. It’s what he’d signed up for. Doing what others weren’t willing to do, so he could get paid what others couldn’t.
It’s how he’d always done things.
Now he realised the executives had something to hang over his head. Through watering vision he stared at the distant security pole across the lot, atop which rested a CCTV surveillance camera. They had dirt on him. Now they could cut his pay, force him to work longer hours, whatever the hell they wanted. Because here in the Congo rules meant nothing, but footage could be transported across borders. It carried weight.
But Wyatt knew things too.
Secrets from the past.
He would use them to survive, if it came to that.
Staring at the dead body of his closest friend, a voice in the back of his head told him it would.
23
Two days later…
King closed out a sixty-minute conditioning session with a relentless barrage of assault on the heaviest bag in the warehouse, smashing front kicks and scything elbows and twisting hooks into the leather with enough ferocity to rattle the chain it swung from. Each impact vibrated his entire body, spraying sweat off his frame. He finished with a destructive teep kick that hit the bag at centre mass, transferring kinetic energy across. With a groan of protest the support at the very top of the chain snapped, and the entire heavy bag thumped in a sad heap to the combat mats underneath.
‘Great,’ Brody muttered, crouched in the corner. ‘That’ll take some work to re-install.’
King jolted in place — his attention had been so consumed by destroying the target in front of him that he hadn’t noticed Brody enter the warehouse. He spun, unstrapping his gloves as he sucked in oxygen.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s taken some serious punishment over the last week and a bit.’
‘Kisangani tomorrow,’ Brody said. ‘You ready?’
King paused. ‘Bernardi isn’t due until the day after.’
They hadn’t discussed the conversation a few nights ago since it had occurred. The last couple of days had been packed with non-stop training and improvement, with Brody going in-depth during his instructional rants about positioning and leverage. King had chalked the strange night up to an isolated incident and imagined the talks of a mixed martial arts bout had been Brody simply getting carried away with himself. He hadn’t thought about it since.
‘You know why we’re going early,’ Brody said.
‘You set up a fight?’
‘Didn’t take much effort. I made a few calls. People remembered me.’
‘Amateur bout?’
‘Of course. A professional bout takes registration fees and all that time-wasting stuff. I want you in and out of this place in an hour, tops. We’re not supposed to be there.’
A wave of invigoration washed over King. He’d been punching and kicking leather for so long that he thought he might never make it back in the field. Finally he had a reference point, something to acknowledge as a return to action. Even if that was a cage fight in the bowels of the Congo.
‘Who am I fighting?’ he said.
A wry smile spread over Brody’s face. ‘That’s the rub.’
‘You sound excited.’
‘I wasn’t going to accept anything if they offered you someone sub-par. But it turns out there’s an amateur mixed martial artist in Kisangani who’s struggling to find a fight. He wants to turn pro but he needs a couple more wins under his belt. He’s 4-0. All first round finishes. Apparently he’s quite the sight to behold.’
‘Weight?’
‘210.’
‘Height?’
‘Six-four.’
‘Who is he?’
Brody shrugged. ‘Just another
guy trying to make it in the world. But he’s fearsome. The promotor said — and I quote — “I’ve never seen a talent quite like him.”’
‘I heard the same thing recently,’ King said.
‘It’ll be a good test for you.’
‘And if he really is something else? If he beats the shit out of me?’
‘Then we’ll both apologise to Rex Bernardi the next day for the condition you’re in. We got carried away in training, after all.’
King shrugged. ‘Fine by me. As long as Lars never finds out, we’ll be golden.’
‘He won’t.’
‘You’re seriously okay with me doing this?’
‘You’re a young hothead. If I don’t let you do this you’ll be on that mine within the hour. I don’t want you anywhere near that place.’
‘Why? Why are you so hesitant for me to go?’
‘Because if you kill all their security, they’ll just hire more men. And then I’ll be left to deal with the aftermath while you go back to your adventures. Think about the long-term consequences.’
King nodded. ‘Understood.’
‘How you feeling?’
‘Half-dead.’
‘I think that’ll do for training today. It’ll be dark in a few hours. Early start tomorrow — there’s a twelve hour drive ahead of us.’
‘What time’s the bout?’
‘Seven in the evening. We’ll leave here at five a.m.’
‘Any more details?’
‘I have them — it’s all administrative stuff. They don’t concern you. You focus on resting and recuperating. I want you in prime physical condition tomorrow night.’
‘There’s no weigh-ins? No commissions sanctioning the bout?’
‘The Congo’s fairly lax in that regard. You just show up and fight. I called in some favours.’
‘Feels good to finally see some action.’
‘I think we’re almost done anyway,’ Brody said.
It was the first time he’d addressed the length of the camp since the passing comment days earlier. To King, it felt like they’d last discussed it years ago.
‘Almost done? Thought you needed me for a month?’
‘That changed when you knocked my head off my shoulders.’
King grimaced. They hadn’t mentioned the concussion either.
‘How are you feeling?’ he said.
Brody stared vacantly past him, looking over King’s shoulder. ‘Been better.’
‘Headaches?’
‘They won’t go away.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing sinister. Symptoms often hang around for a while. Doesn’t help my chances down the line though.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I’m the one who told you to try and hit me. Not my fault you delivered.’
‘So you’re not in the right state to coach me?’
Brody smirked and shook his head. ‘I could train you all year. I love this shit. But you don’t need me. I don’t say this lightly, but you really are a prodigy. You need to be out in the field. Keeping you holed up here for another month would be a wasted opportunity.’
‘I’ll come back to visit,’ King said. ‘This training camp has changed me. I mean that.’
‘Even if you were allowed, I’d ask you not to. I’m a solitary creature these days. I’d rather be left on my own.’
King shrugged. ‘Whatever you prefer.’
They left the training gear out to dry as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Brody lowered the warehouse’s vast roller door and they made for the house, discussing the tantalising nature of the upcoming fight. King had expected nerves, but he felt absolutely nothing. He recalled Mexico and Somalia, two trips that had pushed him to the very edge of human capacity. An amateur mixed martial arts bout paled in comparison, no matter how skilled his adversary. Besides, he couldn’t see himself losing.
As the night progressed, and he and Brody shared a meal and a beer, he got the distinct impression that Brody was personally invested in the outcome of the bout. An old attachment to his mixed martial arts career, or simply the curiosity of the what-if question, but there was a spark in his eyes that previously hadn’t been there. Ever since the concussion he’d been monotone, simply going through the daily actions of honing King into a human weapon.
Now, though, he seemed alive.
24
They set off before dawn the next morning, piling a couple of duffel bags packed with athletic gear and gallon bottles of water and spare clothes into the back seat of King’s open-topped jeep. Brody elected to drive — he hadn’t been out of the compound in quite some time and felt it prudent to be behind the wheel for the first trip away from Lake Kivu.
King anticipated a sentimental or emotional reaction from Brody when they kicked the jeep into gear and set off down the trail.
But that wasn’t Brody.
‘How does it feel?’ King said after a brief period of silence.
Brody looked across. ‘About the same.’
King sensed the trepidation in his tone and shut his mouth. The man didn’t feel like talking, and King didn’t blame him.
The first half hour passed without incident — they flashed past rural villages and rumbled along beaten tracks, heading north in a roundabout way. The GPS rested in the footwell, switched off. Brody knew the area like the back of his hand. As they drove the first fingers of light began to snake their way across the sky.
Dawn began to break.
Finally, on a deserted stretch of trail that felt like it belonged on another planet, Brody piped up. ‘Listen, King…’
King looked across and raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s a twelve hour drive to Kisangani,’ Brody said. ‘Don’t expect it to be pleasant.’
‘I can handle a lengthy car ride.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
King understood. ‘I won’t go running off. Don’t worry.’
‘If you thought the mercenaries at the mine were worth pursuing…’
‘There can’t be much worse than what they did.’
‘You have no idea. You’ll see things today. Things that will make you awfully uncomfortable. But we can’t stop to help everyone we run across. You understand? That’s life out here. The world goes on. That’s why I don’t leave. Because I don’t know if I can consistently ignore it. Better not to see it at all.’
‘I interfered with a situation on my way to your place,’ King admitted. ‘When I first arrived. There was a man and a woman, fighting. I choked the guy out and left them there. I didn’t know what else to do.’
Brody nodded. ‘That might be one of the more pleasant sights you lay eyes on today.’
‘Understood.’
‘Are you going to be able to help yourself when you see injustices? Or are you going to force your way out of the car?’
‘I’ll sit still. I’ll behave.’
‘You have to. This is my entire point. If we go chasing every wrongdoing between here and Kisangani it’ll take us months to get there. I’m not exaggerating.’
‘Understood.’
‘The world is an awful place, King. You need to get used to that. You need to go where Lars tells you to go, and ignore the rest. At least, until you’re out of the game. Then you can do whatever the hell you want.’
It didn’t take long for Brody’s words to live up to their implications.
As light speared across the sky they passed through a village King initially thought was deserted. He’d only slept a handful of hours the previous night — between soothing his aching muscles and thinking about how sharply his life had veered onto an unbelievable course — so he’d fallen half asleep by the time he spotted small blurry shapes ghosting through his peripheral vision.
He jerked awake, rubbing his eyes, and stared into the grey-blue gloom of dawn.
Child soldiers.
There were dozens of them, stumbling around abandoned huts with zombie-like expressions on their faces. K
ing made eye contact with a couple of the kids — both clutched assault rifles and stared at him through deadened, bloodshot eyes. They were hopped up on an assortment of drugs, either meth or heroin or something more artificial and darker. A few made to swing their Kalashnikov rifles in the direction of the open-topped jeep but their limbs moved through invisible mud, weighed down by the drugs in their veins. One kid, no older than six, lost grip on his weapon and went down on his knees, splashing into the mud. King stared at the child’s hollowed-out cheeks and a wave of sheer helplessness washed over him.
‘I … get what you mean,’ he muttered as Brody stared straight ahead, guiding the jeep through the madness.
‘You can’t help them,’ Brody said. ‘And even if you could help a couple, then what? Would you stay here for the rest of your life, trying to combat the issue of child soldiers? There’s hundreds of thousands of them across Africa. And that’s just a single problem on this continent. You see what I mean? You see why I stay at home?’
‘I can help…’ King said.
‘You have talent. And you need to aim it toward whatever your employers deem necessary. That’s their job — to find the most pressing issues at hand. You’re the hammer, and they point you to the most dangerous nails.’
Sounds like Lars, King thought.
They pressed on, heading deeper into the jungle. Vegetation ran thick on either side of the trails — despite the monotony and emptiness of their surroundings, Brody seemed to know where to go at all times. King imagined years in the Congo would have ingrained the route to the nearest major city deep in his head.
Hours blurred together, and the sights grew no more pleasant. King turned his eyes away from militants and rebels lining the side of the road, some with prisoners in their midst. He caught rare glimpses of men and women gagged and bound, at the mercy of their captors. Every part of him wanted to interfere, to wage war against eight or ten armed men. He thought he could pull it off, and the thought of justice was awfully luring.
But it went against everything Brody had been trying to drill into his head.
Each time, Brody barrelled straight past the scenes.
