by Matt Rogers
‘You do realise this fucking building’s going to come down on top of our heads,’ Wyatt grumbled, struggling to put one foot in front of the other without wincing in pain.
King had forcibly looped one of Wyatt’s arms over the back of his neck so he could help the man up the concrete stairwell. He wasn’t sure where they were headed, but he figured the depths of an office building suited him tactically better than an open gravel lot with countless vantage points to get his head blown off by a distant sniper.
Not that he thought that would be the case.
He found a sweeping boardroom on what he calculated to be the fifth floor and hauled Wyatt inside, flicking a light switch on the way in. Wyatt made a feeble attempt to escape but King smashed a fist into the same section of his gut where he’d delivered the previous four knees, and the big South African fell forward.
King shoved him double-handed on the way down and he sprawled across the broad oak meeting table in the centre of the room, landing on his back and skidding to a halt. He stared up at the ceiling, the wind knocked out of his sails.
‘You know what I’m going to ask you,’ King said. ‘Make sure the answer’s a good one.’
He wrenched the Colt from his belt and aimed it squarely at Wyatt’s head.
The man just lay there, his lips bloody and his face creased in pain, smiling vacantly at the ceiling.
‘It’s not a good answer,’ he said. ‘It’s not what you want to hear.’
‘You knew about Brody’s girlfriend.’
‘Yeah. Well, I knew he lost someone. He made that clear when we showed up trying to push him around.’
‘He told you?’
‘In no uncertain terms.’
‘Did he mention it was a girl?’
‘No. He just said we stripped him of something dear to him. Then he beat one of my friends half to death and sent us on our way.’
‘You could have killed him, surely. If there’s this many of you.’
‘We were under direct orders to leave him alone at that point.’
‘From?’
‘The suits.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t think they wanted the hassle of having to explain why their men were going around killing Americans. Especially if he turned out to be someone important. Which I’m guessing he is, judging by your goddamn presence.’
‘He’s important.’
‘Right.’
‘So what’s the answer?’
‘To what question?’
‘You know.’
‘If you think I had something to do with it…’
‘Don’t play that shit with me. I know your type. You’re drowning in blood money.’
‘I am. But I didn’t touch your friend’s girl.’
‘Then who did?’
‘I know now.’
‘And you didn’t before?’
‘I’ve seen a tape. But I didn’t know she was Brody’s girl.’
King’s blood ran cold. ‘A tape?’
‘You’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you.’
‘You’d better tell it, or it won’t matter what I like or don’t like.’
‘You might not believe me.’
‘Try me.’
‘I have proof.’
‘Tell me.’
‘The suits shot up that village.’
King paused, his mind racing, random thoughts flickering into his brain and then departing rapidly. ‘The suits? The executives around here? Barnes & Cooper boys?’
Wyatt nodded, barely able to complete the gesture in his bloody haze. ‘Three of them.’
‘You’re bullshitting.’
‘Why would I? I’d rather tell you I killed them and let you put a bullet in my head now. I’ve got a lot of explaining to do on the other side. Might as well get started early, mate.’
‘Explain.’
‘It happened three years ago, didn’t it? The thing with Brody’s girl?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I can assure you it was them.’
‘You trying to prove your innocence?’
Wyatt grinned, leering, still staring straight up in the air, lying on his back. A strange sight.
‘Nah, mate. Not denying a thing. I coached them through it. Got paid handsomely for it.’
‘You what?’
‘Coached them. They were three of the youngest on the board. Of course, that means they were in their thirties … not kids. But they were young and hungry and business-minded, which was how they got on the board in the first place. Then they got sent out here. Think they wanted to take their frustrations out somehow, and the Congo is … a special place for that kind of thing.’
‘You’re fucking kidding.’
‘Wish I was. Truth is, you can get away with anything out here. When you have that amount of money. When you own the mines.’
‘What did you do?’
‘What they paid me to do. Kitted them up with tactical gear and fully automatic weapons and sent them on their way. They mowed through the whole village. Men, women, children. Brody’s girl was in there somewhere. I saw it on the tape. Spanish lady?’
King nodded. ‘Samantha.’
‘Yep. One of them shot her in the head. A quick death, all things considered.’
‘Why did they do it?’
‘I told you.’
‘That doesn’t explain anything.’
‘Yes it does. You’re new to the field, aren’t you? Some kind of operative, but … you’re young. You haven’t seen things.’
‘I’ve seen enough.’
‘Not nearly enough. There’s people out there who will do anything when they know they can get away with it, mate. For no good reason at all. Simply because they can, and the thought excites them. Bet they shipped back off to the States with that knowledge in the back of their minds, and there’s nothing more goddamn exciting than that. Knowing you got away with murder. Knowing you caused a bloodbath and didn’t even get a slap on the wrist for it.’
‘Surely someone found out. If there’s footage…’
‘It’s the Congo,’ was all Wyatt said.
Which said enough.
‘What kind of footage?’
‘Body cams. They wanted to wear them, for … repeat viewings.’
‘Christ.’
‘It’s all on the servers. Password-protected, of course. Locked up tighter than a Swiss bank account. How good’s your memory?’
‘Pretty good.’
Wyatt rattled off a twelve-digit chain, which King compartmentalised in the back of his head.
‘That’ll get you into the files,’ Wyatt said. ‘Only I know that, because I was the only one who handled the footage in the aftermath. The rest of the board don’t know. Even if they did, they couldn’t access the video files. Watch them yourself, but for fuck’s sakes don’t show your friend. It’ll break him.’
‘Why do you care?’
Wyatt shrugged. ‘Atoning for my sins, maybe.’
‘You’ve got a while to go.’
‘I know.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’ King said. ‘Was probably best to shut your trap. Clam up. Feed me false information. It’s what I would have done.’
Wyatt managed a wry smile. ‘Maybe I’m doing that now, mate.’
‘No. I can tell. You’re telling the truth.’
‘Promise me one thing.’
‘What?’
‘I know I’m not going to make it out of here alive, but…’
‘What?’ King repeated.
‘Make those bastards pay.’
‘The suits?’
‘Find the ones you’re looking for. And make them pay.’
‘You’re not a fan? You helped them…’
‘Not that.’
‘Then what?’
‘They … made me do certain things.’
‘They didn’t make you do anything. I’ve spent enough time in the field to know that. You can always choose not
to be a fucking monster.’
Wyatt shrugged. ‘Yeah. Okay. Fair enough. I chose to do it all. I’m man enough to admit that. But if you’re asking me why I’m giving all this information away, I’m telling you I wouldn’t bat an eyelid if they ended up six feet under.’
‘And yourself?’
‘Get off your high horse. You might be some kind of soldier but you’re still in this world. You think everyone you’ve killed was completely innocent?’
‘I can’t know for sure. But I’ve tried my hardest to only act when absolutely necessary.’
‘Is that so?’
‘I left four men alive on the jungle trail who came after me. Earlier this evening. I don’t know if they’ve done anything worth killing them over.’
‘They came after you, didn’t they?’
‘They might have just been checking on their friends.’
‘What friends?’
King shook his head. ‘This operation’s a clusterfuck, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No. No, you don’t.’
‘The other perimeter guards?’
King nodded.
‘I have nothing to do with them.’
‘So, this footage?’
‘Downstairs. Like I told you.’
‘I’m not going to find a man with a gun waiting for me in the server room, am I?’
Wyatt shrugged. ‘Take me down there if you want. Use me as a human shield.’
King saw right through the act. He recalled countless action movies where either party wasted time unnecessarily, just as Link had done on the outskirts of the open-pit mine. Link should have put a bullet through King’s head when he had the chance, and now he was lying in a ditch with a hole in his skull for his troubles.
‘No,’ King said. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’
There was a brief pause, enough of a window of opportunity for Wyatt to lever himself up onto his elbows, so he could make direct eye contact with King from across the room. He wasn’t dead yet, which had sparked a hint of hope in the man’s eyes.
‘So,’ the man said. ‘What happens now—’
The .45 ACP round caught him square in the mouth, burrowing through into his brain and sending his corpse sprawling back across the wood, elbows sliding out in either direction.
King barely glanced at the dead man on his way out of the boardroom. Wyatt might have backtracked on his unwavering stance at the last moment, ratting out his superiors in an attempt to save face, but ultimately his moral compass was toxic and broken.
And, as far as King could tell, that was something that a man could never change.
He steadied his grip on the Colt and hurried down the stairwell, heading for the server room.
50
Operating on a hunch, he charged into the corridor branching off from the demolished reception area, making as much noise as possible without making it seem obvious. He clanged his foot against a side table, then bundled into a door, all the time ensuring his footsteps slapped against the tiled floor.
If there was nobody in the building, his efforts would seem ludicrous.
But if not…
He found the server room without much effort — locating a narrow doorway set between two offices with barely enough space for an adjoining room. He recalled the photo Wyatt had sent of Bernardi’s body and the rectangular shape of the room it rested in, like a thin sliver carved out of the concrete wall. He steadied the Colt M1911A1 in his hand and touched a gloved hand to the doorknob.
He twisted, pushed slightly forward, and then rammed a combat boot into the centre of the doorframe.
The door rushed inwards and slammed against the opposite wall, rattling on its hinges and drawing the attention of anyone nearby. A volley of gunshots blasted out of the server room, impacting the opposite wall and gouging chunks out of the plaster.
But King was no longer there.
He’d pressed himself against one side of the doorway, anticipating a reaction to his bumbling entrance. Sure enough the hostile lying in wait on the concrete floor had nervously heard King make his approach, the sweat no doubt leeching from his pores, his finger tightening around the trigger of his weapon until the pressure became unbearable.
He must have considered it a relief when the door finally shot open and light flooded into the room.
But he made the timeless mistake of reacting impulsively, which left him wide open for the instant it took King to lean around the doorframe when the gunfire ceased and drill a round through the man’s prone silhouette.
The guy slumped.
King heard a gurgle, indicating he hadn’t succeeded with the kill shot, so he followed up with a couple of additional shots. The man lay still — King had been expecting a gut-wrenching revelation, but he kicked the body over and studied the face of an unknown white man, his features twisted into a grimace and blood running from the top of his head, matting his thin brown hair to his scalp.
A nobody.
Another face in the sea of cruel men looking for work in the most ruthless parts of the world.
King wondered if he fit that description.
He wondered if, by the time his career reached an end, he would be proud of what he’d done.
Or ashamed.
He closed the door quietly behind him, even though he imagined there was no-one left alive in the building. Wyatt had been telling the truth when he’d spoken of evacuation — every room King had passed by lay dormant, although he hadn’t expected them to be populated at this hour in any case. As he moved through the claustrophobic space, illuminated only by the flickering digital lights emanating off the towers of computers, he noticed a dark brown patch of blood in the corner of the dusty room.
A distinctive imprint had been squashed into the dried puddle.
The shape of a body.
This was where Rex Bernardi had died.
King grimaced and turned his eyes away from the sorry sight — he would have a great deal of explaining to do when he got back stateside. He forced that thought from his mind and fired up one of the flat-screen monitors atop a collection of cabinets near the back of the room. They acted as nodes for the servers, temporary solutions to allow the office workers access to what they needed — whether that be payroll, accounting, scheduling, or something darker…
It didn’t take him long to find what he needed. Hunched over the screen in the darkness, bathed in its artificial glare, he fired up the operating system and navigated through menus until he chanced across a collection of password-protected folders. King didn’t consider himself computer-savvy, but this system was fairly rudimentary. Most of the computer power in this portion of the complex served to run automated systems, controlling the lights and the alarm systems and the mechanisms across the mining complex to ensure everything ran smoothly.
A cyber fortress, it was not.
He entered the string of numbers Wyatt had fed him into a number of different boxes until he scored a hit, confirming his suspicion that the man had been telling the truth about everything.
Wyatt had been cunning in his attempts to stay alive, but the core of their conversation had been truthful. The man despised his superiors — perhaps not for any noble reason, but he disliked them all the same.
Maybe they’d done something to him…
King would never know.
Wyatt hadn’t been able to resist giving King the real details to entice him down to the server room, where a hostile waited.
Sometimes the truth was more tantalising than fiction.
And Wyatt probably needed someone to vent his frustrations on, especially if he didn’t think that man would make it out of the building alive.
The files King was looking for were labelled accordingly. Altogether he counted three separate videos, each roughly the same length, buried in a web of monotonous unimportant documents. King found himself flabbergasted at the executives’ brazenness — they had kept incriminating foota
ge on the main servers, albeit password protected.
Then again, this was the Congo.
Maybe no-one would have batted an eyelid.
King only had to watch one of the videos in its entirety. Each file covered a separate action camera strapped to the chests of the executives — he watched them mill about on a desolate fork in the rural trail for a couple of minutes, throwing each other nervous glances. But there was more than fear in the air — King sensed the palpable excitement through the screen. He eyed their weapons, and his stomach turned.
He saw the faces of the other two men — both unimpressive and slightly flabby from years sitting behind a desk — and burned them into his mind. He wouldn’t forget them. He couldn’t see the face of the man wielding the camera due to the angle, as it was strapped to his chest.
King decided to check another one of the files for this man’s face.
The trio moved in on the village, nothing more than a collection of huts on a lonely road in the rural countryside.
And then the footage descended into scenes of such savagery that King found it difficult to watch.
As he stared at the proceedings he soaked up as much detail as he needed, committing certain acts to memory so he would never have to watch the footage again. He spotted a European-looking woman in the midst of the carnage, and confirmed her fate.
He confirmed which one of the three had killed her.
Then he closed out of the video, sick to his stomach at the senseless violence, and trawled the archives of the servers for as long as it took to find what he needed. When he finally came across what he was looking for — a list of the executives who worked on the board at Barnes & Cooper Resources — he scrolled through various identification documents until he had one hundred percent certainty.
Three names to put to the faces.
According to the files, none of them were still in-country. They looked like ordinary suits, American men who showed up to work a nine-to-five for their corporation with a sketchy stint in the Democratic Republic of the Congo in their pasts. King would never have picked them out of a line-up as psychopaths.
Two of them still worked for Barnes & Cooper Resources, running departments at their HQ in Dallas, whereas the third had retired comfortably to South Florida.
