by Matt Rogers
‘Bullshit.’
Ramos smirked again. For some reason it infuriated King. He smashed the back of the man’s head against the floor.
‘You’d better have more info than that,’ he snarled.
‘I saw this coming. Sent them off early.’
‘You didn’t think to keep them here to protect you?’
‘You would have killed them. Just like you killed my bodyguards in the apartment, and my men in the armoured truck, and my men in Piedras Negras. You’re like the fucking Terminator.’
‘So you waved the white flag?’
‘Far from it, bitch,’ Ramos spat. ‘If I don’t contact them within the next five minutes, they’re going to mow through every person in that village. Men, women, children. All dead. And it’ll be your fault — unless you get me to a hospital and let me get in touch with them.’
Internally, King locked up, frozen in confusion. He had never been forced to make decisions like this on the fly, decisions with enough magnitude to change dozens of lives.
What he did next would either save innocent lives, or let them be massacred.
Ramos had him in a highly uncomfortable position, but he wasn’t about to let it show.
He decided to play the idiot in order to squeeze more information out of the man.
‘I already came from the village,’ he said. ‘There’s no-one living there. You’re lying.’
Ramos narrowed his eyes, as if he knew King was testing him. Then desperation got the better with him. King could see him visibly crumble under the pain racking his body. He broke, and spilled out information.
‘That’s not a village, you moron,’ he spat. ‘Those are ruins. They’re headed closer to the border. West of this location. A small encampment of workers that live near a remote airstrip. They make an honest living, but they won’t be alive to spend it if you don’t let me go right fucking now.’
‘Thanks for the heads up,’ King said. ‘Now I know where to find them.’
‘You won’t get there in time.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ King said. ‘You just gave me everything I needed.’
Ramos went pale. It was dawning on him that if King was mad enough to trek solo into the jungle, into vicious cartel-occupied no-man’s-land, then just maybe he was foolish enough to try and catch the party of thugs before they made it to the village.
‘No,’ he muttered. ‘Please.’
King leant down to whisper in the man’s ear. ‘You shouldn’t have tried to play games with someone like me. That shit doesn’t cut it.’
Then he took his hand off Joaquín Ramos’ throat, brought the Kalashnikov around to touch the cold flesh of the man’s forehead, and sent a round through his skull at point-blank range.
49
Clutching the Colt AR-15 that Ramos had been carrying — the weapon that he’d used to slice King open across the deltoid with a well-placed bullet — King discarded the near-empty AK-47 he’d been using and ran for the flight of stairs outside the office.
The clock was ticking.
A multitude of doubts swirled through his head. He had no idea what the village looked like, he wasn’t sure whether the path to it would be accessible by vehicle, he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Ramos’ forces and an ordinary militia, and finally the storm would make a gunfight near-impossible. Accuracy and ability would be thrown out the window in favour of whoever got luckiest.
Despite that, King surged forward, ignoring his broken nose and the blood pouring out of his shoulder and the pain searing through his ribs.
No-one else was going to do it.
So he would make sure he got it done.
With that mindset firmly entrenched, he took the stairs three at a time, landing on the dusty concrete floor of the warehouse less than ten seconds after leaving the office. He remembered seeing a set of double doors leading through to the other side of the warehouse, positioned underneath the raised offices.
He made for them, praying that they would be unlocked.
Even better, one of them seemed to be hanging open.
He thundered a boot square into the centre of the door and it shot around on its hinges, instantly soaked by the rain beating down. King followed the door out into the storm. The raging downpour drenched him once again, masking his vision as water poured down his face and through his hair.
Through the gloom, he spotted a military-style jeep parked in the gravel lot on this side of the facility. Both its rear doors and the driver’s side door were hanging open, and a detachable leather top protected the interior from the elements. The whole vehicle was painted dark khaki, possibly purchased straight from the Guatemalan Army surplus.
That’s where all these hired paramilitary soldiers are from, too, King guessed.
He ducked into the driver’s door, sinking into a large puddle of water that had accumulated on the driver’s seat from the doors being left open. The warm tropical rain sloshed into the footwell as he swung the door closed. Ignoring the hot, damp interior of the vehicle, he fired up the engine, using the keys that had been left in the ignition.
The last owners must have been in a rush to exit the vehicle.
He wondered if it was the same men he had killed in the ancient ruins minutes earlier.
The pain drilling through his face coupled with the solid wall of water pounding against the windshield made it practically impossible to see.
He slammed the car into drive, set the wiper blades to their maximum output, and spun the tyres in the soaking gravel in an attempt to accelerate off the mark.
He quickly found that driving in such conditions was akin to yanking a blindfold over his eyes and putting the pedal to the floor.
Aside from the fact that he couldn’t see a thing, he grimaced as the tyres fought for purchase on the jungle floor. Already the ground had flooded with rainwater, sending the rear wheels fish-tailing across the gravel lot with every touch of the accelerator. He twisted the wheel left, then right, overcompensating dangerously in an inexperienced attempt to drive through a tropical storm.
You twenty-two-year-old baby, he cursed at himself.
But he quickly learned that not even a Formula-1 driver could handle these conditions.
Lightning flared overhead, revealing the path through the jungle. Sure enough, there was another narrow trail leading into the darkness. He had no idea where it went, but his best guess was that it connected the facility to the nearby village. There had to be some way for Ramos to cart supplies to his encampment.
King pointed the hood of the jeep in the direction of the trail, hit the gas, and hoped for the best.
It was the only thing he could do anyway.
He plunged into the jungle, tree trunks flashing by on either side in a dizzying blur. Roadblocks presented themselves at the last second, only visible from a few feet away through the relentless bombardment of rain on the windshield. He couldn’t hear a thing — the AR-15 could have gone off in the passenger seat and he would have barely been able to hear it over the deafening roar of the storm. The same waterfalls that had hit him before now smashed against the temporary canvas roof of the jeep, threatening to buckle the loose material under their weight.
He drove for what felt like an hour, but in reality couldn’t have been more than five minutes. When the trail began to widen and a long row of huts materialised up ahead, King narrowed his vision. He leant as far forward as possible, controlling the steering wheel while pressing his face right up to the glass in an attempt to make out what lay ahead.
He saw shapes, ghosting through the darkness, shrouded by rain and night. The sharp crack of thunder tore across the sky above, scaring him enough to rattle his grip on the wheel. He brought the jeep back under control and studied the tiny village right near the Mexico-Guatemala border.
The residential sector was composed of a few parallel streets of identical huts, with wooden walls and thatched roofs. The small buildings had obviously been designed with sturdi
ness in mind, for it seemed that all of them were withstanding the brunt of the tropical storm.
This kind of weather must be common in these parts, King thought.
There were no civilians in sight. The menacing silhouettes that King saw slinking through the small yards were no innocent men. He could tell by the way they composed themselves, the way they ignored the rain and other exterior circumstances, moving as if the weather was perfect.
They were clinical in their approach to the huts.
Measured.
And armed, he realised.
He thought there were three in total. A pair were moving in on one of the huts, both wielding sizeable firearms like they knew how to use them. There was no possibility of King recognising the make of the guns from this distance — all he could see were the sinister outlines.
The other man was further up the road, heading for one of the distant buildings. King couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like he was carrying an enormous machete, designed for hacking man-made paths through the jungle, cutting down vegetation.
Or slaughtering innocent natives.
He saw the vehicles that the men had abandoned in their blood-lust. Two identical khaki-painted jeeps, parked in the middle of the road with their headlights cutting through the storm.
King wrenched the wheel to the right, mounting the row of well-kept yards.
He pointed his own vehicle in the direction of the armed pair.
They saw him coming.
Too late.
He picked up even more speed and crunched into the nearest two bodies at close to forty miles an hour.
50
One of the men spun away into oblivion like a ragdoll, his legs broken and his gun sent skittering away.
King forgot all about him, because the other guy rolled with the impact, jumping off both feet at the last minute so that the jeep’s hood hit him in the legs. It spun him around in the air just the same as the other guy, but he came to rest on top of the hood, snatching for purchase on the slick surface.
King wrenched the wheel left and right in an attempt to throw him off.
It worked.
The man began to slide off one side of the hood.
Yet there was enough time for him to bring his massive assault rifle around and aim through the windshield.
King recognised instantly what was about to happen. He threw open the driver’s door and launched himself out of the vehicle into the storm.
As he jumped, the windscreen shattered under a hail of gunfire. King ducked away from the volley of bullets in mid-air and then shoved his arms out to brace for landing.
He hit the ground hard enough to shock his system but with enough grace to minimise any serious injuries. The rainwater helped, acting as a shallow pool to land in and soften the impact. He rolled over one shoulder, sending geysers of water flying in all directions.
Blind, in pain, confused, he scrambled in the inch-thick layer of water, trying desperately to get to his feet.
A second later, he shot upright…
…to see the jeep finish its run by smashing through the front wall of the nearest hut.
Shredded wood flew in all directions and the off-road vehicle’s suspension shuddered under the impact. Somehow, the man on the hood had managed to snatch a handhold at the last second. It ended up working out a hundred times worse for him. He was still perched on the front of the jeep when it crushed into the hut, spilling him head-over-heels into the midst of the wreckage.
King thought he saw the man’s rifle still in his hands.
He had been forced to abandon his own gun in the passenger seat of the jeep.
He burst into motion, hurrying through the shallow water. He needed to make it to the hut before the guy came to his senses and shot him down in the middle of the street.
Or worse — turn the gun on the residents of the hut in a last-ditch effort to fulfil his leader’s wishes.
King made it out of the newly-formed river in the road and vaulted into the front garden, tearing past plants and bushes, racing over a smooth patch of grass.
He skirted around the jeep wreckage, identified the man staggering to his feet just inside the demolished front wall of the hut, and launched himself into open space.
He crash-tackled the guy into the far wall of the hut, knocking the rifle out of his hands through sheer blunt trauma. The pair spilled to the ground. King came down on top of the man, driving the breath out of the guy’s lungs. In his limited time in the field, King had come to learn that he excelled at one thing at close-range.
Violence.
Whether that was due to his natural athleticism or his ability to sense openings in his adversaries’ guard, he didn’t care. So long as he came out of these encounters in one piece, and his enemies didn’t.
With water running off the damaged roof above and pouring down onto them, King dropped an elbow into the guy’s throat, putting all his bodyweight behind the blow. The guy wheezed, his eyes widening, his features turning into a mask of terror. The strike had done serious damage.
The man scrambled for his nearby weapon — another Colt AR-15. It seemed that all of Ramos’ forces were equipped with the same guns.
King let boiling rage take over his system. He had no illusions as to what the man had come here to do. This was the house that he had been headed for when King arrived.
King looked up to see a family of three cowering in the kitchen. They were natives of Guatemala, with skin the shade of caramel and simple, utilitarian clothing draped across their frames. Right now, they were looking on with horror at the scene of devastation before them. The front of their house had been obliterated by the jeep running straight through it.
King locked eyes with the child of the family — a small boy, no older than six.
He was terrified.
And this man would have gunned him down out of nothing but spite.
The anger swelled, rising in King’s chest like a balled fist. He reached down and grabbed two handfuls of the thug’s shirt, wrenching him off the ground. Keeping the family in mind, he carried the thug out of the house, shielding what would happen next from view of the young boy.
He slammed the guy down in the front yard, causing the man’s head to whiplash against the soaked grass. The guy offered no resistance. The elbow to the throat had caused serious internal injuries, and King was manhandling him like a child, utilising his height and weight advantage coupled with the years of powerlifting experience.
King locked two hands around the man’s throat and squeezed, staring into the guy’s eyes as he died.
Nothing about the situation even registered on his mind. There was no pity in his soul for the guy below him, even when the man’s eyes started to bulge in their sockets and the veins in his forehead started to protrude with alarming intensity. He died a slow, painful death, and King was glad.
The man deserved it…
…and much more.
When he was sure that the guy’s pulse had stopped, King released his grip on the throat, which had already begun to bruise and turn purple from the strain that had been exerted upon it.
Then he heard a high-pitched squeal, up ahead.
A fresh wave of adrenalin punched through him as he remembered the man with the machete. He stared through the sheets of rain…
…and his heart bolted against the walls of his chest as he saw what was unfolding.
The machete-wielding psychopath — a beefy, six-foot-two Latino gangster with tattoos running up his arms — had a Guatemalan woman by the hair, dragging her out of the open doorway of one of the neighbouring huts. King watched him wrench her out into the middle of the street, sending water splashing over her chest and mouth as he hauled her through the river.
King took off, stamping on the dead body of the man in front of him in his haste. He had no time to go back into the hut and collect a weapon.
It was now or never.
He had his bare hands, and little else.
He
would have to make do with that.
He narrowed in on the target.
There was twenty feet between him and the crazed thug. As he got closer he saw the dilated pupils and the rabid expression on the man’s face. He was pumped full of cocaine, almost manic in his intensity. He saw King sprinting at him and smiled.
Fifteen feet.
Ten.
Not fast enough.
The guy slashed down with the machete, aiming for the woman cowering at his feet.
King was too far away to do anything about it.
51
King didn’t slow down, even though his heart rate shot through the roof.
He saw the machete scything downward, horrifyingly fast. There was enough power behind the blow to decapitate anyone that met the blade head-on. The guy had his teeth mashed together and his face twisted into a contorted scowl as he threw everything he had into the machete swing.
But he missed.
The woman ducked away instinctively at the last second, plunging into the few inches of water in an attempt to get away from the man. His blade came within a hair’s breadth of her scalp, cutting through the water and slamming into the road just below it.
He ripped the machete back out of the water and raised the blade above his head for another attempt. The woman came to a feeble halt in the water, dejected, defeated. She froze up in terror.
The next blow would take her head clean off.
King plunged forward with a staggering uppercut, whistling his fist through the air like a heat-seeking missile, searching for the underside of the man’s chin.
The guy was defenceless to resist the blow.
King hit the man in the jaw hard enough to smash half his teeth out of their gums, grinding the bones together and sending his head snapping back like a whip. He lost his footing and spilled backwards into the water, coming down on his rear in the shallow river that had formed in the wake of the tropical storm.
King pounced on the guy, clamping a hand around the wrist that held the machete, controlling the most dangerous factor in the fight.
