The King: A Black Force Thriller (Black Force Shorts Book 8)

by Matt Rogers

  Which made it all rather clear, after all.

  King scurried to the perimeter of Cargo Building #6 and merged into a cohort of airport workers signing off for the night. He kept his head down and tapped into all the body positioning training he’d received over the years. The result was something spectacular — no-one looked at him twice, even though none of them had ever seen him here before. He carried himself with such a relaxed air of confidence that none of the workers around him could even fathom that he might be an imposter. In fact, some of them might assume he was their boss, considering the way he strode around without a care in the world.

  He noticed a couple of them instinctively turn away from him. Nothing overt. Most of it subtle. But it was three in the morning, and they weren’t in the mood to be scrutinised by a man who could be assessing their performance.

  Act like you belong.

  That’s all there is to it.

  He made it out through a security gate without so much as a second look, then adjusted the duffel on his shoulders and strode in the direction of the rental car services in the commercial section of Dulles. He secured a plain grey Hyundai hatchback without much fanfare, using a fake passport he always carried with him on operations in case military plans fell apart and he had to rely on the civilian world. Lars would be able to trace it with enough effort, but by then King planned to have his little insurgency wrapped up.

  He knew what he needed to do, and it wouldn’t be a tactical chess match.

  It would be a freight train of carnage.

  The only thing he was good at.

  So he stopped by a Radio Shack on the way out of Dulles and picked up a disposable phone with prepaid call time. Once again, Lars would track it, but that wouldn’t matter.

  He was relying on shock value alone.

  And he damn well knew how to achieve that.

  He ducked back into the Hyundai, gave the parking lot a quick once-over, then dialled a personal number known only to the uppermost Black Force operatives — a direct line for times of extreme emergency. It cut straight through all the bureaucratic bullshit and reached the one man Black Force agents needed to contact without any delay whatsoever. Sometimes, success came down to how fast the upper echelon could respond.

  That was why this system had been implemented.

  And it meant King could get straight to Lars without having to go through a web of deceit to do so.

  ‘This is Lars Crawford,’ the man said, his voice monotone.

  The number had been given out to a range of Black Force operatives, evidently, and Lars was ready for anything.

  Anything but this.

  ‘Trace this phone,’ King said.

  ‘Sorry? Who’s this?’

  ‘Listen to my fucking voice, and trace this phone.’

  ‘King?!’

  ‘You got it?’

  ‘Uh, yeah … what happened? Have you moved in on the—?’

  ‘Trace this phone,’ King hissed.

  Silence.

  One second.

  Two seconds.

  Three seconds.

  Then, ‘Oh, Jesus Christ.’

  ‘I can be there in twenty minutes. And I know for damn sure you don’t have the resources on hand to stop me. I’ll kill anyone who points a gun at me if I have to. Do you understand how close I am?’

  King heard muffled orders — Lars was covering the receiver.

  ‘Lars!’ King roared. ‘If I hear you trying to put up a barricade for one more second I won’t give you another chance. Now listen to me for a minute. This is serious.’

  ‘I’m very aware this is serious, King. Can we talk about it?’

  ‘Yes, we can talk about it.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You’re talking like a goddamn hostage negotiator. Relax. Just communicate with me. Like you’ve refused to do for the last few days.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘I’m going to start talking. And how you respond determines what I do next. You know exactly how much of a disaster I can cause in D.C. if you can’t shut me down in time. You want the press to know about what I’ve done in service of the U.S. military over the past five years?’

  ‘They wouldn’t dare print it. And we’d kill you long before you got it all out.’

  ‘I’m a fairly persuasive guy. And I bet you couldn’t.’

  ‘Jason. Let’s not do this.’

  ‘We don’t have to. I’m going to talk now.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think the Mali assignment didn’t come from traditional intelligence. I think you were told to send me there by someone who you trust, but you’re unsure of the reason yourself. And the whole time you were doubting the validity of the information you’d been given, but you couldn’t let me know about that because I was already so suspicious. Which is why you were deflecting every time I asked you. But you smell bullshit in this whole thing just as much as I do — you just can’t talk about it. But now I’m not giving you a choice. I want to know exactly who told you to send me to Mali and where his intel came from, because I ended up plucking a bunch of British journalists out of that compound instead of American aid workers. And I want to know if there was a reason for making me wait two days to do it, other than keeping me out of the country. So, if you don’t tell me, I’m coming straight to HQ and raising hell until it goes public. Because I’ve got a sick feeling that something very bad is about to happen on U.S. soil, and if you keep trying to cover for your man then I’ll just have to assume you’re in on it, and act accordingly. You understand what I’m telling you, Lars? You understand what I’m getting at?’

  King had jumped to an endless amount of conclusions, and by the end of his spiel he found himself doubting his own assumptions, so it stunned him when Lars took a deep breath and said, ‘Arnold Allen.’

  15

  King paused. ‘Who?’

  ‘Arnold Allen.’

  ‘I’ll need more than that.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be talking to you in the first place. God…’

  ‘But you don’t trust him either. And you’re starting to see how much of a mess this entire situation is. So I’d pick the guy who’s trying to do the right thing. Because there has to be a reason Arnold Allen didn’t want me in-country.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Spit it out, Lars.’

  ‘I’m just trying to think of the ramifications of letting you loose.’

  ‘I’ll do what I always do.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Get the job done.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong? If I’m wrong?’

  ‘Then it’s disastrous.’

  ‘I know…’

  ‘When have we ever been wrong together, Lars?’ King said.

  Lars took a deep breath — it rattled through the receiver. ‘Okay. Okay. Jesus Christ. Here goes nothing. Please keep yourself under control.’

  ‘When have I ever done that?’

  ‘You’re a real beacon of reassurance today.’

  ‘I don’t want to reassure you. I want answers.’

  ‘He’s a Senator.’

  King gripped the disposable phone with white knuckles. ‘What?’

  ‘He represents the State of New York in the U.S. Senate.’

  ‘What the hell is he doing ordering Black Force around? I thought we were separate from the political slog for a reason.’

  ‘He’s one of the few people in public office who knows of the division’s existence.’

  ‘And he gets a say in where you send your operatives?’

  ‘He had reliable information. He gave it to us, and suggested you be the one to tackle it. He said his daughters have a close personal relationship with two of the aid workers taken hostage. Now, that shouldn’t be a factor, but it checked the boxes for the kind of task we usually tackle anyway. So I figured, why not?’

  ‘Did you verify this information?’

  ‘We did everything we could.’

  ‘Bullshit,
Lars.’

  ‘We did. We confirmed there were hostages taken in the area, and we traced them to that compound. How was I to know they weren’t Americans?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ King said. ‘Those journalists would have been dead if I didn’t intervene. But Allen was blatantly lying. What was that shit about his daughters?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll be sure to question him about it and verify everything. In the meantime, you should—’

  ‘You won’t question him like I will.’

  ‘King, no way.’

  ‘Too bad, Lars. You’ve already given me too much. I’m not sitting back on my haunches while this guy runs around in front of the cameras pretending he made an innocent mistake.’

  ‘King…’

  ‘Was there a specific reason for the two day wait?’

  A pause.

  ‘Well?’ King said.

  Lars said, ‘Allen requested it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He fed me some line of crap about political sensitivities and … timing.’

  ‘Really? And you accepted that? Even if it was a legitimate operation, if you’d made me wait the two days one of the women would have been raped. Probably more than once. Maybe a couple of them would have been killed.’

  ‘He was incredibly confident about his intel. And the political situation here is a mess, King. Different divisions and organisations are in contact with a labyrinth of people. It’s hard enough for us to stay on the books. But we can’t always verify everything a thousand times. That’s the nature of our line of work. Sometimes we just need to trust the relevant parties, and move. I figured Allen knew things I didn’t. And no matter how hard I prodded, he wouldn’t disclose them.’

  ‘And now you know he’s full of shit.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Then it’s a good thing I’m here, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. It’s certainly not.’

  ‘Give me his address.’

  ‘Not a chance in hell.’

  ‘Then my first stipulation still applies. You really want me to fly off the handle? Because I’m damn close to doing just that. Then you won’t just be trying to work out what to do with Allen. You’ll be stumbling around trying to stop your best operative from spilling sensitive secrets to the media and keeping quiet about it.’

  ‘What the hell do you want, King? You’ve never put my balls in a vice like this.’

  ‘I want to know why I was shepherded out of the country. You think there’s a pleasant reason for that?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. I’ve never been in this situation before.’

  ‘Well, you’re in it now. And so am I.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘You give me what I want.’

  ‘If we’re wrong about this, and it was all one giant misunderstanding, and you do what you always do and tear a path of destruction through Allen’s security in the middle of the night and interrogate him about something he wasn’t responsible for … this entire division might get shut down.’

  ‘That’s a risk I’m willing to take.’

  ‘I don’t know if I am.’

  ‘I’m not giving you a choice.’

  Lars sighed, genuine and pained. ‘You’re really going to raise hell if I don’t help you?’

  ‘This wasn’t a giant misunderstanding, and you know it.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m just…’

  ‘The address. Now.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Whatever he’s planning on doing, it was going to happen during the two-day window where I was supposed to wait around and twiddle my thumbs. You certain there’s no reason that you’re aware of that you asked me to wait?’

  ‘He fed me a bunch of bullshit. But it was just that — bullshit.’

  ‘You two know each other?’

  ‘He was one of the most ardent supporters of Black Force’s creation five years ago. He was already a senator back then. He served for eight years in the Armed Forces before that. He was always supportive of my theories, back when everyone thought I was crazy. I kept telling people that solo operatives with off-the-charts reaction speeds are only dragged down by a team. No-one listened. Then Allen pulled some strings and got me into the Pentagon for a meeting…’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we met you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, Allen might have kickstarted Black Force, but I’m going to abandon it unless you give me his address.’

  ‘You’re that certain about this?’

  ‘I had eleven hours on a piece-of-shit cargo plane to think about it. I’m certain. Why else would he want me gone?’

  ‘What do you think he’s up to?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll sure find out.’

  ‘Don’t hurt him too badly.’

  ‘What if we’re right?’

  ‘Then hurt him as much as you want.’

  ‘Roger that.’

  Silence. They both knew what needed to come next, but Lars was clearly tearing himself apart over all the things that could go wrong. He knew of Jason King’s penchant for flying off the handle. He obviously didn’t want to think about what might happen if it came out that one of his operatives had besieged a senator’s home and beat information out of him.

  ‘Lars?’ King said.

  ‘Don’t fuck this up.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  The man took a deep breath.

  ‘Ten miles south of downtown D.C. There’s a private neighbourhood — a gated community. He lives there. A vacation home for when he needs to visit Washington.’

  ‘Address.’

  Another deep breath.

  Then Lars said it.

  King wrote it down on a scrap piece of paper, ended the call without another word, and set the Hyundai’s GPS to lead him to the destination. He pulled out of the Radio Shack parking lot with his pulse pounding and a thin line of sweat forming across his forehead.

  He was about to make a very powerful enemy.

  He hoped his intuition was right.

  Otherwise it would be all their heads on the chopping block.

  16

  King contemplated making a detour and stopping at one of the off-the-books weapon stations across Washington D.C. that all Black Force operatives had round-the-clock access to, but a moment of reasonable thought shut that down. If he knew Lars Crawford — and he thought he did — the man would keep quiet about what was unfolding with one of his most talented operatives. To all other members of the Black Force hierarchy, nothing would seem out of the ordinary until shit hit the fan.

  They probably all thought he was still in Northern Mali.

  Despite the turbulence associated with what was happening, King felt oddly calm as he guided the Hyundai down a desolate highway in the dead of night. He had a destination, and more importantly he had his oldest ally on his side. Trying to achieve anything without Lars’ co-operation would add the need to constantly check over his shoulder for threats. Now he could focus squarely on what lay in front of him.

  Lars Crawford believed him, and that meant his tracks would be covered for as long as it was feasible.

  So now there was the simple matter of a United States senator who wanted him as far from the country as possible for a two-day window.

  Why?

  ‘Time to find out,’ King muttered to himself.

  In truth, he didn’t need to arm himself with an arsenal. The Glock 17 in his hip holster and the three spare magazines in the duffel bag would more than suffice. King had never been one to turn to recklessness in the heat of combat. He chose his shots well, and he couldn’t conceive any scenario where he’d fire four whole clips dry. It had only taken a single magazine to run through the eight-man unit in Northern Mali.

  And this was a gated community.

  In truth, he didn’t even think he’d need a gun.

  He let the GPS take him to within a mile of the private neighbourhood and pulled into a gap between two giant maple trees lining
a wide avenue. It was approaching four in the morning, and the whole world was asleep. King hadn’t slept a wink, yet he’d never felt more alive. The truth was he’d been horrifically anxious to bring Lars back to his side.

  The mere thought of his handler turning bad had filled him with dread.

  Corrupt politicians — he could handle that.

  He couldn’t handle his only connection with Black Force sparking out. It would leave him aimless, adrift in a hostile world, cut off from the only thing he’d ever known for the last five years.

  But all was well within the ranks.

  So he killed the Hyundai’s engine and slipped out of the darkened interior with renewed vigour, slotting the three spare magazines into the open pouches across the front of his belt. He left the hiking pack in the car — there was no incriminating evidence in the bag. Just a few pairs of filthy clothes stiff with dried sweat, used in his trek across Northern Mali. It seemed surreal that he’d been in the heart of those lawless plains just half a day earlier, and now he was here, in unparalleled luxury, standing in the shadows of a quiet suburban neighbourhood in downtown D.C.

  Compared to the threats he’d dealt with in Mali, nothing in the senator’s mansion would phase him.

  He vaulted the perimeter fence of the gated community without much effort. All it took was a short run-up, a couple of steps up the smooth concrete, both hands planted on the upper lip of the wall, a short burst of fast-twitch muscle fibres, and then he tumbled into a small bush on the other side. He rolled to his feet, levered the Glock out of his hip holster, and dipped into primal mode, searching for any threats that decided to materialise.

  Nothing.

  It was all so easy.

  No barbed wire atop the fence. No alarms. Just silence, the calm quiet of a neighbourhood of upper-class socialites fast asleep in the early hours of the morning. The illusion of safety. A concrete fence around the neighbourhood and a gate with manned security during the day would do nothing to keep out a trained killer.

  Allen certainly hadn’t expected a confrontation on home soil.

  For all he knew, the only threat to whatever he had planned was halfway across the globe.

  Not anymore.

  King kept low, ghosting through the shadows with the kind of practiced precision that could only come to a man who had years of experience in the field. Lars had told him Allen’s house was seventh on the left of the very first street. Number thirteen.