by Matt Rogers
CONTENTS
Mailing List
Title Page
Copyright
Quote
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
End
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ISOLATED
Matt Rogers
Copyright © 2016 Matt Rogers
All rights reserved.
“Man is the cruelest animal.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche
PROLOGUE
Officer William Brandt of the Jameson Police Department unlocked his front door and stepped into a cozy living room furnished with a plain couch, a small flat-screen television and a glass coffee table. Ordinarily at the end of the work day he would relish the peace and quiet of the evening’s final hours. Then he would head to bed, alone. Just as he had for the last year, ever since he and Georgia had parted ways. Ready to repeat the process the next day.
But tonight was different.
An hour ago he’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to.
With a pounding heart he crossed to the kitchen, small and white and decorated just as sparsely as the living room. He snatched the landline phone off its cradle and held it in a sweating palm. Usually the silence of the empty house had a calming effect. Now it unnerved him.
He stood staring into space for what felt like an eternity, listening to the sounds of the forest outside. The eerie chirping of crickets. The pine branches rustling in the mountain breeze. Jameson was a small town buried in the never-ending woods of the Australian countryside, far from the twenty-four hour bustle of the city. The isolation gave Brandt room to breathe. At least, that’s what he told people.
In truth, he fucking hated the place.
Hundreds of square miles of nothingness in every direction meant there weren’t many places to make new acquaintances. Or find a girlfriend.
It also meant there was a lot of room to bury a body.
If they got to him, he knew no-one would ever find him.
Clutching the phone in his grip, it sunk in that he had stumbled upon something sinister, a secret that those responsible would kill to protect. He found himself plagued by the unshakeable feeling that he was in way over his head.
A spontaneous detour after leaving the station had led him down a road he didn’t normally use. He’d seen floodlights in an area of forest he believed to be deserted. He’d decided to check it out. Even though he was off-duty, curiosity got the better of him.
He’d been spotted.
Now he began to punch in a number, unsure if he was making the right decision. Before he landed in the dead-end career of a small town police officer, he’d done some time in the military. The defence force advertisements had influenced him enough to serve three long and uneventful years in the Royal Australian Navy Reserves. They’d stationed him up in Sydney at Fleet Base East, where he’d made a few friends in the Special Operations Command.
They were who he needed right now. Special Forces were the only body capable of addressing an incident of this magnitude.
Especially after he stressed the importance of what he’d seen.
A floorboard creaked in the corridor connecting to the kitchen. It was almost inaudible, but the silence amplified the noise. He froze halfway through the process of dialling. He put the landline back on the wall and reached for the holster at his waist. Jameson’s crime rates were virtually nonexistent, which meant he’d never used his firearm in the line of duty. He was inexperienced in these situations. He struggled to suppress his nerves.
Before he had time to draw his weapon a man stepped round the corner. It sent a pang of shock through his chest. The intruder was a little taller than him, his expression steely. His eyes were cold and hard. Emotionless. He seemed perfectly calm, as if breaking into houses was an activity performed for leisure. Were it not for the enormous handgun in his palm, safety flicked off, Brandt would have trouble believing the man had hostile intentions.
The intruder levelled the pistol at his head.
‘You know why I’m here?’ the man said.
Brandt nodded. ‘I swear, I won’t say anything to anyone. I’ll pretend I never saw anything.’
‘But you did see.’
‘I know. Please. You can trust me.’
‘Maybe I can. Maybe I can’t. No way to know for sure.’
‘I won’t talk.’
‘You’ve got that right.’
It only took one shot.
The round exploded out of the barrel, deafening inside the confined space. It entered through Brandt’s temple and blew out the back of his head amidst a spray of blood and brain matter. The intruder had chosen an IMI Desert Eagle to kill the officer because it left no room for speculation. Surviving a direct impact to the forehead from one of its cartridges was impossible.
Brandt’s lifeless body spun away. He landed heavily on the kitchen floor and lay still.
The intruder took one look at the corpse and knew nothing further was necessary. He tucked the handgun away, then shrunk back into the shadows. He had no time to linger. He would get his men to dispose of the body later.
There was work to be done.
CHAPTER 1
Just a few short miles away, Jason King took a single glance around the country-town bar. He saw five men. After a beat of observation, he concluded that three were inebriated locals and two were workers temporarily residing in the countryside. He had spent thirty-two minutes sitting at the thick oak countertop of the bar. Timing the duration he spent in one place was something instinctive, ingrained into his subconscious from past experiences.
'Can I get you another round, bud?' the bartender said, motioning to King’s empty glass. He was a burly man with a beard that fell past his neck and thick long hair tied back into a bun. His heavy-duty clothes reeked of beer and tobacco.
He was no threat.
'Sure.'
The man took King’s glass and placed it under the tap. A stream of ale ran into the bottom, creating a thin layer of froth as the glass filled to the brim. It was his second glass and he couldn’t help but admit it was good.
He took the time the bartender spent on the refill to shoot another look at his surrou
ndings.
One could never be too careful.
Nothing had changed. A roaring log fire on the far wall cast a pale orange glow over the room. Wooden tables covered most of the floorspace, each cut from the trunk of a single tree and polished and smoothed to perfection, adding to the gritty outback feel of the decor. The three locals sat together in the far corner near the fire. Giant mugs of beer rested on their table, each at various stages of completion. They talked loudly, cackling at each other’s comments. The pair of workers were still dressed in their high-visibility vests. Both their outfits were covered in dried concrete stains and their faces sported the weary expression of labourers finally resting after a long day’s work.
The bartender laid down a fresh round in front of King, full to the brim. 'Here you go.'
‘Thanks.’
'Can’t help but notice your accent, mate. American?'
King nodded. 'Born and raised.'
‘What brings you all the way out here?’
'Recently retired. Decided to travel for a while. See the world.’
‘You look too young to be retired.’
‘I made use of the time I had. Got a lot of work done.’
‘Well, you’re a lucky man.’
King shrugged and sipped his beer. ‘That’s debatable.’
‘Why here?’ the bartender said. ‘There’s a million places you could have gone. I can’t say we’re the most attractive tourist destination on the planet.’
‘It’s quiet out here,’ King said. ‘I needed to get away from all the trouble.'
'Trouble?'
He paused. ‘Life gets chaotic sometimes.’
‘I get it. Sometimes you need to put all the shit behind you.’
King nodded.
‘How are we treating you so far?'
‘I like it here.’
There was a moment of silence. King adjusted his khaki trousers and took another mouthful of beer.
'Tell me,’ he said. ‘What’s it like?'
The bartender raised an eyebrow. 'Huh?'
'Running a bar in these parts. Must be peaceful.’
'Well, I can’t complain, mate. Like you said, it’s quiet out here. I stay afloat from loyal customers. People keep coming back. It’s never more than steady, but I do alright. I don’t need to pay to have a drink. It’s the little things you take pleasure in.' He paused, surveying the room. Quietly proud. 'Sorry, I’m rambling.'
King shook his head. 'No, it’s nice to hear. Gives me some insight into a different type of life to mine.'
'A future career prospect, maybe?' the bartender said, chuckling.
'I doubt it.'
'You don’t seem like much of a talker.'
'I’m not.' King paused again. ‘Sorry, I’m more the solitary type. Don’t do well with small talk. But I appreciate your company, don’t get me wrong.’
'Likewise, bud. I’ll leave you to it. Enjoy the rest of the trip.’
The bartender moved to tend to the table of the three locals. They had exited the bar in unison a minute previously, exchanging waves with him. King slid the cuff of his leather jacket up his forearm and checked his watch.
Almost midnight.
The abrupt departure of the locals signified that the place would be closing shortly. The two workers seemed oblivious to this fact. Definitely out-of-town folk. They lounged back in their chairs, deep in conversation, blissfully unaware. Then again, King often saw what others did not. He’d learnt to notice small details.
This time of year the temperature dropped to almost zero in these parts. He zipped his jacket up to the collar. It would be a cold walk up into town.
'Wrap it up, gents,’ the bartender announced to the room. He scrubbed away at the tabletop with a wet sponge, cradling three empty beer mugs in his other hand.
King slid a twenty out of his wallet and dropped it on the countertop, even though the two beers were only six each. From across the room the bartender spotted the red note and assumed he wanted change.
'Be right there, mate,’ he said.
'Don’t worry about it. For the service.'
The bartender smiled. ‘Ah, of course. Tipping. You lot are too generous.'
King raised a hand in a gesture of farewell and headed out into the night. He stepped down into an outdoor dining area housing empty tables and full ashtrays. All coated in a thin layer of frost. Ahead, a deserted mountain road twisted around a bend, turning steep as it ascended up the hill into Jameson. He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets as a wave of cold washed over him. The temperature had dropped to near arctic. With each exhale, a cloud of steam rose from between his lips. Most would baulk at the thought of walking through the night in such conditions.
Not King. He found the solitude calming.
He crossed the road, feeling the asphalt crackle under his boots. Thick trees with pine branches boxed him in, stirring a slight sense of claustrophobia in his chest. He let his thoughts settle, finding a rhythm as he strolled across the mildew coating the side of the road.
He found a particularly large pine jutting out from the tree line, almost touching the asphalt. Acting on an urge, he sat down against the trunk. The ridges and bumps of the wood pressed into his back, but he didn’t care. He decided he would spend a moment resting, observing his surroundings. There hadn’t been much time for that in his life.
The dirt was cold. It soaked through his khaki trousers. He let himself enjoy the sudden quiet. There were still sounds, of course. Close by, a cricket chirped somewhere under the dirt, and overhead the trees rustled in the alpine breeze. He remained unperturbed. His career had taught him to blend into his surroundings and he did just that. Shortly after he sat down, the night wrapped around his figure. He breathed in the cold air. Enjoying the tranquility.
The faint glow of a pair of headlights broke the darkness. King assumed it was the pair of workers from the bar. Their battered old pickup truck came into view a few seconds later, the engine chugging throatily as it tackled the steep mountain road. He knew he was invisible to them. He watched the vehicle approach until it drew parallel with him, moving fast, heading for Jameson.
Then a figure stepped out of the woods further up the road.
CHAPTER 2
The silhouette had come from the opposite side of the forest. King watched as the pickup slowed to avoid a collision. Its headlights lit up the figure. A man dressed in simple clothing. He wore a plain blue windbreaker and a pair of jeans. His hair was cut short, almost to the skull. His face was sharply defined and clean. It bore a look of restrained panic.
King sat completely still. Something about the situation felt off. He saw the driver’s side window roll down.
'Can I help you?’ a voice from inside called out.
The voice was curious. A little hesitant. One of the workers, surprised to see another soul in these parts.
The man from the woods stepped out of the pickup’s path, moving to the driver’s side.
'I’m lost,’ he said, his voice quivering.
'You want a lift into town?'
‘That'd be great,' the man said. 'Me and my buddy have been walking in circles for hours.'
'Your buddy?'
A second man emerged from the trees, dressed similarly. His face was also clean. Both men’s clothes were brand new. There wasn’t a semblance of dirt on either of them. King knew for certain they were not telling the truth. They had not been lost in the forest for hours. In fact, he was sure they knew exactly where they were.
They’d been waiting.
The second man walked over to the passenger’s side window. It rolled down too. Now both workers were exposed.
'Thanks for this,' the second man said.
'No problem. You boys okay?'
'I think so.'
'Cold night to get lost.'
'Tell me about it.'
'Anyway, jump in the back tray. We’ll get you into town.'
Neither of the men moved. The man by the driver’s side
visibly stiffened.
'Are your names David Lee and Miles Price?' he said, his tone now firm and authoritative. Demanding an instantaneous response.
'Yeah,' came a voice from inside the truck. 'How’d you know—'
That was what killed them.
The correct response to realising a couple of strangers from the forest knew your name would be to stamp on the accelerator and get as far away as possible. As soon as the confirmation came, both men slid guns from their belts in unison. There were suppressors attached. King couldn’t ascertain their exact make in the low light, but they were fearsome-looking pistols. He guessed Glock 17s.
There was nothing he could do to save the workers. It only took one shot through each man’s skull to silence them forever. The two discharges were muffled, but no suppressor fully silences the noise of a gunshot. Instead, a pair of vicious coughs echoed down the road. Without a soul around to hear.
Except Jason King.
He watched the pair of killers move with calculated efficiency, each sliding a corpse out of the respective doors. They dragged the bodies along the road and heaved them into the rear tray. They constantly checked for cars, but the road was empty at this time of night. When they were done they straightened up and slammed the tray closed.
'We need to get rid of this before anyone sees. Take our payment and get the hell out of here.'
'You didn’t see anyone?’
'No.'
'Take a quick look. I need to clean the blood off the seats.'
King remained motionless. He clenched his fists. Perhaps he would be spotted.
The man lit up a flashlight and scanned it quickly over the surrounding trees. The yellow beam passed briefly over King. He remained motionless, resting against the tree trunk.
To most men, he would be invisible.
Not this time.
'Hey!' the man screamed to his friend, immediately producing the same pistol from his holster.
King exploded into action. He got his feet underneath him and scrambled around the trunk, disappearing from sight. From the road he heard the familiar sound of a suppressed gunshot. The bullet grazed past the space he had occupied moments earlier. He felt the displaced air, close by. They were good shots.
