by Matt Rogers
‘You know I want to stay with you.’
‘And I’m glad you do. But let’s get some sleep. I’m about to pass out.’
The office floor was far from comfortable, especially pressing into the dozens of bruises and cuts littering his skin. But he shifted his weight around until he found a position that felt somewhat bearable. Kate’s head lay on his chest, her cheek warm, calming him. Kitchener curled into a ball on the other side of the room. He took a deep breath and let all the worry and the anger and the repressed memories of years past wash away. The coming rest would be vital.
He had a gut feeling that he’d need it the next day.
CHAPTER 35
The night passed restlessly.
Despite his attempts, he barely managed more than a couple of hours of sleep. Kate dozed softly on his chest, utterly exhausted from the madness. He wasn’t sure how Kitchener slept. The room was too dark, and she stayed silent in the corner.
When faint daylight crept into the hallway he made his way out to the clearing and stared at the sun rising over the treetops. The trees were covered in frost. A thin fog had settled over everything, obscuring the sky. He heard the familiar morning calls of various birds and the creaking and groaning of the trunks as they swayed in the morning breeze.
Kitchener crept up behind him. She looked ahead, not interested in disturbing the silence.
‘Did you sleep?’ King said.
‘Barely,’ she said. ‘I keep replaying everything. Over and over again.’
‘That’s natural.’
‘Where do we go from here?’
‘I think we should—’
Kitchener’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She withdrew it and checked the screen.
‘Huh, that’s weird.’
He looked over. ‘What is?’
‘An old friend’s calling…’ she said. ‘Give me a moment.’
She swiped at the screen, returning a missed call. She pressed the phone to her ear and began to pace back and forth in front of him, speaking intermittently, nodding along, listening closely. She talked for a couple more minutes, then hung up and dropped the phone back into the pocket of her uniform.
‘We may have something here,’ she said.
‘An old friend?’
‘Paul Robinson.’
‘And he is?’
‘He owns a skydiving dropzone not far from here. Twenty-minute drive, tops. I did my solo course there a few years back. Needed something to shake up the normal routine. Have you ever jumped?’
King scoffed. ‘Thousands of times. Usually into hostile territory.’
She paused. ‘Ah. I keep forgetting you’re a different breed.’
‘Continue.’
‘A plane of his was stolen overnight. It’s a PAC P-750 XSTOL.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘They’re built out of New Zealand. Perfect for skydiving. Large exit door, that sort of thing. Which also means you can load crates of anthrax in fairly easily.’
‘How long ago was it taken?’
‘Paul arrived at the hangar half an hour ago and found it empty. He called me straight away.’
‘You think it’s connected?’
‘It’s got to be.’
‘We don’t have much else to go off,’ she said. ‘What were you going to suggest before?’
He shook his head. ‘This trumps anything I had planned. Let’s go.’
He went back to the room and explained the new development to Kate. She nodded, yet her expression seemed dazed. Like the events unfolding were just another part of an unbelievable, improbable rollercoaster.
He drew her in, wrapping an arm around her.
‘It’ll be over soon,’ he said. ‘I promise. We’re close.’
‘I hope so.’
They packed up the rifles and the flashlights and the few supplies Kitchener had brought in from her car and the three of them slipped back into the vehicle. King looked back at the metal work factory as they peeled away from it and shuddered up the same gravel path. He knew he would never see it again. Whether his life depended on it or not, he was never coming back to this place. Too many bad memories. He’d spent too long in the same place.
He couldn’t shake a feeling that the endgame was approaching.
They had to pass through Jameson on the way to the dropzone. Kitchener drove, guiding them from memory. For added caution, King lay down across the back seat as they passed through the main strip. It would do no good to attract unwanted attention. He got Kate to do the same. When civilisation dropped behind them once again, they resumed their positions.
‘What are you going to do when this is all over?’ he said to Kitchener.
‘Leave. Find another job.’
‘No longer a fan of police work?’
‘I’ve seen enough lately to turn me off that career path.’
‘And you?’ he said to Kate.
‘Still trying to work that out.’
He nodded his understanding.
‘What about you?’ Kitchener said. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Haven’t quite figured that out yet either,’ he said.
They passed through Hurst, and King eyed the motel Kate had brought him to. A supermarket, a stretch of cafes, a hardware store and a bank all flashed past. He saw regular civilians going about their lives. Carefree. Unaware that their world could be brought to a crashing halt at any moment.
The world’s a strange place, he thought.
In seven days every man, woman and child within a fifty mile radius could succumb to violent, painful deaths, all dependent on the choices of a single individual.
Unless King managed to stop him.
Ten minutes later they arrived at the dropzone. It was a huge tract of land, mostly grass, with a stretch of runway in the centre of the property. A sunbaked single-lane road led onto the tarmac. Down by the far end King saw the hangar. They accelerated toward it, picking up speed. The building had nothing on the industrial sites he’d recently encountered. There was just enough room to fit a small plane. The hangar doors lay open, revealing nothing inside but gear and maintenance tools. It was conspicuously empty. Connected to the hangar was a long concrete structure, a single room that King guessed was for fitting harnesses and parachutes. Then alongside both these buildings lay a ranch-style clubhouse with a wide covered deck. A pair of big four-wheel-drives rested out the front of the hangar, both at least ten years old. Useful for picking up the day’s jumpers.
King had enough skydiving experience to be knowledgeable about the craft. He appreciated the setup. Surprisingly, he found himself envying the owner, much the way he had appreciated the serenity of the bartender during his travels into Jameson. These men had set up a business for themselves, doing what they loved, and they made enough to live a comfortable and peaceful life. He wondered if it was too late to do something similar.
He was pulled from his thoughts when the door to the clubhouse opened and a short, stocky man with long flowing hair made his way across the runway. They climbed out of the car. Kitchener waved to the man, and he waved back.
‘Long time no see, Paul,’ she said.
He seemed like he would ordinarily be a happy, laid-back man. Now his face had creased with worry.
‘Hey, Lisa,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you guys. I’m Paul.’
He shook King’s hand, then Kate’s. As they went through the motions of rudimentary greetings, King noted his use of the name Lisa. He never had asked Kitchener’s first name.
It suited her.
‘Who are these guys?’ Paul said.
‘Just a couple of friends,’ Kitchener said. ‘We’re … understaffed at the moment. So what can you tell us?’
‘Actually, quite a lot,’ he said. ‘But I wanted you here to see it, of course. Don’t wanna be snooping around behind your back, hey? Police need to know about this shit.’
‘What shit?’
‘GPS in the plane, mate. I know where it is. The buggers who
stole it aren’t that smart, are they?’
All three of their eyes widened simultaneously, but not for the reasons that Paul thought.
‘You have its exact location?’ King said. ‘Right now?’
Paul nodded. ‘I do. Wanna take a look?’
He ushered them into the clubhouse. The interior was fully furnished. Sports paraphernalia dotted the walls, ranging from posters to jerseys to footballs, many signed. A beer fridge lay in one corner, full to the brim with cans of lager. An entire wall had been taken up by a shoddily constructed bar. There wasn’t a large variety of alcohol save for Jack Daniels and Malibu. Sprawling couches took up the majority of space, all surrounding a large television. There were several stands packed with flyers on skydiver safety and upcoming events.
Paul crossed to a laptop open on the countertop of the bar. He brought up a program which was nothing more than a large satellite map of the countryside. A small green dot shone in the upper left-hand corner. He zoomed in and pointed at it.
‘The fuckers aren’t moving,’ he said. ‘They’ve landed somewhere, but I’m not familiar with that area. It’s back up near Jameson.’
King scrutinised the map. The green dot hovered in an area clear of trees. A long black strip cut through the forest all around it.
Another runway.
He studied the surrounding area. He saw a road that cut through pastures and a small grey cluster that looked very similar to a concrete plant.
‘Is that…?’
‘They’re behind their facility,’ Kate said. ‘There’s a runway buried in the forest back there. But it doesn’t look like there’s any way to access it on land. There’s no roads leading in.’
‘There has to be,’ King said. ‘They need to get the anthrax on the plane. That’s why they landed there.’
Paul perked up, registering what King had said. ‘The what?’
‘This isn’t what you think it is,’ King said. ‘They’re not hooligans or petty thieves. A lot of people are in danger.’
‘Did you say anthrax?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fuck me.’ He ran a hand across his sweating scalp. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Can we make it there in time?’ Kitchener said, ignoring Paul.
‘Only option,’ King said, heading for the door. ‘They’ll be loading the plane as we speak. They won’t be expecting us.’
‘Hey…’ Paul said, following them out of the clubhouse.
He began to say something else, but King didn’t hear him.
The blood rushing to his ears cut off all sound.
His heart skipped a beat.
He looked out across the runway to see a pair of vehicles in the distance, kicking up hordes of dust, roaring down the road toward the cluster of buildings. The two Hawkeis, barrelling at full speed. All loaded with men dressed in military-style khakis. The same men who had tied him up the previous evening.
Kate let out a gasp of surprise. ‘How did they…?’
‘Fuck,’ King said. ‘Into the hangar!’
He ducked in through the open rear door of Kitchener’s car and grabbed both the M4 rifles off the back seat. He spun both weapons until they faced the right way, then racked the safety off each gun.
He knew if they were to make it out of the dropzone alive, a monumental firefight would be necessary.
‘I’ll talk to them,’ Paul said. ‘Pretend no-one’s here.’
King looked at him, stunned. ‘No you fucking won’t. They’ll kill you.’
‘It’s all good! I’ve got it.’
King moved to grab Paul, but he was just out of range. By then it was too late. The Hawkeis shot out onto the runway, closing the distance quicker than he had anticipated. Any longer out in the open and he would risk being spotted. Cursing Paul’s idiocy, he retreated to the hangar and ducked inside.
CHAPTER 36
The hangar smelt of fuel and old machinery. It had a cracked concrete floor and barely any decent cover. The space previously occupied by Paul’s plane now lay empty. Wooden shelving ran across the far wall, customised to fit the dimensions of the hangar. A door at the rear of the hangar led through to the concrete structure King had spotted previously. The door had a glass window at head height. He looked through and saw a long low room packed with skydiving gear. A handful of harnesses hung from the roof.
He instructed the two women to press themselves against the closest hangar wall. Then he did the same. He heard the squealing tyres of the Hawkeis pulling up outside and knew he had put himself in one of the most vulnerable positions of his life. All it would take was one man to round the corner and raise the alarm. He gripped the M4 in his hands, sweat running onto the metal.
Heavily outnumbered. A severe lack of cover. Vision still wavering from the effects of the concussion.
He knew he was in a bad spot.
The three of them crouched low, not daring to make a sound. Round the corner doors slammed and footsteps clattered across the tarmac. King kept his barrel aimed at the open entrance to the hangar. He let his pulse quicken and the familiar feeling of pre-imminent combat flooded his system. There was nothing quite like it. The heightened senses and increase of adrenalin proved a potent combination. After ten years of channelling such a feeling it had become second nature. He could control it. The nerves no longer affected him. He simply used them to react faster.
Beside him, Kitchener breathed heavy, her weapon up just like his. She would be experiencing the same rush, yet hers would be a little harder to control. She hadn’t shared the same past as King. Police officer or not, she would not be mentally ready for the situation that was more than likely about to unfold.
His line of sight revealed nothing but a pretty landscape, with the runway ending a hundred feet away. The usual breeze rustling through the air had ceased. There were no natural sounds out here, just the odd groan from the hangar walls. It made the conversation outside clearly audible. He could hear every snippet of dialogue.
From somewhere nearby Paul said, ’Can I help you gentlemen?’
‘Whose car is this?’ a gruff voice demanded.
‘That’s my friend’s. He’s staying with me for a few days.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In one of the caravans out back. He’s asleep.’
‘Wake him up.’
‘I’m sorry, but…’
‘I said wake him up.’
‘Mind telling me who you are? And what’s with all the guns?’
No response.
The silence went on a beat too long. Long enough for King to realise that Paul was in serious danger. These men obviously knew that he was here somewhere. Which meant they knew Paul was simply stalling.
It appeared their patience had grown thin.
The din of rifle fire made the three of them flinch. It ripped across the empty dropzone, carrying with it the undeniable conclusion that Paul had been killed. King tried to count the shots, but they were too rapid. He guessed that two separate guns had been used to execute the man. There was no visual proof to back up such an idea, but there were little other options. Who else could they have been shooting at?
The following chatter confirmed King’s worst fears.
One man said, ‘That was a bit excessive.’
Another said, ‘Fuck him. He was trying to hide them. Lars knows they’re here.’
A third said, ‘Spread out?’
The second man replied, ‘Yeah. Sweep the property. They won’t escape without us seeing. It’s too open around here.’
Then there was movement, scuffling and rustling, heading straight for the hangar. He heard Kitchener inhale sharply behind him. Kate stayed quiet, but she would be terrified. King clutched his M4. He made his hands stop shaking. He calmed his breathing. It was an odd sensation when one knew that combat was inevitable. He could hear a cluster of men moving toward the hangar’s open entrance. He raised his gun.
They would round the corner any moment…
When
he saw the first flash of a limb, he didn’t pull the trigger. Sure, he would kill one man, but the others would fall back behind cover, and then every mercenary in their general vicinity would know their location. They would be flushed out and overwhelmed.
So he waited for the first man to step into view, then the second and third followed a moment later, all three of them searching the hangar for signs of life, scanning it from right to left, taking just a fraction of a second too long to notice King crouched on one side.
A fourth man came into his line of fire just as he unloaded the M4’s magazine.
They didn’t stand a chance.
His aim had been locked on, and when he had time to zone in, he rarely faltered. Especially at this proximity. The carbine rifle coughed and spat as thirty bullets unloaded out of the barrel. The four mercenaries started to instinctively raise their weapons, reacting to the sudden noise. Not fast enough. Their torsos shook as they were dotted with lead. They stayed standing for a split second. Kitchener added a few shots of her own, squeezing off the M&P a few times in rapid succession. Unnecessary, but it made sure none of them would get up.
The four of them buckled and fell to the tarmac outside the hangar, dropping their guns, either groaning in agony or dead.
‘Through there,’ King said, motioning to the door set into the far wall. ‘Now.’
The barrage of automatic weapon fire would attract every last man on the property to their location. He thought he’d counted ten men when he’d first seen the convoy approaching. Which left six, all fully armed, all ready for combat, all dangerous.
They ran for the door, fear lending them speed. King discarded the empty M4 in his right hand and gripped the second fully-loaded rifle double-handed. Thirty bullets left. No spare magazines. He reached the door first, praying it wasn’t locked. He thundered a boot into its centre and it swung open, clattering on its hinges. He breathed a sigh of relief and ducked through into the gear-fitting room. The two women followed. He slammed the door shut and took a quick glance through the plexiglass.
Men dressed in khakis and brandishing all types of automatic weapons began to surge into the hangar, stepping over their dead comrades. King saw this and fell away from the door. A trio of shots destroyed the glass a moment later, several more thudding into the wood, some tearing through.
