Imprisoned: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 2)
Page 1
CONTENTS
Mailing List
Books by Matt Rogers
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
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
Author's Note
Other Books
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BOOKS BY MATT ROGERS:
The Jason King Series
ISOLATED (Jason King Series Book 1)
IMPRISONED (Jason King Series Book 2)
IMPRISONED
Matt Rogers
Copyright © 2016 Matt Rogers
All rights reserved.
“It is these very dangers, this alternation of hope and fear, the continual agitation kept alive by these sensations in his heart, which excite the huntsman…”
— Horace-Bénédict de Saussure
PROLOGUE
The shipyard had been abandoned by port control officials years ago.
Now it held dozens of vessels that had been decommissioned by the Bolivarian Navy of Venezuela over the years. They were nothing more than rusting carcasses, dumped in this vast expanse of concrete and forgotten. No-one came here anymore.
Which meant it perfectly suited the man striding along the dusty land inside its walled perimeter.
He was tall. Around six foot two and dreadlocked, with olive skin. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him. He had the lean, wiry build of someone raised on the streets. Someone who’d lived a life full of hardship.
But that past was a distant memory. Now he relished the success and prosperity that his operation had provided him with.
It didn’t mean he slowed down. In fact, he found that the richer he became, the harder he worked. It was necessary in his line of work. Brutality and ruthlessness were keys to survival.
He passed in between derelict ships, walking fast, knowing exactly where he needed to go. Despite the lack of sun, he wore a tattered singlet and khaki shorts. The clothing exposed sinewed muscles carved from years of living on the streets. It was the same outfit he’d worn for years. He wasn’t cold. Venezuela’s temperature barely fluctuated year-round. It was always warm. Always humid. Nothing changed.
At least, temperature-wise.
Today, his whole world had changed. The operation he’d spent years constructing had been thrown into jeopardy by an unfortunate chain of events. He would do everything in his power to ensure that it continued to prosper. It was his life’s work.
He would not lose it, under any circumstances.
He made for the port facing the Caribbean Sea. The water stretched as far as the eye could see. The shipyard was situated in the state of Vargas, which was partly why he was there. In 1999, devastating floods and mudslides had killed tens of thousands and decimated the state’s infrastructure.
They’d called it a tragedy.
He’d called it a tantalising business opportunity.
When his men seized the shipyard a year later, no-one cared. No-one batted an eyelid. The state officials were as corrupt as they came. Those who showed even a shred of interest had been quickly paid off.
The man made for the most prominent feature in the shipyard — an enormous cruise ship, resting in the shallows of a massive inlet that had been carved into the concrete port. It had docked there years ago and never left. It contained the majority of his assets, spread across hundreds of dilapidated rooms.
He passed two men loitering by the port, resting on a rusting car wreck and smoking cheap cigarettes. Assault rifles — Kalashnikov AK103s, purchased in bulk — lay by their side. They didn’t make eye contact as he strode by. Normally they would, but they knew he was in a rage. The man was not known for having a level-headed temperament.
He crossed a narrow makeshift bridge that had been erected after their arrival, connecting the ground floor of the cruise ship to the dock. The floating behemoth had long ago lost its sense of awe. Years of neglect had taken their toll. He walked through corridors with paint flaking off the walls and passed rooms that smelled of fetid dampness. The ship was gargantuan. It wouldn’t take much for a stranger to become lost in its bowels. But the man had walked its halls too many times to count. He knew the structure inside and out.
He headed up three floors, ascending a staircase that felt as if it would collapse at any moment. He walked down another corridor, indistinguishable from the rest, and turned into a large room. Along the far wall, sliding glass doors led to a balcony facing out over the shipyard. He’d converted it from a deluxe bedroom into a makeshift office.
Two men sat in front of a sweeping oak desk resting in the centre of the room. Both nervously shifted in the tattered chairs. They were anxious to share the recent developments with their boss.
The man crossed the room and came to a halt behind the desk. Facing them.
‘News?’ he said in Spanish. ‘Good?’
They paused for a second too long. By the time the bald guy on the left shook his head, indicating that the situation had gone south, the man had turned and thundered a fist into the wall. It was made of plaster, and weak. It caved under his rage-induced blow. He let the sound reverberate through the sparsely furnished room, then turned back.
‘Negotiations broke down,’ the bald guy said. ‘They’re furious. They’re threatening to cut off our supply.’
‘You realise what this means?’ he said.
‘There’s more,’ the bald guy said. ‘It seems it was an American who ruined us.’
‘You’re joking?’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Has he been seen before?’
The bald guy shook his head again. ‘Never. He’s new. Big guy. Taller than you. Short brown hair. Seems well-built. That’s about all we know.’
‘So someone’s hiring tourists to fuck with us.’
‘I don’t think he’s a tourist. Not after what he did.’
‘A mercenary?’
‘I can’t be sure.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘We’re still trying to figure that out
. Once we do, we’ll kill him.’
The man behind the desk held up a finger. ‘No. Too messy, especially if he’s as dangerous as you say he is. We don’t want to cause a scene. Especially not in that district. And I want answers.’
‘So we take him alive?’
‘You think we can?’
The bald guy shrugged. ‘I can’t be certain. We rounded up a few witnesses and they say he’s the real deal. I wouldn’t risk it.’
The man in charge grinned. ‘I have a better idea.’
He lifted a satellite phone off the desk and switched it on. He punched in a number that he knew by memory. Requests like these were often necessary, and incredibly useful. His call was answered before the second ring.
‘Tomás,’ the voice on the other end said, answering the call with his name. ‘CICPC.’
Which stood for “Cuerpo de Investigaciones Científicas, Penales y Criminalísticas”. A name that was far too long and as such had been abbreviated. They were one of many police agencies in Venezuela. It helped that the country’s law enforcement consisted of a multitude of separate entities. It meant certain divisions could be targeted.
Paid off.
It was not necessary for the man in the singlet to respond with his own name. ‘It’s me.’
‘What do you need?’ Tomás said.
‘There’s an American who has caused us a great deal of trouble. I will send my men to provide you with a description. Find him and arrest him.’
‘Murder?’ The standard false charge.
‘Murder.’
‘Where do you want him?’
‘Which prison is your worst?’
‘All of them.’
‘Any in particular?’
‘I imagine El Infierno is the harshest on newcomers.’
Hell. Aptly named.
‘Then throw him in there.’
‘Why?’
‘I want to see what he’s capable of — before I kill him. Test him against the inmates. Maybe get some answers.’
‘Consider it done.’
They ended the call without saying goodbye. There was no need for formalities following such a discussion. The officer on the other end of the line knew what was necessary. He would deliver, as he always did. And he would receive another duffel bag of laundered bolivars at the end of the year for his assistance.
‘Who else knows the American’s description?’ the man said to the two men before him.
They looked at each other. Shrugged.
‘Almost everyone,’ the bald guy said. ‘Rumours spread quickly.’
‘So this information is not exclusive to the two of you?’
‘No.’
‘Perfect.’
The man in charge wrenched one of the desk drawers open and pulled out a loaded Taurus 24/7. A reliable handgun, smuggled across the border from Brazil a couple of years ago. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d used it. He always kept the safety off. For situations just like these.
Barely suppressing blinding rage, he shot the bald guy three times in the head. Each impact created a fresh geyser of blood. The 9mm rounds killed him instantly. He turned to the guy on the right, who now sat rigid in his chair, bolt upright. Pale with shock. He squeezed the trigger another couple of times and wiped the expression off the man’s face.
The bodies keeled backwards off their chairs, thudding into the carpeted floor.
Another pair of bloodstains to add to the ever-growing collection.
There’d been no particular reason for what he’d done. These men were not at fault for the destabilisation of his operation. But killing calmed him. He did it because he could. Nothing more.
Breathing out the fury inside his chest, he left their corpses on the floor and went to find more men. He would send them to assist the police with their enquiries, then watch as El Infierno Prison tore the American scum apart.
CHAPTER 1
Six hours earlier…
Jason King surfaced from an undisturbed sleep, which was something of a rarity these days. He took note of his surroundings. A lavish hotel room, booked the night before on a whim. A sixty-inch television hung on the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced out over the Caribbean Sea. The curtains were drawn halfway, shrouding the room in a lowlight that added to the coziness. He lay prone in the middle of a four-poster bed, one of the largest he’d ever slept in.
Beside him, someone stirred. He glanced across and saw a bare shoulder and long brown locks spilling across one of the oversized satin pillows.
Ah, yes. That’s right.
A bartender from the night before. He imagined she hadn’t come across many foreigners of his stature. She’d been overly forward with her flirting. He’d noted the miniskirt and the long legs toned from years in the gym and couldn’t help but respond accordingly.
He threw the covers away and crossed the length of the room, still naked. It took some time. The penthouse suite covered much of Diamanté Resort’s top floor. He couldn’t quite remember how much he’d paid. Whatever the case, it would leave no sizeable dent in his bank account.
Not much could.
He gazed out across the city of Maiquetía — a popular tourist destination in Vargas state — and let the calm of the morning wash over him. The silence was absolute. He guessed the walls were strongly insulated. He admired the view for a moment longer, then dressed quickly in a pair of workout shorts and a loose-fitting tank top. He shoved a change of clothes into a sports bag and left the room. The woman did not stir.
The corridors in this section of the hotel were just as luxurious as his room. Booking a suite like that was an all-inclusive experience. It came with high ceilings and quality bedding and plush carpets and dozens of unnecessary expensive amenities. All things he’d spent countless years without.
His life had not been one of luxury.
He took a private elevator down to the marble lobby. Now mid-morning, the enormous reception area was alive with activity. Peak hour. He didn’t often wake up so late. Tourists bustled to and fro, some relaxed, some stressed. Most pasty and soft and innocent. He watched them as he passed by, holding a strange fascination.
He overheard a middle-aged British woman lecturing her husband for making them late to some kind of tourist attraction. King pondered her distress. It all seemed so fickle. Then again — when juxtaposed with the things he’d seen in the past — not much of ordinary civilian life warranted any kind of negative reaction whatsoever.
He found himself taking pleasure in every moment he wasn’t being shot at.
The man behind the broad reception desk greeted him with an overly fake smile. “Diamanté Resort” was plastered in huge bold lettering across the wall behind him. ‘Morning, sir. How did you enjoy your stay in the Deluxe Ocean-View Suite?’
He rattled off the name like it meant something.
‘It was great,’ King said.
‘Did you want to reserve it for another day or two? You only booked the one night.’
‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
‘Ah. Heading home?’
King shook his head. ‘Got nowhere to be.’
That changed things. It meant he was hanging around in Maiquetía. Which meant he would likely go to the competition for tonight’s stay.
It added a slight air of hostility to the receptionist’s demeanour. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said curtly.
King smiled, recognising the shift in tone. ‘Don’t be too offended. I rarely spend two nights in the same place. Nothing personal.’
The man nodded, settling a little. ’May I assist you with anything else? Check out is at two in the afternoon, so—’ he glanced at his watch, ‘—four hours from now.’
‘Is there a gymnasium in this hotel?’
‘Of course, sir. Eighth floor. Your room key will give you access.’
‘Thank you.’
King headed back to the same plush elevator and slapped the number “8”. Just before the metal doors slid closed
a skinny man in a bucket hat darted through. He wore brown sandals and corduroy shorts and a cheap short-sleeved shirt.
‘Morning,’ he said, nodding in greeting.
King nodded back.
‘On holiday?’ the guy said.
Small talk, King thought. Nothing he enjoyed better.
He shook his head. ‘Recently retired.’
‘Nice!’ the guy said. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘You can ask me whatever you want.’
Doesn’t mean I have to answer.
‘Well, I was behind you in line,’ the guy said, ‘and I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re staying in the penthouse suite.’
‘I am.’
‘What’s it like? I was looking into staying there with my family but it was just too expensive.’
‘It’s very nice. I’d recommend it.’
‘How can you afford it?’
‘That’s very intrusive.’
‘Sorry! Was just wondering. You’re young, that’s all. Thought you might have some secrets to success.’ He scoffed, as if indicating that he was joking. King didn’t respond. He stared straight ahead, unsmiling. The atmosphere quickly turned awkward.
The elevator ground to a halt on the eighth floor and its doors opened. At the other end of the hallway, a glass door led through to a vast exercise room. King stepped out and looked back.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ he said. ‘But you really don’t want to know.’
‘I don’t?’
‘Stick to whatever it is you do,’ King said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be happier.’
He left the man to ponder such a statement as the doors clicked close once again. Now alone in the hallway, he walked across its carpeted floors and went into the gym, revealing a large space packed with heavy iron plates and a few powerlifting platforms running along the far wall. Exactly what he was looking for. None of the psuedo-bullshit of commercial gyms. He didn’t need rows upon rows of treadmills.
He crossed to the deadlift platform and settled into his regular routine. Three warm-up sets with escalating weights, all ten repetitions each. He kept his back straight, his head aligned with his torso. He made sure to activate his glutes as he ripped the barbell off the floor.