by Matt Rogers
King rushed in and wrapped two beefy arms around the guy’s mid-section. He pinned his arms to his side, preventing any further attempts with the knife. Then he threw him like a child discarding an unwanted plaything.
The man smashed head-first into one of the dumpsters.
The skull-against-metal contact made a clang which King associated with a concussion. Just to make sure, he soccer-kicked the man in the face, whipping his head back before he even had time to fall to the ground.
Three men down. The whole thing had taken a little under ten seconds.
King adjusted his shirt and assessed the damage. The fat guy had taken one of the more powerful liver shots he’d ever landed, sunk with the power created from a threat on one’s life. He wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon. One of the tall skinny guys had a broken jaw. The other probably had a sternal fracture from the front kick. Both were severely concussed.
Job done.
King left the alley a minute after entering it, receiving several bewildered stares from passing pedestrians. Three armed members of what seemed to be a terrifying local gang had followed him in, and he’d emerged unscathed with no sign of the assailants.
He assumed they were not used to witnessing such a sight.
He avoided their gazes and headed back the way he’d come.
CHAPTER 3
By the time he made it back to the hotel and took the elevator up sixty stories, it was approaching midday in Maiquetía. He pulled the keycard from his jeans and unlocked the door to the penthouse suite. He entered to find it empty.
No sign of the girl from the night before.
He shrugged. Neither of them had assumed that the encounter was anything more than a fling. Besides, at this stage in his life he was far from ready for anything more. He’d spent his career alone; he would heal from it alone.
He crossed the room and picked up the landline phone beside his bed. The number he dialled had been ingrained in his memory for years. He hadn’t forgotten it since he’d retired, and he knew he would not forget it anytime soon. Not after what the man on the other end had done for him.
The phone was answered quickly. ‘Dirk Wiggins.’
He smiled. ‘Hey, old friend. It’s King.’
‘Jason! Thought you were dead for a while.’
‘Because I didn’t call?’
‘Nah, I knew you were out there somewhere. Didn’t blame you for falling off the grid after Australia. It’s what I told you to do. How are you doing?’
King thought back to that turbulent period. The never-ending woods of the Victorian countryside. Mysterious enemies. Attempts on his life. Savage violence. His body had taken several weeks to heal from the trauma it had been put through.
‘Much better than when you saw me last,’ he said. ‘How did the investigation go?’
‘As they all do. Slow as shit. You caused quite the stir. It took an insane amount of manpower to keep the journalists from sniffing around.’
‘I hope you were compensated for helping out.’
‘Ah … you know me. Never get rewarded for my troubles.’
‘You’re back in Delta now?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of anything else.’
‘Enjoying yourself?’
‘You could put it that way. It’s just what I do. Always have, always will. Where’d you end up?’
‘I’m currently in Venezuela.’
A sigh. ‘Didn’t I tell you to stay out of trouble?’
‘How do you know I’m in trouble?’
‘You’re in Venezuela,’ Dirk said matter-of-factly. ‘Of course you’re in trouble.’
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’
‘Let me guess; you’re staying in the slums, picking fights with cartels?’
King looked around the lavish penthouse. ‘Far from it. Haven’t had to deal with anything more than a few local thugs.’
‘You dealt with local thugs in Australia,’ Dirk said. ‘Look what that caused.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘No you won’t.’
They both laughed.
‘I can handle myself,’ King said. ‘You know that. Good to hear you’re doing well, Dirk.’
‘You too, brother. Take care.’
King dropped the phone onto its cradle and sat back against the bed frame. He felt the expensive linen sheets and listened to the total silence of the suite. He stared out the windows at a gorgeous view of the Vargas coastline.
All foreign sensations.
He was used to the coarse brittleness of sand and the sound of enemy gunfire and the feeling of warm blood gushing from bullet wounds. These feelings still came to him, late at night. He feared he would never shake them. A man couldn’t live the life he had and emerge unscathed.
No-one could.
He drifted into an afternoon nap. Outside, clouds rolled in, obscuring the sun, plunging the room into lowlight. But King didn’t witness it. He slept soundly for the first time in weeks. He dreamt nothing. When he came to a couple of hours later, he baulked at the fact that he had napped undisturbed. It meant that something had changed in his life. Some kind of order had been restored.
And it seemed clear what that something was.
Violence.
He hoped that was not the case. He dreaded that he might have become so accustomed to combat over his career that it was now impossible to feel at ease without confrontation. He mulled over the predicament. Clearly, ten years as a combat operative had a profound effect on his life. He wondered just how far its reach would stretch into his retirement.
Then the silence broke.
He heard sudden rapid footsteps in the corridor outside. His senses heightened. At least four men, probably more.
You fucking idiot, King.
He’d simply assumed that Diamanté Resort would be immune to the thugs from the alley. Surely preventative measures were in place to limit the infiltration of a luxury hotel by local gangsters…
But it seemed they had rallied some friends and come back for thirds. This time, they probably had guns. King wondered if the next few moments would be his last.
He sprung off the bed and crossed the room. Searching for some kind of weapon. Anything he could use to defend himself. For the last two months he had travelled unarmed, following certain principles to try and acclimatise to a peaceful existence.
Leave everything behind. Don’t invite trouble.
That had come back to bite him in the ass.
He eyed a heavy paperweight resting on the desk by the door, holding down a stack of brochures and informational pamphlets about the resort’s features. It would have to do. He snatched the weight off the wooden surface and crept quietly to the door.
Definitely more than four men. It sounded like there was an army headed his way. Perhaps it was useless even attempting a fight. But it wasn’t in his nature to accept death, not even in the face of massive odds. He would go down swinging.
The footsteps outside reached the end of the hallway and someone rapped on the door. They waited a beat. Then they pounded against the wooden frame, knocking hard enough to draw the attention of anyone in the nearby vicinity. King hesitated, crouched on the other side, listening to the knocking.
Would the thugs knock?
He doubted it. So who was this?
The door crashed off its hinges, struck by some kind of battering ram, either makeshift or the real thing. Whatever the case, it did the job. The entire door struck King and he felt men on the other side, pushing against it, threatening to throw him off-balance. He shouldered the door aside and it crashed to the penthouse floor. He gripped the paperweight in his right hand and primed himself to throw a devastating right hook.
Then he stopped.
Half a dozen men in police uniform bustled into the room, guns drawn. They surrounded him on all sides. King saw emblems labelled ‘CICPC’, embroidered into the breast pockets of their khakis. They weren’t ordinary police. These men wore Kevlar vests and brandis
hed formidable-looking weaponry. They’d been expecting a firefight.
No-one spoke. King let the paperweight fall to the ground. He glanced around at the wide-eyed expressions. They thought he was some kind of monster.
‘What the hell is this?’ he said to the room.
CHAPTER 4
Again, no-one responded.
King’s gut twisted into a knot. Perhaps the thugs’ reach extended further than he thought. He’d heard tales of the corruption rife within Venezuela’s law enforcement. He’d never expected to find himself on the other end of it.
Or maybe…
‘What is this?’ he said again, looking at each man in turn.
One stepped forward. He possessed an air of seniority, as if he were the one in charge. Age lines creased his cheeks. He looked at King with unbridled contempt.
‘You’re under arrest,’ he said. He spoke good English. Barely any trace of an accent.
‘I figured,’ King said. ‘What for?’
‘Murder.’
So it had nothing to do with the thugs’ injuries. He would not be charged with assault, or anything of the sort. This was a clearly false allegation.
‘Murder of who?’
‘That is not my business to discuss.’
The penthouse descended into silence once more. King stared at the five barrels pointed his way. He didn’t dare move a muscle. It only took one trigger-happy bastard to overreact and put him away forever.
‘Will you co-operate with us?’ the leader said. His name badge read Tomás.
‘Will you explain what this is about?’
‘I told you.’
‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘That is not for me to determine,’ Tomás said.
It seemed the argument had become circular. Tomás and his men refused to budge on their position. King looked around and came to the inevitable conclusion that he had little choice in the matter. In his peripheral vision he saw the cabinet against the far wall containing his passport and wallet. Would they find it? If the police seized it, he could forget about fleeing the country in the event that he managed to slip away at some point in the near future.
Backup plans are always beneficial.
He raised his hands above his head, pulse beating fast.
‘Will I get a trial?’
Tomás said nothing. He tugged a pair of battered old handcuffs from his belt and pulled King’s arms behind his back. He locked the cuffs tight. Too tight.
‘Easy there,’ King said.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ the man spat.
They marched him out of the penthouse and down the decadent corridor. Tomás kept one hand in the small of his back the entire time, pushing him forwards no matter how fast he walked. A policeman rested a hand on each of his shoulders, creating a triangle that would be impossible to escape from. His hands were pinned behind his back anyway. He would not run. That would cause far more problems than it solved.
They manhandled him into the elevator and began a tension-filled descent to the ground floor.
‘I didn’t kill anybody,’ King said again.
‘Shut the fuck up.’
The elevator ground to a halt and the doors swung open. The congregation headed through the marble lobby, attracting surprised looks from all the tourists. King kept his head down and focused on walking. He had too much on his mind to worry about what everyone else thought of him. He could be heading straight for a gulag.
Thrown to the wolves.
A police van waited outside the hotel, its engine idling. Were it not for the Spanish logo on the side indicating it was an official government vehicle, King would have thought he was being kidnapped. It seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Black paint flaked off all sides. He guessed the budget for the police force was considerably low. It was certainly reflected in their vehicles.
Probably why there was so much corruption.
They put him in the back. He sat on one of the rusting metal benches and hunched over, resting his elbows on his knees. Three policemen piled in next to him. The doors slammed shut. There was a brief period of silence, then the tyres spun and they peeled away from Diamanté Resort. King guessed it was the last time he would lay eyes on the hotel.
There were no windows to try and deduce the van’s destination. A small interior light with a weak bulb was built into the roof overhead. It flickered every time they turned a corner. Which was often, and fast. The driver took the van recklessly around various bends, trying to disturb the suspect in the back. King planted both feet on the floor and stabilised himself as the cabin lurched from side to side.
He kept his mouth shut. All the necessary talking had already taken place. He knew that he had not killed anyone, and that the police refused to believe otherwise. There was nothing to do but wait to arrive at their destination. Wherever that was.
Ten minutes later, the van stopped and the driver’s door slammed and harsh light flooded into the cabin as the rear doors were pulled open. Tomás looked up at him with a gleeful smile.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
‘Where?’ King said.
‘Your home for the next few days. While we get you processed.’
The policeman on either side gripped his arms and forced him out of the car. He stepped down into a deserted street filled with cheap, indiscriminate residential buildings. No houses around here. Just tiny offices and dilapidated apartment blocks and the sounds of babies crying and men shouting.
A relatively nice part of town, King figured.
They’d pulled up in front of what could only be a police precinct. The entire cluster of buildings was painted a stark, unforgiving blue. A collection of military and police vehicles were parked at the entrance, resting idly in their lots. The sun had come out again in the late afternoon. It beat down mercilessly, cooking the asphalt. The humidity drew sweat for the millionth time that day. He ducked his head and wiped his brow against his shirt as they led him inside the station.
There was no air conditioning in the building whatsoever. He was marched through disgusting hallways with dim lighting and through to a small processing room. On the other side of the room sat a large steel door. Even while shut, King could hear feral screams behind it. The shouting and cackling seemed to echo, meaning whatever lay beyond was a large place.
‘The hell is this?’ he said, turning to Tomás, angered by the lack of answers.
Tomás slapped him hard. A stinging blow that cracked against his cheek and sent him veering to the side. The officer laughed, a short sharp burst of cackling.
‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that,’ he said. ‘You’re scum.’
‘Please explain what’s going on.’
‘You’re going through there,’ Tomás said, pointing to the steel door.
‘And what’s through there?’
‘Holding cells. We keep everyone there while we process them.’
‘Process them? You don’t even know my name. Aren’t you going to question me?’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘To get answers.’
‘We don’t want answers.’
‘What do you want?’
‘We want you behind bars.’
‘Where’s my trial, you corrupt fuck?’ King said, his blood boiling.
Tomás crossed the distance between them and squared up to him. King considered head-butting the man, but figured the temporary satisfaction would be outweighed by the severe consequences.
‘You get a trial if I say you get a trial,’ he said, saliva bubbling in the corners of his lips. ‘I’m God in this place. You understand?’
King didn’t respond.
‘I said — do you understand?’
King still said nothing. He simply stared at the man in disgust. Tomás scoffed.
‘The silent treatment, eh?’ he said. ‘Very well. Let’s see how you like it in here when I tell them you’re a wealthy American.’
‘I think I can ha
ndle myself.’
The officer bowed his head and grinned wryly. ‘We’ll certainly find out.’
Two policemen patted him down, removing the sparse possessions he had in his pockets. The hotel key card and a thick roll of bolivares, equivalent to a few thousand U.S. Dollars.
‘No phone?’ Tomás said.
‘Don’t own one.’
‘Shame. No chance for you to call home and beg for help.’
‘You can’t honestly expect to get away with this?’
Tomás laughed cruelly in his face. ‘We can get away with whatever we want. You think you’re the first tourist to disappear? If anyone comes poking around, we’ll bury you. Pretend you never existed.’
King stared straight ahead. Silently fuming, yet at the same time uncomfortable. Because Tomás was right. No-one would ever know if they decided to kill him.
To his surprise, the officer tucked all of the Venezuelan currency back into his jeans.
‘Thought you’d take that,’ King said.
‘I don’t want you to die too quickly. You’ll need it to stay alive. Plus, we have plenty.’
A harsh digital buzz erupted from the loudspeaker in the corner of the room. The steel door clicked a second later, unlocking. Tomás wrapped his fingers around its sturdy handle and wrenched it open.
A hand shoved King forward and he stepped into the madhouse.
CHAPTER 5
The holding cells were situated on either side of a long, high-ceilinged hallway, roughly the size of a church. It paralleled such a building in dimensions only. The whole place was filthy. The unmistakable smell of old faeces and urine emanated throughout the corridor, triggering King’s gag reflex. He fought the urge to cough. It would look weak. Tomás would revel in his discomfort. He swallowed hard and pressed on.
The cells were separated from one another by dirty brick walls. Their fronts were made of steel bars, thick and narrowly interspersed, preventing escape. They ranged from rooms the size of small houses to tiny individual cells. The men in the single cells had mattresses and pillows. Their living conditions were a little cleaner. It was the large cells clustered with local thugs that worried him. The men were rabid and drug-crazed. Their eyes locked onto him like he was fresh meat ready to be torn apart.
