Imprisoned: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 2)

by Matt Rogers

  ‘Don’t bother running,’ Rico said. ‘There’s three guns trained on you as we speak.’

  King turned and looked at the guard. His yellow teeth had curled into a smile. It was clear he got a sick satisfaction by introducing newcomers to the prison. He probably revelled in watching them break under the conditions.

  King would not break.

  That much he knew.

  ‘You’re in on this?’ he said.

  ‘In on what?’

  ‘I had no trial. I was arrested yesterday for something I didn’t do.’

  Rico laughed, a cruel cackle. ‘You think you’re special? You wouldn’t be the first, and you won’t be the last.’

  ‘Didn’t think you were all this corrupt.’

  ‘Well — I’m a free man, and you’re in prison. So who wins?’

  Rico led him into the building. The interior was a maze of dilapidated corridors, outfitted with a state-of-the-art security system. Cameras monitored their progress from every corner. The conditions were horrid. King passed under damp ceilings dripping water onto the floor. Lights flickered and half the paint had peeled off the walls. But the reinforcements that mattered were sound. All the doors were made of steel, and required a keycard to open. They passed several soldiers dressed in Venezuelan military gear, all brandishing high-powered assault rifles.

  Then Rico pushed open a final door and bright sunlight flooded King’s vision once again.

  They stepped out into the prison grounds.

  The centre of El Infierno was an enormous space, at least the size of a football field. From here he could see the multi-storey building curving around the perimeter of the prison like a giant outline, boxing them in. The guard towers dotting the walls had undisturbed views over the grounds, complete with turrets ready to fire at a moment’s notice. King wondered how often they were used.

  The prison had a sickening atmosphere. He felt the tension in the air as soon as he stepped onto the dusty earth. He heard sounds similar to the holding cells at the police station, but tenfold in volume. Rabid screaming far in the distance. Vicious arguments in Spanish. The general air of testosterone, like a thousand men vying for dominance. Without even laying eyes on another prisoner King could tell he had entered a brutal world.

  ‘What are the rules here?’ he said.

  ‘What rules?’ Rico said. ‘You do whatever the fuck you want. So does everyone else. As long as no-one touches the guards, it’s not our business what you get up to.’

  ‘What about food?’ King said. ‘Water?’

  ‘I’m not here to hold your hand,’ Rico said. ‘Work it out yourself.’

  They headed down a narrow dusty path between concrete buildings, all indiscriminate and bare of any kind of decorative touch. Utilitarian structures, nothing more.

  ‘These are the private cells,’ Rico explained. ‘But don’t worry about those. You’ll never see them.’

  ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘The pavilion.’

  King didn’t like the sound of that. Rico refused to elaborate, and he didn’t prod any further. The Venezuelan sun beat down on the back of his neck. He found himself sweating for the hundredth time that day. He hadn’t changed clothes since he’d been arrested. He probably smelt disgusting, but it was hard to tell when surrounded by so much filth.

  Hopelessness began to plague him. Until now he’d held onto the possibility of escape. Now it seemed futile. El Infierno was an enormous complex, protected by millions of dollars worth of security features. He didn’t fancy his chances of walking free, either.

  They rounded a corner and King saw the pavilion.

  It was a cage the size of a large warehouse with a concrete roof and walls that were nothing but reinforced steel mesh. Mud caked the floor inside. It was packed with men in tattered clothing, all lean and wide-eyed and animalistic. There were no uniforms. The pavilion seemed to contain a functioning society, shut away from the civilised world and left to their own devices.

  From a brief glance, the building appeared immensely overcrowded. King listened to the yelling and hollering and grunting from inside and gulped back his apprehension.

  It seemed they were throwing him into a madhouse.

  ‘This is where you’ll spend the rest of your life,’ Rico said, leering. ‘Like it?’

  King said nothing. Just clenched his fists and rode out the unbridled spite coursing through him in waves. Whoever had put him here would pay for it. He would use all his skills to ensure he stayed alive. And then he would find a way out, and he would slaughter whoever had done this.

  They’d chosen to throw him in here.

  He would make them regret it.

  The determination kept him charged, kept the energy rippling through his muscles. As they approached one of the entrances, King saw dozens of men notice him at once. They stopped what they were doing and gripped the mesh, staring out at the newcomer. But this wasn’t just any newcomer.

  This was a foreigner. Easy prey.

  King didn’t know what to expect as Rico barked a command in Spanish, ordering the prisoners away from the entrance. Many of them fell back, making it safe to open the door. The guard slotted a keycard into the side of the gate. He entered a code, then withdrew a bundle of keys from his uniform pocket and slotted one into the lock on the gate. An elaborate system that would ensure no man managed to break free.

  The door buzzed, and swung inward.

  ‘I have a few questions for you later,’ Rico said. ‘But I’ll let you get acclimatised first.’

  The guard didn’t keep the door open for long. He shoved a hand into King’s back, pushing with surprising strength. King stumbled forward, through the gate, into the pavilion. The door grated shut behind him. He heard another buzz, this one indicating it was locked. Then Rico turned and walked away from the cage. Probably back to one of the guard towers.

  King found himself facing off against at least a hundred prisoners. The floor all around them was littered with discarded syringes and homemade pipes; a sanitary nightmare. The inside of the pavilion was permeated by the sickening stench of body odour. He imagined general hygiene wasn’t a priority in this place.

  At the moment, he was priority number one.

  Every man in the compound was interested in the tall, well-built Westerner who had just entered their territory.

  They all wondered if he would put up a good fight.

  CHAPTER 10

  King let the adrenalin rush hit him. He’d need it.

  Every ounce of his reaction speed would be required to fend off an attack. If a cluster of them decided to jump him at once, then all the combat prowess in the world would be rendered useless. There was a point where resistance became futile. With this many hostile eyes on him, he knew it would only take the slightest hint of mob mentality for dozens of the thugs to join in and collectively beat him to death.

  Then he saw the weapons.

  At first his brain didn’t process what his eyes were registering. It seemed every man in the pavilion was armed. Some brandished homemade shanks. Some had their grimy fingers tightened around handgun triggers. It began to dawn on him that he had entered a world unlike anything he’d experienced before.

  A man stepped out of the cluster of prisoners and approached him.

  He was elderly. At least sixty, maybe older. His hair had fallen out long ago. His skin was cracked and weathered, probably from years in this hellhole — yet he carried an air of authority that seemed to permeate through the hordes of prisoners.

  ‘My name is Tevin,’ he said. He spoke English, too.

  ‘Okay,’ King said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jason King.’

  ‘What are you in here for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Tevin nodded. ‘Suit yourself. They all end up talking eventually. How long are you here for?’

  ‘I don’t know that either.’

  ‘You don’t know a lot of things.’

  ‘I�
��m still trying to process.’

  Tevin shrugged. ‘I’ve seen it before. Reality will hit eventually.’

  ‘They all look like they want to kill me,’ King said, gesturing to the pack of prisoners behind Tevin, all filthy and angry and wild.

  ‘Newcomers don’t get treated too kindly. Some get killed. That’s just the way it is.’

  ‘Is it a dominance thing?’

  Tevin shrugged again. ‘They prey on the weak. New arrivals tend to be weak.’

  ‘Then how are you still alive?’

  ‘I run the place.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘How tall are you?’

  King cocked his head. ‘Odd question.’

  ‘Answer.’

  ‘Six foot three.’

  ‘Weight?’

  ‘Two-hundred-and-twenty pounds. Roughly.’

  ‘Can you fight?’

  ‘Want a demonstration?’

  Tevin paused for consideration. King knew that he wanted something from him, and also knew that he wouldn’t be satisfied without witnessing what he could do. He would ensure that he got the message across fast and early — that he was nothing like the usual new inmates. He was not a timid Westerner, out of depth in a brutal foreign prison.

  They would quickly learn.

  Tevin made up his mind and nodded. He turned and peered into the crowd, searching for someone. When he found who he was looking for he clicked his fingers and beckoned them over. A man stepped forward, roughly the same height as King. A little slimmer, probably from the lack of nutrients in prison food. He still seemed powerful. Like he took good care of his body.

  Which wouldn’t matter.

  ‘This is Santiago,’ Tevin said. ‘He’s one of my bodyguards. You need to show me why you deserve the position more than he—’

  He didn’t get to finish his sentence, because by then King had already begun to stride forward. Tevin stopped talking and watched the altercation unfold.

  King took three big steps, covering the distance in seconds. Santiago stared at him with pure rage in his eyes. They seemed to boggle in their sockets, in disbelief that a newcomer would be so brash. King saw the man’s wrists twitch and his fingers tighten into balls and knew the guy would come at him like a freight train.

  He wanted that.

  Brute force had its advantages, but only if one knew how to use them. King had the experience. It gave him confidence. It allowed him to control his emotions as the giant swung a massive fist directly at his head.

  The punch came at him the same way he’d seen a million identical attacks head his way before. The benefits of such an unbelievable and dangerous military career meant that he had been thrust into fist-fights and gruelling training tasks so relentlessly that his brain had entered a state of ‘overlearning’. The reflexes that were relevant in a time like this — reaction speed, timing and the ability to harness the flood of cortisol — had progressed to the point where his responses were automatic. He knew exactly what to do, and how to do it.

  When confronted with a furious adversary, he treated it like nothing more than a casual training exercise.

  He slipped to the side, jerking his head off-centre, re-positioning himself in the mud. The punch flew by, exposing the guy’s chin like a shining beacon. King twisted at the waist and cracked a fist across Santiago’s jaw. He didn’t wind up. He didn’t grow reckless. He knew it would take nothing more than a stiff jab in exactly the right spot to put the guy out on his feet.

  Santiago’s head whipped sideways, carried by the force of the jab. His neck muscles twisted. In the half-second after the connection King noted his eyes had already begun to roll back in his head. At that point he knew it was all over.

  King turned to face Tevin even before the bodyguard’s legs gave out and he collapsed to the mud, on the receiving end of a flash knockout. He would come to in seconds, disoriented.

  Out of the fight for good.

  Of course, the thugs around him had no knowledge of the thousands of hours King had spent training for combat. They didn’t see the blood and sweat and mistakes of his past. They weren’t aware of how many times he’d failed, how many instructors had beat him into the ground. They just saw a man step into El Infierno and drop the most imposing bodyguard in their pavilion with a single, precise blow.

  To them, he was a freak of nature.

  ‘Anything else?’ King said.

  Tevin peered down at his bodyguard, lying limp on his side on the dirty floor. He shook his head. ‘I think I’ve seen enough.’

  He barked a command and two prisoners gripped Santiago under each armpit and hauled him away. They disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘You’re now my bodyguard,’ Tevin said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  Tevin stared at him. ‘Do you want me to keep you alive?’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  ‘Then no, you don’t have a choice. Feel free to wander off on your own. You’ll find yourself stabbed in the back by a hallucinating addict before tomorrow morning.’

  King nodded his understanding.

  ‘Come with me,’ Tevin said.

  They set off through the pavilion. As the inmates noticed King had earned Tevin’s trust they began to disperse, returning to what they’d been doing prior to his arrival. The air of violence and murder dissipated — at least for now. They probably knew that to mess with one of Tevin’s friends was a death sentence.

  ‘You own the pavilion?’ King said as they walked.

  Tevin laughed. ‘I wish. I’m not here of my own accord, Jason. I’m a prisoner, just like you. Been here twenty years. Worked my way up. Now everyone answers to me. I can get them drugs, weapons, certain luxuries. No-one will touch me.’

  ‘How many of them work for you?’

  ‘Enough. If anyone laid a finger on me, my men would feed it to them. Then kill them. Slowly.’

  ‘So I’m safe with you?’

  Tevin looked at King, then searched in the crowd for Santiago’s still unconscious body. ‘Oh, I was exaggerating before. I’m sure you’re safe either way. They’re not used to someone who fights back.’

  ‘You get many Westerners in here?’

  ‘A few. Most die within the first few days.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘We’re a different breed,’ Tevin said. ‘The foreigners are hapless drug-runners. Think they can make a quick buck smuggling shit into Venezuela. Never pays off for them. They turn into cowards as soon as they get in here. Never turn into a coward. These paisanos thrive on weakness.’

  ‘You think I would?’

  ‘Oh, I know you won’t. Doesn’t seem like it’s in your blood. What did you do before you came here?’

  ‘I was a soldier.’

  ‘Ah…’ Tevin nodded. ‘Of course. You’ve got that air about you.’

  ‘What air?’

  ‘I don’t think any of us could break you if we tried.’

  ‘I hope nobody does try.’

  They came to a halt by the far side of the pavilion. Tevin paused and took a glance back at Santiago. Two tough-looking men were coaxing him back to consciousness. He groaned as he came to. He would have no memory of the fight.

  ‘Mind explaining how you did that?’ Tevin said.

  King shrugged. ‘Practice.’

  ‘My men practice. They hit heavy bags, they spar with each other. You made him look like a child.’

  King shrugged again. ‘How often do they fight, though?’

  Tevin cocked his head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘There’s a difference between hitting a bag and hitting an enemy.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Look, I’m not some kind of superhuman. If they snuck up on me from behind and cracked me, I’m sure it would hurt all the same. But what about the rapid decisions you have to make when someone’s looking to take your head off? Are they used to that? Will they react properly?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Tevin said. ‘We don’t g
et much competition. I’ve had control for years.’

  ‘Everyone gets wrapped up in the heat of the moment,’ King said. ‘Fighting has certain stressors. It makes people panic. I don’t panic. I respond calmly and rationally. That’s really all there is to it.’

  The bodyguard in the corner made it to his feet for a couple of seconds. He righted himself, shoving his friends away. He took a single step and then collapsed back to the mud, punch-drunk.

  ‘You make it sound so easy,’ Tevin scoffed, shaking his head.

  Then he turned and led King away.

  They left the main area and strode into a corridor branching off from the pavilion. The hallway was home to two long rows of open doorways, each leading into small private rooms. Aggressive music blared from portable speakers, drifting through the doorways. Prisoners in scraps of filthy clothes were strewn across the floor, too high to function. King gazed down at their pathetic forms and wondered just what he’d got himself into.

  ‘These are living quarters?’ King said.

  ‘Yes,’ Tevin said. ‘For those who have earned my respect. There’s a hierarchy in here. I’m on top. If I don’t like you, or I don’t know you, you sleep out in the pavilion. In the mud. Men who treat me with respect might be lucky enough to get a mattress.’

  King felt relief that he’d got on Tevin’s good side so quickly. It seemed crucial to his own survival in this madhouse. All the ruthlessness and combat prowess in the world would be useless if he had to sleep on exposed ground, open to a blade or a bullet in the skull while he slept. At least a room offered some form of temporary safety.

  ‘This is mine,’ Tevin said as they approached the very end of the corridor. He pointed to a locked metal door.

  ‘I’m allowed in?’

  ‘You work for me now,’ Tevin said. ‘Of course you are.’

  He withdrew a small rusting key from his oversized trousers and unlocked the door.

  King followed him through.

  CHAPTER 11

  They entered a spacious living quarters, populated by a trio of tough-looking men in singlets and tattered shorts. The three of them lounged on old sofas and recliner chairs, huddled around a battered old television playing a Spanish drama show. It took King by surprise. This somewhat civilised place seemed a world away from the vicious doghouse of the main pavilion. There was a clear shift in attitude, too. These men appeared relaxed, calm, quiet. It directly contrasted with the sensory overload out there, filled with screaming inmates and prisoners passed out from drug overdoses — many too fried by narcotics to muster anything more than mindless salivation.