Hunted: A Jason King Thriller (Jason King Series Book 6)

by Matt Rogers

  The game had changed.

  He was no longer acting on a whim of the old man he had visited in Tiksi seven days previously. Now, there were a multitude of fingers in the pie — a development that had come after many of the oligarchs had banded together and elected to financially support his operation.

  The details fed to him had been scarce, but it was clear that powerful people would be watching his every move. In a career where he valued honour and respect so deeply, he had additional motivation from the support of the titans.

  He didn’t know their names. He didn’t know exactly what they controlled — or the reason for their fury toward the American operative. What exactly had taken place in Mikhailov’s mine had not been revealed to him.

  He simply did as was instructed.

  Evidently, they wanted the American wiped off the face of the earth.

  He’d heard rumours in the pipeline — hints that the Kremlin was furiously demanding that the American men responsible for the disaster in the Kamchatka Peninsula be turned over to Russian authorities. If the U.S. knew any better, they would distance themselves from whoever they offered up in order to prevent a world war.

  Rogue agents were easier to accept than an official mission sanctioned by special intelligence.

  But Sergei knew the truth, and so did his employers. He knew the American had been rescued in the blink of an eye by his own government — which meant he worked for them in some capacity. He knew the American now resided on a U.S. Navy supercarrier that had barely moved in the last week. Odd, given the circumstances, but it had provided ample time to co-ordinate the most devastating attack he could muster.

  What are they waiting for?

  If the aircraft carrier had set off for the west coast of the United States, Sergei would have had to move in early. It would have been costly, but he would have pressed on regardless.

  He thanked the Americans for their stupidity.

  The diplomatic bargaining hadn’t appeased his employers for long. They had demanded he continue with the off-the-books mission.

  Now, here he was.

  He guided the Tigr onto the white sand of the beachhead and set off for the convoy of vehicles milling around the shoreline in the distance. The gigantic tyres sent geysers of sand in all directions. As he drove to meet the private force, the flecks of rain on the windshield evolved into a full-blown hailstorm. It was three in the afternoon, and the attack would take place at sunset.

  Not that the sun was visible through the thick storm clouds.

  Sergei shrugged it off. The weather had never perturbed him in the past, and it wouldn’t now. If they waited for the ideal conditions in which to attack, they would be stranded in the Russian Far East forever.

  The only thing more common than storms in this region was depression.

  A few hundred feet from the convoy, he noticed that all eyes were on his vehicle. He felt a tremor of something, a slight shiver that trickled down the base of his spine. Maybe it was the fact that he was in charge. Typically, he worked alone, and he preferred it that way. This would mark the first time he found himself in charge of a small army of paramilitary troopers.

  And the last.

  He stamped on the brakes as he reached the outskirts of the force. He took a deep breath, soaking in the tranquility of the empty cabin for what would be the last time in a while.

  Then he stepped out into the madness.

  Instantly, a trio of hard-faced Russian men in combat fatigues descended on him. They stretched out gloved hands one by one. Sergei thanked each man by returning the handshakes, looking them dead in the eyes as he did so. He meant it, too. It took either a true warrior or a fool to charge headlong into the type of attack that was set to take place.

  He still hadn’t figured out which of those categories he fell under.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ one of the men said above the din of the storm.

  Sergei stared through the sheets of rain, which soaked him to the bone within seconds. ‘You have?’

  ‘You are the stuff of legend where I come from.’

  ‘And where do you come from?’

  ‘Demidov,’ the man said with a knowing nod.

  Sergei paused. He hadn’t visited his hometown in many years. Perhaps rumours of his escapades had drifted there from Moscow. He had left his family behind in pursuit of the thrill of the mercenary life in his early twenties. Not that the move had affected him in the slightest — his father had been a special type of cruel.

  Maybe the man in front of him saw the anguish in his eyes, for he bowed his head — as if regretting bringing up the memories in case they had touched a nerve.

  Sergei shook it off and pressed on. There were more important matters at hand.

  ‘Everything I requested is here?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ another man said. ‘Eight boats and four choppers.’

  ‘Perfect. You’ve all been briefed on exactly what will take place.’

  Two of them nodded, but the other man didn’t respond. Sergei sensed the hesitation and decided to refresh all their memories’ regardless.

  ‘Gather everyone,’ he said.

  It didn’t take long. These men were trained killers, amassed from across Russia for a single purpose — war. They were used to following commands in a heartbeat and committing to their superiors with unrelenting consistency. Sergei counted — including himself — thirty-two men in total. Three per boat and two per chopper. A small force, given the scale of firepower that their employers had at their disposal.

  But a surgical one.

  With the arsenal of weaponry they had to work with, Sergei had no doubt that the operation would be a success.

  He glanced past the cluster of men, noting the four Mi-28 “Night Hunter” attack choppers perched on the sand, equidistant to one another. The same model of helicopter he had used in the fishing village just a few miles north of this location. He understood the power that the aerial beasts possessed.

  He would be the one to strike the initial crippling blow.

  ‘Listen closely,’ he yelled above the wind and rain. ‘I will go over the order of action. You will all obey. Understood?’

  A sea of nods.

  ‘Your boats will be airlifted and deposited twenty miles away from the carrier. I will deal the first blow — there is something in my possession that guarantees a successful strike. They will be incapacitated. You will follow up with all the firepower you have. Every missile and every bullet. Once those assigned to the boats are aboard, make your way through the ship. You’ve all been shown a photo of the man we are looking for. Once you find him, put a bullet in his head and acquire photographic proof. Our employers demanded it and we will oblige. Is all that clear?’

  A second sea of nods.

  Sergei stared out at the raging coastline, with its churning seas and heavy cumulonimbus clouds. A grim day for a fight.

  A fight with the highest stakes of his life, in fact.

  ‘Let’s move,’ he said.

  They swarmed across the beach in unison, each man aware of his role in the group and nothing else. They had spent the better part of seven days training together in anticipation for the coming war, learning to function as a fluid, cohesive unit. Each of them had a lifetime of experience under their belt — but there was merit in practicing effective co-operation.

  Sergei wiped strands of hair off his forehead and made for the nearest of the Mi-28 choppers. In his right hand he lugged the jamming device given to him one week earlier. He hadn’t fiddled with it since, but — due to the revelation of its price — he had carried the box with him at all times.

  Hanging off his shoulder from a leather strap was a SR-3 Vikhr fully automatic suppressed assault rifle. It was a personal favourite of his on operations. He wanted to move like a wraith through the supercarrier, taking out U.S. troops without them even realising he was there. The thought spiked his adrenalin.

  Despite the horrid weather and the gravity of t
he task ahead, he felt excitement.

  He was born for this.

  He vaulted into the weapons officer’s cockpit and slammed the curved door into place behind him, sealing himself into the tight space. The storm cut off, replaced by the dull pattering of rain against the bulletproof windshield in front of his face.

  He dropped the black box into the footwell and left it there. The old man had assured him that the device would work from anywhere. Satisfied with the news, he disregarded it entirely and focused on what he could control.

  This time, he had requested that all the Mi-28s be equipped with high-explosive anti-tank warheads instead of the incendiary missiles he’d used in the fishing village. They were designed to penetrate the strongest armour — which he intended to use to full effect. The most important task before him was to throw the super carrier into chaos early.

  That way, the following invasion would be most effective.

  He heard the pilot clamber into the cockpit behind and above him. It was the same pilot from a week ago. They had worked well together in the fishing village and the man had evidently been paid handsomely to take part in this operation also.

  This task will be slightly more intense than the last, Sergei thought.

  ‘You’re sure about that device?’ the pilot said over the headset.

  ‘I trust its owner with my life,’ Sergei said.

  He fired up the chopper and they lifted off the beachhead. Sergei squinted through the rain at the mercenaries piling into their boats below him. The vessels were military rigid-hulled inflatable boats — RHIBs for short. They were designed with rapid insertion and maximum performance in mind. Their inflatable collars ensured that the raging seas of the Pacific Ocean wouldn’t capsize the vessels — even if they took on a massive amount of water during the operation ahead.

  ‘You know what to do?’ he said.

  ‘Of course,’ the pilot replied.

  The pilot manoeuvred their chopper over the shallow waters near the shore, where the cluster of eight RHIBs bobbed and weaved restlessly in the swirling sea. They came to hover over the pair of boats furthest to the left. The pilot worked the controls in expert fashion, and a moment later Sergei heard the mechanical whirr of thick steel cables unspooling from the underside of the chopper.

  He waited patiently in the cockpit as the mercenaries below fixed the hoists to their vessels. There was no direct line of sight to the scene below, but he knew the procedures would unfold without a hitch. He had painstakingly calculated the weight of the two boats and the maximum lift capacity of the Mi-28, and the mercenaries had all rehearsed the intricacies to perfection. They would secure the cables to heavy steel thimbles planted in the RHIB hulls, then drape a weatherproof tarpaulin over themselves to prepare for the airborne journey that would soon take place, sealing them into the dead space in their boats like a makeshift cocoon.

  With a grunt of acknowledgement, the pilot confirmed that the RHIBs were attached to the hoists.

  Sergei ran his hands over the weapons systems and breathed out a sigh of anticipation as the nose of the chopper dipped and it set off for the U.S. Navy supercarrier a hundred miles off the coast.

  7

  Will Slater stared at the smattering of sweat droplets staining the concrete below his face and focused on letting his mind go blank.

  He finished the sixty-second count and dropped out of the handstand, landing silently on his toes like a cat. A fresh rivulet ran down the side of his face and splashed onto the floor amidst the rest of the fallen perspiration.

  Lactic acid burned in his shoulders and forearms after an intense hour of calisthenic exercise. He preferred iron, but there was little other choice when his temporary residence was a tiny cell in a silent corridor.

  The past seven days had consisted of nothing but waiting and exercising. He had taken little damage in Russia — at least, in comparison to the grisly injuries King had suffered — which left him with ample opportunity to sweat out the stress.

  He’d had no contact with anyone during his time in the brig. He pictured King sitting calmly in his own cell, awaiting the opportunity to make a move with patient silence. Slater didn’t operate like that.

  He was fucking angry.

  He dropped to the steel bed frame in the corner of his cell and wiped sweat from his brow with the grimy shirt hanging off his frame. With his skin coated in a sheen of perspiration, he looked like a pro athlete ready for a photoshoot.

  If only life was that simple…

  Panting hard after pushing his body to its limits, he didn’t hear the man approaching. The first sign that tipped him off to another presence was the tapping of fingers against the steel bars of his cell.

  He looked up and saw the man who had detained them on board the rescue chopper one week earlier. The guy still had the same piercing blue eyes and thick hair swept back from his forehead.

  ‘My name’s Ramsay,’ the man said quietly.

  ‘Did I ask?’ Slater said. He took his eyes off the guy and picked at a hangnail on the edge of his index finger, disinterested.

  Ramsay hesitated, thrown off. ‘I’m the one who’s keeping you in this cell.’

  ‘Good for you, buddy.’

  A pause. ‘You’d do well to treat me with some respect.’

  ‘You’d do well to fuck off.’

  ‘You want me to keep you in here forever?’

  Slater said nothing. He’d come to learn that sometimes silence could be more infuriating than even the most hostile insult.

  Instead, he smirked.

  ‘You look awfully smug,’ Ramsay noted.

  ‘Because I know something you don’t.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Details about Russia.’

  ‘I don’t care about Russia.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we upset powerful people. Well, King upset powerful people. I pulled him out of the mess.’

  ‘I’m aware that you were in Russia without any official request to be. That’s why the three of you are prisoners. There’s nothing else I need to know other than that.’

  Silence.

  Ramsay said, ‘I’m currently negotiating with the Kremlin about what to do with you — in case you wanted to know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Slater said, and raised an eyebrow. ‘And how’s that working out for you?’

  Ramsay paused, obviously stunned by the sardonic nature of Slater’s tone, especially given the circumstances. ‘Things are progressing.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘You seem sure about something.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Care to fill me in?’

  ‘I saw things in that mine,’ Slater said. ‘I saw the manpower they threw at us when they sensed us closing in on their personal details. They blew up half the peninsula to try and cover it up. You think they’ll stop now?’

  ‘They will if we hand you over.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Slater snapped. ‘They can’t know that you’ll give them the right men. The diplomatic path is a ruse. There’s something coming. I’m sure of it.’

  Ramsay laughed, harsh and discordant. It echoed down the empty hallway and rang off the walls of Slater’s cell. ‘What’s coming, Will?’

  ‘Them.’

  Now it was Ramsay’s turn to be sardonic. ‘I’m sure they are.’

  ‘They’re desperate. They want King silenced. Me too, possibly — if I was caught on camera.’

  ‘You’re on board a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier operated by the U.S. Navy,’ Ramsay said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘They’re not going to try a thing. Keep your hopes up, though — maybe it’ll distract you from reality.’

  ‘I never get my hopes up,’ Slater said. ‘But I’ll be ready.’

  ‘For them to come charging in, guns blazing?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Seems like the time off wired you differently. Turned you psychotic.’

  ‘Maybe.’

 
; ‘You going to add anything else? Try and scare me a little more?’

  Slater looked through the bars, boring into Ramsay with a cold gaze. ‘You’re really going to hand me over to Russia?’

  ‘First chance I get. Think of it as revenge for running off on me back in Corsica.’

  ‘Then you’d better make sure I don’t get out of this cell.’

  ‘Tough guy, huh?’ Ramsay said — but he took a step back from the bars, as if nervous that Slater would make a lunge for him.

  ‘You should know,’ Slater said. ‘You’ve been in charge of me for years, apparently.’

  ‘You’re damn right.’

  ‘Then you know what I’m capable of.’

  ‘Which is why you’re locked up.’

  ‘On the off-chance that I get loose, I want you to know that I’ll kill you. I’m not a straight-shooter like King, and you’re aware of it. Keep that in the back of your mind. I wouldn’t think twice about strangling you.’

  Ramsay said nothing. Slater expected a sarcastic quip in response, but when he met the man’s gaze he noticed the intensity behind the glare.

  Ramsay knew.

  The steel bars separating them were the only thing keeping him alive — a strange thing to fathom in the cold quiet of the hallway. Slater considered himself a little more unhinged than King, something that Ramsay would understand if he truly had been in charge of Slater’s career for these past years.

  Ramsay noted the prolonged silence and turned on his heel, bringing the short conversation to an end.

  ‘Good luck, Will,’ he said. ‘Hope that fantasy works out for you.’

  It was meant to be pompous and mocking and full of bravado, but the statement didn’t come out right. Ramsay recognised the slight quiver in his voice and strode away from the cell, scowling. Clearly, his intent had been to intimidate. It hadn’t worked in the slightest. His footsteps echoed away down the hall before dropping out of earshot as a door slammed in the distance.

  Slater stayed put on the bed frame and continued to pick at a nail. He felt no satisfaction from out-quipping Ramsay. Everything he’d said had been true. For days, an uneasy knot had slowly tightened in the pit of his stomach. He found himself lying awake at night, sure that the madness from Russia wouldn’t be resolved so easily.