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

by Matt Rogers

  A shallow grave was the only answer — something Ramsay had known all along.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I should have killed them as soon as we detained them.’

  ‘That’s why Black Force was off the books,’ the General said. ‘So that we can deal with these situations however we goddamn please.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m going to be dealing with one of the largest shitstorms I’ve ever faced in the coming weeks,’ the General said. ‘A United States vessel has been attacked with significant casualties. We can’t let this fly.’

  ‘It wasn’t Russian military. It was something else.’

  ‘I know that. Leave it with me, and the rest of my co-workers.’

  ‘I don’t envy you.’

  ‘Your sole priority right now is to find those three. Use every available resource you have. I don’t give a damn what it takes — do not stop until you have them. You got that?’

  ‘Do you want me to kill them on sight?’

  The General paused. ‘Only if you have to. If you can get them to one of our black sites, then do so. I’d like to ask them a few questions before we silence them.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where they went?’

  ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘The NSA might.’

  Ramsay shook his head. ‘That’ll take too long. I have a better idea.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Pull up the address of wherever King was staying during his time off. I heard rumours that he had a love interest. One of the only personal connections that we’re aware of, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Isla said something of that nature…’ the General said, trailing off into thought. ‘Somewhere in Stockholm, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘Will the Swedes let us borrow her?’

  ‘I’ll make a few calls.’

  ‘And I’ll round up some men,’ Ramsay said. ‘That’ll draw him out of hiding.’

  22

  Slater could tell something was off.

  He had known Abdullah as an acquaintance many years ago, but unless the man had undergone a radical personality switch in the time they had spent apart, Slater feared that the man was being overly helpful.

  Private jets cost tens of millions of dollars. He knew of Abdullah’s successes in the world of business, but lending one to King — a man he had just met — to aid with a barebones rescue of a loved one made no sense. He watched the business tycoon hurry around the penthouse, discussing exact terms with King regarding the nature of his plan.

  He couldn’t place a finger on it, but something rubbed him the wrong way.

  King disappeared into Abdullah’s quarters in search of a restroom. Slater watched him go, noting the expression of shock on the man’s face. King needed rest — his mind was whirring faster than his body could comprehend.

  There was no time for rest yet.

  Not for King.

  Slater and Abdullah were left alone in the vast dining room.

  ‘You’re being awfully generous,’ Slater said.

  Abdullah shrugged. ‘I believe in karma.’

  ‘Do you?’

  The man stared across the room at Slater. ‘You sound oddly hostile, Will.’

  ‘Maybe I’ve misjudged you. You weren’t this nice when we last knew each other — let me put it that way.’

  ‘That was years ago.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Something about escaping a torturous death at the hands of the Yakuza gives you a different outlook on life.’

  Slater said nothing. He stewed in his chair, unable to argue with the help that Abdullah had provided them but equally aware that all was not right. Normal people weren’t this helpful.

  You’re overly paranoid, he thought.

  He concluded that years in the field had changed his personality for the worse. He was suspicious of everyone, often to his own detriment. It was true that he had saved Abdullah’s life years prior, killing three Japanese hitmen that had come for the man in the middle of the night.

  King re-emerged into the dining room, dressed in jeans, a tight-fitting polo shirt and a leather jacket.

  ‘Perfect fit,’ he observed.

  ‘They’re yours,’ Abdullah said.

  ‘Is the plane ready?’

  ‘Just got word from Al Maktoum. You’re good to go. My people will get into contact with the Swedish authorities and inform them that I’ll be arriving shortly. It’ll be a six-hour flight to Stockholm.’

  King nodded and turned to Slater. ‘See you soon.’

  Slater nodded back wordlessly. He trusted King to rescue Klara without a hitch. The guy had too much experience to mess up on such a straightforward task.

  ‘Take one of my cars to the airport,’ Abdullah said. ‘Get back here as quick as you can. The less time you spend in public, the better.’

  Slater watched the two shake hands. Abdullah sent one of the bodyguards off with King — the shorter of the two. The other man remained behind, standing at attention between Slater and the others.

  Abdullah ushered King into the elevator, wished him good luck, and the doors whispered closed.

  Abdullah breathed an audible sigh of relief. Behind him, the enormous bodyguard slid a sleek black pistol out of the holster attached to his waistband. He levelled the barrel at Slater’s head.

  Slater froze.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he said.

  Abdullah turned around. ‘What do you mean?’

  Slater said nothing, realising that if he made the slightest movement the bodyguard might interpret it as a hostile act and respond accordingly.

  Abdullah kept his gaze fixed on Slater, until eventually he let it wander over the room — when he saw the man beside him aiming the weapon at Slater, he smiled.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, recognising the stand-off for what it was. ‘Of course. I must say, I wasn’t expecting him to act so soon.’

  No-one said a word. Slater had his eyes locked on the bodyguard’s in a silent staredown, trying to get a read on the man’s confidence. The guy seemed impressively calm.

  ‘I think it goes without saying that you shouldn’t move,’ Abdullah said.

  ‘I got that message already.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Man of your word, huh?’ Slater said.

  ‘In some aspects, yes,’ Abdullah said. ‘In others, not so much. I don’t think I’m a bad person.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your friend.’

  ‘King?’

  ‘The two of you together are incredibly dangerous — I could sense that the second you stepped into this room.’

  Slater made the realisation. ‘That’s why you were so happy to help him charter off to Sweden.’

  Abdullah flashed a wry smile. ‘Good. You’re sharp. If I can get you under control while he’s off on his escapades, this whole situation will be easier to handle.’

  ‘Are you working with Ramsay?’

  Abdullah cocked his head. ‘Who?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘Oh … you think this has something to do with whoever’s after you?’

  ‘I did, briefly.’

  ‘It does — in a sense. But not Ramsay, whoever that is.’

  ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘I am a man of my word — despite what you may think. I promised to help you and I will. But I owe your friend nothing. And he owes me something.’

  ‘What exactly does he owe you?’

  ‘A few of my powerful friends are very interested in talking to him. He has a list of names — men and women who had a vested interest in a mine in the Russian Far East.’

  Slater bowed his head. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Frankly, I wouldn’t care.’

  ‘You’re on the list, aren’t you?’

  Abdullah shrugged. ‘If I denied it, I wouldn’t be a man of my word. What can I say? Regular life gets boring. I didn’t turn down the oppo
rtunity when it was presented to me. The financial contribution I made wasn’t much of an investment, and the results entertained me. Who doesn’t like a bit of blood?’

  Slater shook his head in disbelief. ‘Like reality television for rich, sick bastards.’

  ‘Precisely. You can understand why I don’t want that reaching the media. I’ll be vilified for life. Maybe locked up. Prison isn’t kind to men with my level of wealth.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘I want you to know that I have every intention of letting you go.’

  ‘Sure…’

  Abdullah scowled. ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I would have shot you the second those doors closed if I wanted to kill you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Slater said. ‘It would have been awfully loud. Maybe you’re waiting for King to leave the building.’

  ‘He probably already has, and you’re still here. He’ll do his thing in Sweden. When he gets back here, I’ll kill him. Then I’ll let you go. Nothing personal. I’m still grateful for what you did for me all those years ago.’

  ‘If you touch King, I’ll kill you.’

  Abdullah paused. Slater held his breath — if the man was going to kill him, now would be the opportune time, in the aftermath of such an inflammatory statement.

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you, Will,’ Abdullah said. ‘We’ll worry about that dilemma when we come to it.’

  Abdullah crossed to a chest of drawers and slid the bottom drawer open, retrieving a set of bulky cable ties. The bodyguard stayed marbleised, barely blinking. The barrel of his sidearm remained rigid, aimed directly at Slater’s head. The guy’s professionalism signified that he had combat experience.

  Slater didn’t move.

  He reluctantly accepted that — for the time being — he wasn’t going anywhere.

  Abdullah strode behind him, wrenched his hands behind his back and secured a cable tie over his wrists — almost tight enough to cut off the blood circulating to his hands. Slater grimaced as the sharp plastic bit into his skin.

  ‘Sit tight,’ Abdullah said. ‘I’ll release you as soon as I can — I promise. You and the woman.’

  He left the room to hog-tie the sleeping Isla.

  Slater slumped back against the chair and felt the breath catch in his throat. More than anything, he hoped that King suspected something when he returned from Sweden.

  If he did return at all.

  23

  The jet was a Gulfstream — that was the most King could discern from its exterior. The bodyguard pulled up alongside the tail of the private plane. Its stairs had already descended, ready to accept its sole passenger.

  The burly man killed the Lamborghini Huracan’s engine and the growl of the ten cylinders firing died out. The silence of the runway washed over them.

  ‘I’ve been instructed to leave you to it,’ the bodyguard said. It was the first words they had spoken to each other since leaving the penthouse.

  King nodded solemnly. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  King wasn’t in the mood to make light conversation.

  He thrust the Huracan’s door up — it opened vertically instead of horizontally — and stepped out onto the tarmac. A Middle-Eastern man in pilot’s uniform stuck his head out of the Gulfstream’s open doorway and stared at the newcomer.

  ‘Are you the guy?’ he called.

  ‘I’m the guy.’

  King took the steps two at a time, almost breathless from the constant momentum he’d been wrapped up in ever since stepping out of his cell almost twelve hours earlier. It had been a whirlwind of confusion. He still hadn’t had the chance to truly consider the situation, to reflect on what lay ahead.

  He imagined his mind would wander on the flight.

  He greeted the pilot and co-pilot — both roughly the same age and stature — and let them get on with their duties. He wanted to be in the air as fast as possible. The variable of Klara’s wellbeing made his stomach churn — the sooner he knew she was safe, the sooner his mind would stop racing and he could focus on what the next move should be.

  Everything was unfolding too fast.

  He needed time to plan. Time to consider viable options and plot the smartest move.

  There was no time.

  ‘Wheels up,’ the pilot called from the open cockpit.

  King dropped onto one of the couches lining the interior of the Gulfstream and let his heart rate settle. His experience with private jets was scarce, and he found himself awed by the rapidity of the take-off.

  There was no waiting for late passengers. No official safety briefing from a bunch of flight attendants who looked like they would rather be anywhere else. He was the Gulfstream’s sole passenger. He realised that wealth bought time — billionaires seldom waited around for others.

  Within five minutes, they were in the air with a flight path set for Stockholm, Sweden.

  King opened the nearby mini-fridge and cracked open a bottle of chilled mineral water. He drank greedily, contemplating what Klara would be going through as she stressed over who would arrive first — King, or the soldiers ready to drag her over to the States to be used as a bargaining chip.

  He wished more than anything that he had left her alone in Corsica. That way, she never would have become caught up in this madness.

  That was the only word he could use to describe his life.

  Madness.

  The six-hour flight proved a welcome opportunity to think long and hard. First he considered who he might come face-to-face with in Sweden.

  U.S. Special Forces soldiers.

  For the first time in his life, they would be his adversaries.

  He swallowed, suddenly uneasy. Times had changed. Thankfully, he knew many of the methods and tactics drilled into the U.S. military elite — for he had learnt them himself. He wondered how the rigorous Black Force training would stack up against an elite unit.

  He’d be outnumbered and outgunned.

  But that was all he’d ever known.

  If all went to plan, he would arrive at Klara’s apartment in a complex off the Mariatorget city square in Stockholm before any of Ramsay’s men showed up. He’d be in and out like a ghost, extracting her without a hitch.

  That was the plan.

  But things never went according to plan.

  He thought of the immediate aftermath. In the event that they arrived back at the plane in one piece, they would return to Dubai…

  …and then?

  It turned his stomach. The country he’d grown up in and served for over a decade of his adult life wanted him executed. Powerful figures in the Russian oligarch hierarchy knew of his existence and were desperately searching for his head, keen to silence him before he could divulge juicy secrets that he didn’t actually possess. Two of the world’s superpowers had their targets aimed at his back.

  It was a mess.

  A tangled, unsolvable mess.

  He had never faced a threat like this before. Even in the most dire circumstances, he had his organisation to fall back on. When a mission went awry and he found himself in enemy territory with no reinforcements and no supplies, at least he had a home base to fight his way back to.

  Now he had nothing.

  A penthouse suite in Dubai, owned by a man he knew very little about.

  He wondered how far Abdullah’s hospitality would extend.

  The man was already being overtly benevolent. He hoped it would last long enough for them to create a new life in the shadows.

  The time passed in the blink of an eye. He zoned out, peering out one of the circular windows at a thick layer of clouds far below, and before long the co-pilot announced their descent as they came into Stockholm.

  ‘Which airport?’ King said.

  ‘Stockholm Bromma.’

  King shook his head, baffled by the chaotic nature of his life. Only a week and a half ago, he had taken off from the very same airpor
t in a Rockwell B-1 Lancer bomber, en route to the Russian Far East to investigate the disappearance of a party of health workers.

  Now, he was headed straight back, exiled from his government, wanted by faceless Russian billionaires.

  What a disaster, he concluded.

  He shook the negative thoughts off as the Gulfstream touched down on Swedish territory. There was a task at hand that would require his full concentration — especially in the event that Ramsay and his men had made it to Stockholm before King.

  He touched the satellite phone in his rear pocket out of instinct. Klara would call him in the event of an emergency — for example, if Special Forces stormed her apartment. He hoped nothing had happened yet. With a sinking feeling in his gut, he awaited the call.

  As the jet slowed to a crawl and began the slow taxi along the runway, the co-pilot left the cockpit and strode out into the fuselage. He eyed King with a curious gaze — likely confused by the abrupt orders he’d received from Abdullah.

  Who was this stranger they had been instructed to fly around the globe on short notice?

  ‘I spoke with Abdullah in the air,’ the man said. ‘He has arranged for a rental car to meet us on the runway, in the private sector. Follow the service lanes to the gate at the edge of the property. It is my understanding that the guard has been bribed to let you through unobstructed.’

  ‘Got it,’ King said.

  ‘When do you think you’ll be back?’

  He shrugged. ‘Less than an hour, I’d say.’

  ‘What is it you are here to do?’

  ‘Pick up a friend.’

  ‘I’ll give you the number to the plane’s phone. Call us when you are five minutes out. We’ll get the jet fired up and receive clearance for take-off. If you happen to cause some trouble, we’ll be in the air before anyone realises what’s happened. Okay?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ King said, then he added, ‘thank you.’

  ‘Not a problem. We are paid handsomely for this.’

  King nodded. The pilot finished guiding the Gulfstream into one of the allocated spaces in the private sector of Stockholm Bromma. King noticed a handful of other private jets out each window, cordoned off from the commercial airliners. Beyond the horde of planes, he watched a sleek chrome vehicle approaching from the edge of the airport, speeding across the tarmac towards their jet.