Alexander King Thriller Series: Books 1-3

by Bradley Wright

  “X, you really need to switch out this phone,” Dbie answered.

  “I know. I am. But this can’t wait. I need everything you can find on Raúl Ortega.”

  “Raúl Ortega. Got it. Anything else?”

  “Comb the cameras at John Wayne Airport. I need to know who used my passport, if at all possible.”

  “I’ll find out what flight your passport was used on and try to match it up with video. But I’m not sure I can get into the airport’s system.”

  “I have faith in you. Anything else?”

  “The car Brittany got into outside the nightclub was stolen. So no help there.”

  “Glad you brought that up,” King said. “One more thing. Zero in on who got into the fight. See if we can ID any of them. Brittany said she was talking to the white guy who got into it with two Mexican men.”

  “So, look up the Mexican men?”

  “Might as well look them all up while you’re at it. No stone unturned. She said the white guy’s name was Scott, but if he’s involved, it’s probably an alias.”

  “Got it. I’ll email what I find.”

  “Thanks, Dbie. Any word from Zhanna? She make her flight okay?”

  “Haven’t heard anything, so hopefully so. You’ll know when I know.”

  “Good.”

  King ended the call, then broke the burner phone in half. He gave a look all around the car. No sign of the tail. And no sign of Brittany coming back out of the store. He was parked across the street looking directly at the side of the store. He chose this store because he could see both the front and back doors from his vantage point. That was when she finally came walking out. King scanned the area again, his hand on his pistol just in case.

  Brittany opened the car door.

  “What took so long?” King said.

  Brittany handed him a bag with phones in it, keeping the one with food and water for herself. She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Because I was trying to decide if I should run or not.”

  “Okay. At least you’re honest.”

  “I just watched you put me in the trunk of a car on a TV that was on behind the counter. Then your picture and mine flashed up on the screen.”

  “Why didn’t you run?” King studied her face as he watched her remove his hat. Her brown eyes were determined. Her pale skin was flawless, unharmed by the passing of time and too much sun. Which surprised him a bit with her being from Orange County.

  “Well, I was about to, but the video was on loop. I didn’t catch it the second time through, but the third, it was pretty clear to me.” She reached over and picked up his arm. Then she took his hand in hers, put it into a fist, leaving only his thumb sticking out. “Subungual hematoma,” she said.

  She was talking about the blood that had been trapped under his thumbnail since he was in Alaska. It was purple—and ugly.

  “Big words,” King said. “I smashed it on my last assignment.”

  “We just learned this in biology class last week. That’s why I know the name.”

  “Okay, and the reason it matters?”

  “The man in the video, the one with your face? He didn’t have this on his right thumb. I could see his hand plain as day when he shut the trunk. That’s how I know you’re telling the truth, and I owe you a thank-you.”

  King was seriously impressed. He hadn’t noticed this detail when he watched the video, but he was also not looking to prove it wasn’t him, because he obviously knew it was not. He hadn’t even thought about his thumb. But it was ugly enough that it could easily be seen.

  “Impressive. And don’t thank me yet. I still have to get you out of here alive.”

  King watched Brittany’s demeanor change as she moved her eyes to the window. He hadn’t meant to cast doubt on whether he could do that for her, but the way it came out sounded like he might not be too confident.

  Before he could explain, she looked back at him and asked,

  “But you’re, like, really good at this sort of thing, right?”

  Now was not the time to be modest. He wasn’t great with feelings, but he could tell she needed some reassurance. “I’ve saved a lot of people under worse conditions. Including the President of the United States.”

  King watched her breathe a sigh of relief. He reached inside the bag, opened the phone’s packaging, and powered it on. “Here, call your dad. Tell him you’re okay, and tell him to talk to the director of the CIA and get us some help instead of trying to run me down.”

  Maybe Brittany had believed him before, and maybe she hadn’t, about whether or not King was going to keep her safe. But after seeing the physical discrepancy on the kidnapping video, and now King telling her to call her dad, by the look of elation on her face, he knew he had won her over for good. However, just before King handed her the phone so she could get started on clearing his name, the driver-side door bent inward under the impact of a bone-jarring crash.

  Chapter Eleven

  The impact of the vehicle crashing into his door pushed King’s car several feet to the right. Before the car settled, he’d already grabbed Brittany by her tank top and pulled her down behind him onto the floorboard in the backseat.

  “Keep your head down and don’t move until I come back for you!”

  As he shouted to Brittany, his hand searched the floor for his Glock, but it must have been pushed under the seat upon impact. Before he could find it, the barrel of a pistol tapped against his window.

  “Hands where I can see them,” a man said. He was American, judging by the absence of a Mexican accent.

  King slowly raised his hands as he looked up. The glare of the sun on the window didn’t allow him to see the man’s face, but he certainly couldn’t miss the massive size of the man’s frame. King knew he only had one shot at surviving, and it wasn’t by giving himself up. As he raised his left hand, he ducked as he whipped his hand at the door handle, popping it open, and pushing the door outward as hard as he could. If he hadn’t ducked, the bullet would have killed him.

  The blast of the gunshot rang out, as did Brittany’s scream from the floor of the backseat. King’s push of the door only managed to move the end of the gun, not the man holding it. King dove, wrapped his left arm around the man’s right leg, and pulled as hard as he could while pushing off the seat of the car. The force of his shoulder into the man’s waist and the simultaneous pull on the man’s leg should have been enough to knock him backward off his feet. But this man was more like an oak tree, and King’s efforts had merely been enough to make him stagger backward.

  King pivoted out of his first failed move by spinning on the blacktop to his back. When he looked up, the man towering over him was moving his gun down in King’s direction. King whipped his right leg up and managed to clip the man’s hand, sending the gun clattering across the parking lot. He swiveled around to face him, then mule-kicked the man in the thighs, which gave him the momentum he needed to do a back roll so he could pop up to his feet.

  The foe regaining his balance about six feet from King was a hulking man. His white button-down shirt was tight over large muscles, and the rolled-up sleeves revealed bulging forearms. At six feet three and 220 pounds, King wasn’t a small man by any measure, but this guy made him seem it. His buzzed dark hair gave King a military vibe, but his gray dress slacks and black dress shoes said otherwise.

  As soon as King rose to his feet, the man in front of him took a fighting stance. Before King could ask any questions about whether this man was CIA or if they were on the same team, the man rushed him. And he was much faster than his size should have allowed. King blocked a hammering overhand right, then ducked under a sweeping left hook. King countered with a right hook to the kidney that elicited only a minor grunt. It should have hurt a lot more. And hitting the man felt more like hitting a brick wall than human flesh.

  The man pushed King back with both hands. King’s momentum put his back up against a nearby minivan. The man rushed forward and threw another right, but
this time it was an elbow. King managed to spin to the side at the last second, and the man’s elbow plunged into the minivan’s rear window. The man had calculated that he should throw the elbow to mitigate the damage to his hand in case he missed and hit the van. So now King knew the man was strong, fast, tough, and smart. King’s only choice was to get dirty.

  As the man removed his elbow from inside the van, King whipped a leg kick that struck just above the knee. Solid as a rock. The man ate the kick and finally connected a right hand to the side of King’s head, just above the temple. Any lower and he would have been unconscious, because he was seeing stars as he staggered back. King wasn’t sure he’d ever been hit that hard. And the bull of a man just kept coming. King blocked the next right with a forearm, parried a left jab, then ducked another right as he changed levels and shot for the man’s waist. King didn’t want to feel that power again, so he decided to change his advantage by taking the fight to the ground.

  However, when King wrapped both arms around the man’s waist and pushed forward, the man sprawled his legs back and stopped King from taking him down. He pushed King’s shoulders down to the ground and stepped back. King managed to roll over and avoid the soccer kick that was meant for his head. King bounced up and finally found his voice.

  “We’re both American, why are you fighting me?” King said.

  The man didn’t feel like talking. Instead he rushed forward, but King was fast enough to slip sideways at the last second. He watched as the man flew by but stood his ground instead of advancing—hoping to show good faith that he didn’t want a fight with a possible friendly.

  “Why are you chasing me?” King said with a heaving breath. “I didn’t do what they’re saying I did.”

  The man turned to face him. “Yet you have the girl in your car.”

  He advanced again. King threw up a front push-kick to keep him back. “She’s not my hostage. I’m trying to keep her safe.”

  “That why you stuffed her in the trunk of your car? Why your passport was used in Orange County two days ago, which so happened to be the day she went missing? I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. King. Even if you have served our country. Now hand her over, or—”

  This time it was King who became the aggressor. Knowing that the man’s next line was going to be something to the effect he would hurt him, King stepped in with a Thai kick to the leg, a left hook to the torso, and a straight right, which the man narrowly avoided by moving his head. King was counting on retaliation, and when the man’s forward movement came, King dropped down, wrapped his arms around the man’s waist as he wrapped his right leg around the leg in front of him. King pulled with his leg and pushed forward with his upper body. It was a classic Jiu Jitsu takedown, which King rarely didn’t finish. This was one of those rare times. The man lifted King up by grabbing under his arms and shrugged him off like a flea. It might be the strongest grip King had ever encountered.

  As King took a few steps back to regain balance, he spoke once again, trying to deescalate the situation. “You CIA? Or just a private hire by Senator McKinley? Either way, you’re fighting an ally.”

  It was no use. The man was locked in on a fight. “I know what it’s like to have your daughter taken by someone you think is an ally.”

  He moved toward King again. King’s only way out was to fight. He shot his arms up to cover his face as the first strike came. The thud against his defense was powerful. The second punch came, and King jumped back to avoid it, then swung an elbow that pounded against the big man’s defense, but it was enough to slow him. As King opened up to throw again, he saw an uppercut coming for his chin. It was thrown with such speed that King didn’t see it until it was too late. Purple stars exploded in his vision and the smacking sound of crunching teeth and bare knuckle on chin echoed in his rattled brain.

  King stumbled back, trying desperately to settle his declining equilibrium. But he couldn’t. He felt a hammering blow pound into his left side, then another shot to the side of his head. Before he could unscramble his brain, his feet were above his head, and he collapsed to the ground on his back. The man didn’t stop coming. He jumped on top of King, and it was only King’s instincts and ground training that saved him. His body went into autopilot while his mind was still returning from the stratosphere. His legs curled around the man’s back, his arms wrapped around the man’s neck, and he was holding on for dear life as his wits slowly returned.

  Holding the man down by the neck helped keep him from rising up and firing punches down on King. But King had been weakened, and the man was too strong. In an instant King was being lifted off the ground, the large man carrying him as if King weighed half what he did. The man went to slam King back on the blacktop when King let go of his grip and pushed himself off. The move had saved his life.

  For the moment.

  And only for the briefest moment, because the man was charging right at him. Again.

  Chapter Twelve

  The man running at King was going to kill him. King knew this the moment he saw the look in his eye when the man spoke about his own daughter being taken. King knew this was a fight to the death, and if he didn’t catch up, he’d be the one they would bury.

  It was time to fight fire with fire.

  Rather than retreat, or sidestep, King timed a hard right hand with the man’s arrival. The man moved his head, and the punch landed on his shoulder. The miss didn’t deter King, he followed it with a left hook, then a right uppercut, then another left hook. None of the punches landed flush, but it had stopped the man’s momentum.

  King followed the barrage with a knee to the midsection, but it, too, was blocked. Then a left elbow to the man’s forearm that was blocking his head, then a right low-kick that landed to the man’s right knee. Finally, the man buckled. King capitalized with a left hook to the side of the man’s head. He staggered right as King’s fist bounced off his temple. King reached behind him and threw an overhand right so hard his shoulder popped out of place on the path forward, but his fist still connected. Pain rifled through every part of his upper body. It was excruciating.

  As the man staggered back, a trickle of blood started down from a cut in his forehead––proving the man was human. King’s right arm dangled from his shoulder, so he moved in and threw a combo of left hook, right kick, and left uppercut. The man grunted and blood spewed from his mouth when King connected with his chin. King’s shoulder was screaming in pain, but he had no time for that. He moved forward and pushed the man back against a black sedan. But before he could twist his hips for another left hook, the man used the car behind him to bounce his momentum forward and clotheslined King at the chest. King spun as he whipped backward and landed hard on his right shoulder.

  The good news was his shoulder had inadvertently popped back into place on impact. The bad news was the bear of a man was already on top of him again. His weight was pressed fully on King’s body, and his forearm was choking King. King gasped for air but none came. He struggled against the man’s strength but couldn’t budge him. King tried through punches, but he had zero leverage to get any power behind them. And when his attempts at using Jiu Jitsu to escape via shrimping his legs back and changing the angle failed, the black began to close in.

  King could hear some traffic out on the street. When he closed his eyes, for whatever reason he could see his home in Kentucky. All of his friends were there. He could feel himself giving in to the pull of unconsciousness that would finally offer relief from his pain. But then he saw something that ignited a spark deep inside his gut. In the flicker of an old film reel, King saw some of the horrible things he’d endured in his life, having never given up. He saw his mother being gunned down in front of him. The hell of SEAL training flashed by. The first time he’d watched one of his own die in combat. He could see himself holding Sam in his arms—carrying her to safety—after the awful things Sanharib Khatib had done to her in Syria. He saw his father through the window of the door in the basement of Vitalii Dragov’s
mansion—proof that his father had been the one to betray him.

  When King’s eyes blinked open, all he saw were the eyes of a fiercely determined man. There was still no air to be found. His eyes shut once again.

  He then saw his beloved racehorse, King’s Ransom, lying headless in the stall of his barn. The fear on Natalie Rockwell’s face when he first saw her rigged to the death machine on the boat in London. His mind then whirled to being at the top of the Ferris wheel in Santa Monica, holding onto the young girl by her fingertips. At the airport in Washington, DC, when the nanobots had just injected Sam and Kyle with the lethal nano chips and he nearly lost two more of the most important people in his life. The reel turned to finding Agent John Karn dead on the couch in Bruges, Belgium. He’d only been there to help King.

  It the end, the theme of his final movie changed its tone. King was back at home in his backyard. The sun was high in the sky and shone warmly on his skin. He looked down to his left, and his hand was holding the hand of his blonde-haired, blue-eyed, six-year-old niece. They were walking toward an intimately familiar woman, but the glint of the sun hid her identity. She was holding a baby. His baby. And it was unmistakably so. King began to feel light as over fifteen years of burden began to lift. For the first time in a long time, he was happy. Genuinely so. There was no longer the burden of secrecy, he was no longer a shadow deprived of light, he was alive. And he wanted to see who that woman was—longed to feel her touch. He wanted to hold his child. He wanted to live the movie playing in his mind; even if it wasn’t a possibility, he wanted to fight for it. He wasn’t ready to leave the ones he loved, present or future.

  King’s eyes shot open. The determined man was still there—unrelenting. But King no longer wanted to escape the pain he was in; he wanted to embrace it. The feeling of life his mind’s eye had showed him after all the despair he’d survived gave him hope. And at the moment, there was only one thing keeping him from getting back the life he hadn’t realized his subconscious had so been longing for.