by Matt Rogers
Parker raised a shaking finger and pointed at the bodyguards’ window.
As if that would explain everything.
Sejun raised an eyebrow. ‘What?’
Parker couldn’t fight back the urge any longer.
He turned and vomited on the table, then collapsed from the shock.
Part I
6
Kathmandu, Nepal
The civilian flight touched down at Tribhuvan International Airport to audible sighs of relief.
A particularly vicious bout of turbulence had plagued the passengers for the better part of the last hour, and they were relieved when the wheels found solid ground and coasted toward the terminal. The wails and sobs of children dissipated, replaced by the steady murmuring of nervous laughter.
Jason King and Will Slater barely noticed.
They sat side-by-side in economy class. Not exactly the norm for a pair worth well over four hundred million dollars, but sometimes allowances had to be made. The flights had been booked on an hour’s notice, and the small first-class section aboard was sold out.
It was okay.
They could handle a little discomfort.
The leg room wasn’t optimal. King was six-foot-three and two hundred and twenty pounds, and with most of it rippling sinewy muscle spread across a bullish broad-shouldered frame, he was practically squashed into the seat. He wore flexible denim jeans and a black leather jacket over a T-shirt. They fit him well, but he’d only selected them for the flight. The rest of his luggage was home to an arsenal of outdoor and cold-weather gear. The job demanded it.
Slater’s frame wasn’t far behind his colleague’s. A couple of inches shorter, and maybe a dozen pounds lighter, but what he lacked in power he’d always made up for with sheer raw athleticism. He had a little more space to breathe in the economy seat, so he’d leant into the aisle and let King’s massive fist take the left-hand armrest for the majority of the flight. Not that he had a choice in the matter.
But he didn’t mind.
He had all he needed in his right hand.
He cradled the plastic cup and drained the last of the vodka as the plane taxied to the terminal. It hadn’t taken much effort to convince the stewardess to fill it to the brim at the beginning of the flight and charge him five times over for the hassle. Mostly because he was willing to pay, but partly because of his charm. He wasn’t entirely oblivious to that particular talent. He used it when necessary.
And sometimes when not.
King glanced over. ‘Is that smart?’
Slater said nothing. Scrunched the cup up, put it in the seat pocket, closed his eyes. Felt the warm glow bathe his insides. When he opened them again, he was happy.
Didn’t take much to make Will Slater happy.
He said, ‘Didn’t realise we were on the clock already.’
‘You never know…’
Slater looked bemused. ‘What — first time we’re back at work for Uncle Sam and you think it’s all going to kick off the moment we step off the plane?’
‘I’m surprised that someone with your history instantly assumes it wouldn’t.’
‘We’re finding a missing kid on a hiking trail. Something tells me we’re not exactly going to stumble across an international conspiracy here. I’d say we’ll be okay.’
King scratched at the five o’clock shadow coating his jawline. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re not exactly thrilled about this one?’
Slater threw his hands up in the air in mock disbelief. ‘I don’t know, buddy. Rub a couple of brain cells together and you might figure it out before we’re done here.’
King half-smiled. ‘I forgot to ask — you ever been to Nepal?’
‘First time.’
‘Same.’
Slater looked over. ‘Isn’t that strange, given our … extensive travels?’
King nodded. ‘Feels like I’ve been everywhere but here.’
‘Looking forward to it?’
‘About as much as you are.’
‘You don’t seem as irritated as I am about this little endeavour.’
The seatbelt signs blinked off, and everyone in the cabin leapt to their feet in unison.
King and Slater stayed put. They savoured the sudden cacophony of noise. It allowed them some discretion to talk about sensitive matters.
King slapped Slater on the shoulder and said, ‘Because I don’t whine and bitch about everything I don’t totally agree with.’
Slater said, ‘I’m here, aren’t I? You think this is whining?’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘What do you think I should do, then? Shut up and get on with it?’
‘Took the words right out of my mouth.’
‘You really think this is the best use of our talents?’
‘I think whatever Violetta approaches us with is the best use of our talents. I assume it’s been determined by people far smarter than us. That’s the way it’s worked our whole careers.’
‘So we get left on the sidelines for months in anticipation of a job, and then our first op involves cleaning up the mess a pen-pusher left behind when he got too careless and got rid of his security detail so he could have some precious one-on-one time with his baby girl?’
The cabin was emptying out, and King didn’t immediately respond. He got to his feet, encouraging Slater up too, and they collected their carry-on packs from the overhead compartment. Then they sauntered toward the exit doors, with Slater leading the way.
King leant forward, over one shoulder, and muttered, ‘Say something like that again and I’ll hit you in the mouth.’
Slater barely reacted, but King could sense the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
Before they reached the exit, Slater glanced over the same shoulder and said, ‘I think you’re forgetting the last two times we fought, brother.’
‘With that much alcohol in you, you think it’ll go the same way?’
Slater slowed his pace even more. ‘Want to find out?’
‘Keep walking,’ King said. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘You’re the one that opened your mouth first.’
King wasn’t having it. He reached out and planted a hand in the small of Slater’s back and timed the momentum exactly right and gave the man a gentle shove. Slater almost tripped over his own feet and was slow to right himself, clutching the back of one of the economy seats to prevent himself going head over heels.
When he stood up, he kept facing forward, and half-sighed.
‘You see?’ King said. ‘You’ve had more to drink than you think. Let’s have this chat another time.’
‘Just shut up until we get to the hotel.’
They made it to the stewardess, and both of them smiled and nodded and said, ‘Namaste,’ as they passed by. Then they descended the exterior stairs, both brooding.
Slater muttered over his shoulder, ‘Still got something you want to say?’
King dropped a hand on the same shoulder. ‘You drink too much. It makes you too volatile, and you say things I know you don’t mean. I understand there’s some serious shit swimming around up there in that head of yours, but you need to cool off and deal with things rationally. How’s that for a character analysis?’
Before Slater could respond, King thundered past, practically knocking him aside to join the stream of passengers making for the terminal.
He didn’t look back.
He didn’t have time to deal with Slater’s bullshit.
7
They passed through immigration without incident.
They weren’t armed — granted, with the weight of the U.S. government behind them and enough time to negotiate a deal with the Nepali counterparts, they might have been able to get permission to bring weapons into the country. But time wasn’t on their side, and rapid progress had to be made, so improvisation was necessary.
Hence — no guns.
They collected their duffels from the baggage carousel and slung them over their sho
ulders. There were no disassembled automatic rifles, or switchblades, or, really, anything that could be used to defend themselves. Just thermals and waterproof hiking pants and Gore-Tex jackets and trekking boots. All top-of-the-line, because they weren’t about to scrimp and save when they knew they’d need to make up time fast. The gear wasn’t going to be much of a factor — that’s where their elite conditioning came into play — but it couldn’t hurt.
They didn’t speak to each other as they ploughed their way out of the small terminal.
Slater certainly wasn’t in the mood to talk.
He stewed silently, his mind racing faster than he could keep up with. Usually a drink or three subdued the constant chatter, but not today. Because they were on the move in a foreign country, surrounded by naive tourists and wizened locals alike. Technically on their first live operation together.
They made it out to the pick-up point and were bombarded by a horde of Nepali men practically fighting to help newcomers carry their bags to waiting vehicles.
Slater saw tourist after tourist get swept up in the madness, as helpers wrestled their bags off them, carried them five feet to the car, placed them aboard, and then aggressively demanded a tip for the trouble.
A gang of five men approached him as he stepped off the sidewalk.
‘We help, sir,’ one of them shouted, gesticulating at the duffel draped over his shoulder. ‘We help.’
‘No,’ Slater said.
King watched from the sidelines.
Another Nepali man materialised — he was younger than thirty, with long black hair tied back, wearing a simple puffer jacket and dark grey jeans. He motioned to them both.
‘Jason? Will?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ King said.
‘I’m Utsav. Your guide.’
‘Great to meet you.’
‘The car is this way.’
He led them through the horde, but the helpers had zeroed in on Slater. For reasons unbeknownst to either of them, they’d determined they could find success if they persevered. Little did they know how unlikely he was to agree.
One of them reached up and seized hold of his duffel, trying to tug it off his shoulder. ‘I help, sir! Car there? You go! I take.’
Slater stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes turned to ice and he said, ‘Take your hand off the bag.’
The atmosphere bristled. Sudden realisation spread across the Nepali man’s face and he backed away like he’d been electrocuted. There was no palpable threat conveyed, but there might as well have been. Slater felt the cold dead blackness of his soul spread across his face, just for a moment. Only for a single second. But it was enough. There was something inhuman in his eyes and all the hustlers recognised it and backed off immediately. And then suddenly he was back to normal, smiling at them and brushing straight past, and he passed his duffel to Utsav and slipped into the back seat of a waiting four-wheel-drive.
The seats were tattered and smelled strange, but Slater didn’t care. He’d dealt with worse conditions. The chatter in his brain fired up again, but truthfully that was when he felt most at ease.
King slotted into the rear seat beside him and slammed the door shut, and Utsav got in the passenger seat and nodded to the driver.
They weaved around the army of hustlers and plunged into the chaos of Kathmandu traffic.
8
King figured there was no use planning for the operation if they died on the way to the hotel.
And, by his estimation, they came close a dozen separate times within the first ten minutes of leaving the airport. Their driver leant on the horn like his life depended on it, and narrowly avoided clipping every motorcycle or vehicle that shot past.
King and Slater, both warriors with storied history in a secretive black-operations division of the U.S. government, held on for dear life.
Because death was death, no matter how it happened.
King’s phone shrilled in his jacket pocket. He took one palm off the handle above the door and fished it out. He knew who it would be.
The screen read: Violetta LaFleur.
He swiped a finger across the screen and said, ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ she said back.
There was an awkward pause, and the driver took the opportunity to get as close as humanly possible to another head-on collision without actually going through with it.
Beside him, Slater swore.
‘What was that?’ Violetta said.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ King said. ‘I think we’re going through our initiation into Nepal.’
From the passenger seat, Utsav laughed.
King’s quip glossed over the discomfort emanating from both ends of the phone. Because this was uncharted territory for their relationship. It was King and Slater’s first official contracted operation — at least, the first since they’d parted less than amicably from the government years earlier.
Violetta was their handler.
But to King, she was much more than that.
‘Is this just business now?’ he said, vocalising what they were both wondering.
‘I think it has to be.’
‘So we put everything else on hold until I get back?’
‘Something like that.’
She paused, and he could sense her chewing her bottom lip, debating what to say.
He jumped in with, ‘How are you?’
‘Good. All things considered. Yourself?’
‘Same boat.’
A pause.
Then an audible smile from the other end of the line.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said. ‘Acting professional is weird.’
‘Same boat,’ King repeated.
‘Got any updates for me?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing. You didn’t give us much to work with before we got on a plane.’
‘That’s getting put together. I’ll brief you both tonight. For now — everything okay?’
‘Will’s not happy,’ King said. ‘He thinks you’ve misjudged the situation by sending us in. He doesn’t think it’s the right move. He wants an explanation.’
Slater bristled, but didn’t say a word.
Violetta sighed and said, ‘Are we going to run into this problem every time I give you two instructions? This is exactly what happened in New York.’
‘We didn’t know who you were in New York,’ King said. ‘Now we do. And he has his doubts.’
‘Just Slater?’ Violetta said. ‘Or are you speaking for yourself, too?’
King half-smiled. ‘You’re a mind reader.’
‘So you’re not happy with this?’
‘The way I see it — based on the information you’ve given us — we’re being sent up a few mountains on a wild goose chase to look for a missing girl. Which is terrible, of course, but I’m not sure we’re the right candidates for that. I think our skills are more selective. There’s more relevant parties you could send to handle this that aren’t … us.’
Slater threw his hands in the air and said, ‘There we go. That’s what I was trying to say.’
Violetta said, ‘So you both feel this way?’
King said, ‘I think Slater put it a little more bluntly. But, yes.’
‘You had these same concerns last time. And what ended up happening there? You prevented the collapse of the entire country.’
‘That’s not what we’re dealing with here.’
‘No,’ Violetta said. ‘You’re right. It’s not exactly the same situation. But Aidan Parker has been critical to our operations for the majority of his career, and we owe the man a great debt for what he’s achieved in the service of his country. I could rattle off his track record to you, but it’d take hours. He’s been working diligently behind the scenes for a decade to streamline black operations and make sure our operatives are as safe in the field as they can possibly be. He’s a genius in that regard. A tactical magician. Which is beside the point, because right now there’s a fourteen-year-old girl in the hand
s of someone who probably knows they have an enormous amount of leverage.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘We have every reason to believe Oscar Perry is responsible for this.’
‘The bodyguard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Who else would it be?’ Violetta sighed. ‘It’s either him or the porter, and the porter’s a thirty-eight-year-old illiterate Nepali man who’s been working diligently with the trekking company to keep himself above the poverty line for the better part of three years. He has no knowledge of the clients besides first names — we confirmed this with the trekking company — and has had no behavioural issues for the entire time he’s been in employment. By all accounts he’s a quiet man with a physically brutal job. So do you think it’s him, or do you think it’s the man who knows full well what sort of bargaining power he can get with Raya Parker?’
‘I don’t know,’ King said. ‘And neither do you.’
‘Are you getting all conspiratorial on me?’
‘I don’t like anything that seems too obvious.’
She said, ‘Does it really matter? Either way, the kid’s going through hell. I don’t want to have to rattle off kidnap statistics to you, but I will if that’s what it takes for you to take this seriously.’
‘Humour me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got nowhere else to be.’
‘Most of the time that there’s a protection detail involved in a kidnap case, things get violent. That’s been proven time and time again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Probably because of the added stressors,’ she said. ‘When it’s a routine run-of-the-mill kidnapping, it’s a lot easier to keep things under control. When it starts concerning police or private bodyguards, everything quickly goes south. It breaks the norm. It makes everything violent right off the bat, because usually force needs to be applied to break through the protection detail in the first place.’
‘But if it’s the private bodyguard himself doing the kidnapping?’
‘That’s incredibly rare.’
‘So it’s uncharted territory.’
