by Matt Rogers
That’s what the movies didn’t show.
Punch someone in the jaw as hard as Slater could, and your fist is going to ache for a week.
Thankfully, he was used to it.
But he didn’t know how it would bode for the following morning.
They had a lot of ground to cover. There were endless questions and muddied motivations and no clear answer. No gameplan either. Whoever was behind Raya’s kidnapping was doing the right thing — climbing higher and higher, reaching altitudes that had the potential to neutralise even the fittest, hardest, toughest men on earth. Altitude sickness was a cruel bitch.
That reminded him…
He rolled over, fished through his pack, and popped a couple of Diamox. The altitude sickness tablets would at least do something to prevent any issues that might crop up when they trekked above thirteen thousand feet.
He lay on his back, staring up at the wood-panelled ceiling, and found himself thinking…
…nothing at all.
Was that odd? Here he was, about to undertake a monumental physical task in the hopes of finding a kid who didn’t deserve what had happened to her. There’d be sweat and blood and toil and relentless exertion. Maybe in the past that might have frightened him, producing multiple sleepless nights before the pain struck in its fullest intensity, but now there was nothing but calmness and stoicism. He didn’t know whether that was good or bad.
It just was.
He was sure King felt the same. Together they’d been through enough war and suffering to fill the lives of dozens of elite soldiers. Nothing would surprise them on the trail, and Slater wasn’t sure whether to be wary of that or take it in his stride. The last thing he wanted was to take his skillset for granted and drop his guard when the fear didn’t arise. It only took a half-second of carelessness in the heat of battle to lose your life.
He wasn’t about to let that happen.
Someone knocked on the door. He swivelled off the bed and opened it to find King standing there, pensive, the satellite phone lowered in one hand.
King swept a hand over his short hair. ‘You doing okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Slater said.
Neither of them said anything.
Slater folded his arms over his chest. ‘You babysitting me now?’
‘I think this might be more intense than we think.’
‘We’ll adapt to it. We always do.’
‘Violetta didn’t seem confident that we’d be able to make the time she wants. It’s going to be a hell of a lot of miles tomorrow.’
‘I’m in shape. You are too. This is what we train for.’
‘That’s what I told her.’
‘And yet you still have your doubts?’
‘What if the altitude gets us? What if we grind ourselves into the dirt to catch up to Raya, and then we’re crippled by headaches and nausea the moment we come into contact with the enemy.’
‘Then we’ll fight through it.’
King didn’t respond.
Slater said, ‘Really? Really? You’re having doubts? What do you want me to say?’
‘Nothing. Neither of us are babysitting each other. We’re big boys. I just think we should both be prepared if this is harder than we think.’
‘Can it really be worse than what we’ve been through?’ Slater said.
King took a step back, and nodded. ‘It can always be worse.’
Then he set off down the hallway.
Slater called after him, ‘Any updates from Violetta?’
King turned back. ‘Yeah.’
‘What’d she say?’
‘To get a good night’s sleep.’
‘Noted.’
‘We’ll need it.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’
‘You can order dinner downstairs whenever you want. I’m told it’ll take about an hour to cook.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
‘Did you take your Diamox?’
‘Yes Dad.’
‘Are you hurt from earlier today?’
Slater flexed his shoulders and arms and wrists, rolling out the aches and pains. ‘The usual.’
King half-smiled. ‘It’s a strange life we live.’
‘Always has been.’
‘I’ll see you downstairs.’
He disappeared into his own room down the hall.
27
The next morning, they both rose at the crack of dawn.
King’s alarm ruptured the pre-dawn silence, and he growled as he stabbed a finger down on the touchscreen, cancelling it. He swung out of bed and stretched out and went through a gruelling twenty-minute series of yoga vinyasas, opening his hips and his shoulders, contributing to the ongoing fight to make his body as supple and limber as possible. He credited the endless stretching and the fight to maintain positions as the main reason he was able to live this sort of lifestyle and avoid serious career-ending injury. But as he wiped fog off the window and stared out at Phaplu and the ominous towering mountains in the distance, he wondered if this operation would push him further than he’d ever gone before.
Something in the back of his head told him it might.
He dressed in a long-sleeved compression top and leggings, then threw a pair of athletic shorts and a loose hiking shirt over the top and stuffed his sleeping bag back into his pack. He slung the whole thing over one shoulder — it was heavy, but he’d trained his whole life to make hard tasks easy — and went downstairs.
Slater was already there, gorging on momos and vegetable fried rice. King ordered the same. The communal area was quiet at this hour — there were a couple of Germans across the room, but they kept to themselves, allowing King and Slater to talk in private.
Slater said, ‘You been in touch with Violetta since we last spoke?’
‘No.’
‘So same plan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why can’t we take the plane again?’
‘Briefcase in Kharikhola.’
‘Right. That little thing.’
‘Could be a big thing if it’s empty.’
Slater stared at him as if he was stupid. ‘It’ll be empty.’
‘You seem sure of that.’
‘Either Perry got it open himself, or the porter put a gun to Raya’s head when he refused to open it. Either way, the laptop’s gone. The fact that it’s locked doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘So Parker’s career is probably over.’
‘I don’t care. What I care about is getting Raya back.’
‘I know. I’m in the same boat.’
‘Speak of the devil…’ Slater muttered under his breath.
Aidan Parker materialised in the doorway. He had dark bags under his eyes and his thinning hair was skewered out at all angles. He spotted King and Slater, nodded brusquely to them, and joined them at their table.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘how are we?’
‘About the same as usual,’ Slater said.
‘When are you heading off?’
‘Right now.’
‘Oh. Well…’
‘You don’t need to wish us good luck,’ King said. ‘We’ll get your daughter back. I promise.’
Parker didn’t immediately respond. He soaked the words in. They seemed to mean a lot to him.
Then he said, ‘Thank you. Thank you both. Truth is, I’ve never been through this much turmoil before.’
Slater nodded his understanding. ‘Now, Aidan, if you don’t mind…’
‘Right, yes, of course,’ Parker said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll leave you both to it. I wouldn’t want to throw you off this close to the action.’
He said it like he’d never experienced it first-hand. There was no weight behind the word action, no understanding of what exactly that might entail. King knew immediately that Parker had never seen violence up close, never heard a bone crack or a head bounce off concrete or a bullet spray out the back of a man’s head through the exit wound.
King said, ‘Lay low here.
We’ll see you when we get back.’
Parker nodded, but seemed to recognise the underlying tension in King’s tone. He turned on his heel and left them to themselves.
Slater muttered, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think he’s fine,’ King said. ‘Just not the sort of person I want to be talking to right now.’
‘Me either.’
‘What’s the time?’
‘Nearly six.’
‘Let’s get moving.’
It should have been more grandiose. It should have been the part where the music swelled at the beginning of their grand adventure, as they slung their packs over their shoulders and took the first step out the door and saw the long and winding road spiralling into the lush green valleys and snow-capped mountains.
But in reality it was the same as it had always been. Nothing magnificent. Nothing idyllic. Nothing romantic. There was the scuff of their boots on the gravel and the sound of measured breathing as they found a solid pace, striding it out at a speed just under a jog. They were out of Phaplu within a couple of minutes, and then there was nothing but the road and the pace and the burn in their legs and the thudding of their hearts in their chests.
They kept it up, and neither of them spoke.
They each sunk into something close to a meditative trance as the scenery enveloped them and they powered through Nepal toward Kharikhola.
28
A few hours later, they were making good time.
Slater grimaced as he picked up too much momentum on the way down the side of a small mountain, and ended up uncontrollably jogging a stretch of the trail. The declines were just as severe as the inclines, and there were no flat stretches in sight. They’d alternated between battling their way up incredible rises, followed swiftly by long downward stretches that ruined any elevation they’d managed to rack up along the way.
Because their destination, Kharikhola, was still low in altitude, resting in the foothills below Lukla and the main trail to Everest and Gokyo Ri.
They wouldn’t be getting to tricky heights for a few days, at least.
Slater stumbled to a halt as the trail levelled out and caught his breath. He wiped sweat off his forehead, sucked greedily at his water bottle packed with branched-chain amino acids, and checked his smartwatch.
Ten miles covered.
He was feeling it in his feet, his ankles, his calves, his knees, his sternum, even his arms. They weren’t running the trail, but even striding it out at a fast pace tested their cardiovascular capacity. When you had to ascend nearly two hundred feet on every incline, it was practically the same as running up a craggy, uneven staircase. They reached the top of every ascent with their heart rate through the roof, and then they had to deal with the pounding impacts of the descent on their knees.
Overall, it was tough, relentless work.
But that was the norm in their profession.
King caught up. He was considerably slower — sure, he had longer legs and could make greater strides, but the extra muscle he was carrying didn’t lend him any favours. He couldn’t maintain the consistent pace that Slater could. He stumbled to the end of the descent, rasping for breath, and checked his watch too.
‘We’re making good time,’ Slater said, echoing his earlier thoughts.
King nodded. Perspiration dripped off his nose. ‘I know.’
‘We’ll get there before dark.’
‘I know.’
‘You okay?’
‘Fine. Just … the pace is high.’
‘You warned me. Should have warned yourself.’
‘I knew you’d be better than me at this. You’re—’
‘Twenty pounds lighter. I know. Is this the part where I puff you up by saying you could probably throw a punch harder than I could?’
King half-smiled, and wiped his face on his shirt. ‘I took out ten men in that village yesterday, remember? You only had to handle four.’
Slater rolled his eyes. ‘I’m sure that’s why you’re slower.’
‘I’ll adapt.’
‘However fast you’re adapting, I am too. My pace is only going to increase. You ready for that?’
‘Shut up and walk.’
Slater set off, his shirt drenched in sweat, his heart throbbing, his legs heavy and burning. But the endorphins were flowing and the sun was shining and the scenery, although unchanging, was spectacular. They were nowhere near the snowy plains of Gokyo — right now they were deep in green valleys, with the dusty ochre trail underfoot and the sun beating down on the backs of their necks without mercy. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
It wasn’t what they’d anticipated from Nepal.
But it made them feel alive all the same.
Hours passed in a blur. Slater gave endless thanks for the efforts he’d put into daily meditation. Physically exert yourself for eleven hours straight and you’re prone to overthink, your brain churning endlessly to come up with any excuse to justify stopping. But if you can shut that voice up and empty everything from your mind and focus entirely on the breath, you’re capable of so much more than you think you are. He’d learned that years ago, and now he put it to use. He put one foot in front of the other and thought about nothing and stared straight ahead and controlled his breathing and extended his stride, and before he knew it they’d arrived in a sweaty heap at the top of a sharp ascent and the town of Kharikhola spilled out before them.
In reality, it was a handful of teahouses skewered into the craggy hillside shoulder to shoulder, but they were relieved to see it all the same.
As long as there was a bed, they’d be happy.
It was five in the evening. They’d stopped once for lunch at a random teahouse, and paused briefly in a couple of villages to refill their water bottles, drop in purification tablets, and mask the acrid taste with more BCAA powder.
So they arrived hydrated, but utterly spent.
King bent over and put his hands on his knees and tried his best to hide a wince.
Slater said, ‘You don’t have to play the tough guy around me. You’ve got nothing to prove.’
So King winced.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I’ll be your weight by the time we’re done here.’
‘And I’ll be twenty pounds lighter than I am right now.’
King glanced over at Slater’s frame — packed with dense muscle, but lean. There wasn’t a shred of body fat on him. Granted, King didn’t have any either, but his body was working overdrive to pump oxygen through the additional muscle.
King said, ‘That’d be something to behold.’
‘Are you worried about that?’ Slater said.
‘About what?’
‘Your musculature at altitude.’
King didn’t say anything. Just winced again. ‘We’ll deal with that when we get to those heights. We’re in shape. We’ll be fine.’
‘That’s not how altitude sickness works.’
‘I know,’ King snarled. ‘It’s random. Indiscriminate. So there’s no use worrying about it then, is there?’
Slater could tell he’d struck a nerve. They’d both pushed themselves to their limits to cover that much ground in a single day, especially over such difficult terrain, and the possibility that they’d repeat that performance over the next week just to get to the top of Gokyo Ri and fall apart from headaches and nausea was too much to process right now.
Slater said, ‘These teahouses aren’t the ones we’re looking for. Raya got abducted further down the hill. Shouldn’t be too far of a walk.’
King simply nodded.
Didn’t say a word.
Caught his breath, stood up straight, and pressed onward without a word of complaint.
Slater had to admire it. He was deep in his own head, struggling with his own demons as his body screamed for relief. He couldn’t imagine having to work with another twenty pounds on his shoulders. King was a goddamn workhorse, and Slater respected it.
The sun was gone now, giving way to a rapidly
darkening sky, and they came to the teahouse that matched the coordinates as dusk settled over the hillside. They pulled up in front of it and King double-checked the info on his smartwatch and nodded once.
‘Here we are,’ he said.
They stumbled inside.
29
You only realise how exhausted you are when you stop.
King already knew that from a couple of decades’ experience, but the point hammered home when he dropped onto one of the benches and his energy reserves hissed away. He rested against the wall behind him and closed his eyes and exhaled. His knees and calves and ankles throbbed, his hip flexors were tight as hell, his chest ached from maintaining a high heart rate for the better part of eleven hours with only a brief stop for lunch, and every muscle in his body felt twice as heavy. His shoulders slumped and his frame drooped as he fought to get a morsel of energy back. But he didn’t let it show — masking weakness had been drilled into him for as long as he could remember by endless trainers. It made all the difference in a field like his, because momentum is everything. So he took the wince off his face and sealed his mouth in a hard line and opened his eyes.
Instantly he could see Slater was going through the same thing, but practicing the same mental fortitude.
They sat side by side, breathing long and slow, expelling the momentum of the day’s trek and gearing up to recharge for the next morning.
Then the curtains leading to the kitchen parted and a Nepali woman stepped in. She was small and plump and elderly, but she had a warm smile, and they returned it.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Small English for me. You are Americans?’
‘Yes,’ King said.
Slater nodded.
She nodded back, and maintained the same glowing smile, and toddled back through the curtains. King exchanged a glance with Slater, but there was no way to read into the conversation. She hadn’t revealed a thing.
‘Where’d she go?’ Slater whispered.
‘I don’t know. I know that if she comes back with a gun, I probably won’t be able to raise my hands in self-defence.’
She did return quickly, this time carrying a sealed briefcase made of something reinforced with a combination lock by the handle. She swung it back and forth as she crossed the room, and placed it gently on the table.
