Contracts

by Matt Rogers

  King noticed, and froze.

  ‘You okay?’

  Slater swore and slapped the side of his thigh in frustration. Toward himself — the fact that his ignorance might have let himself get injured. He took a step forward and skewered his foot into the next rock, testing his weight on it, wincing in anticipation of any horrific twangs.

  But there was nothing.

  He was fine.

  He nodded back to King. ‘We’re good.’

  King breathed a sigh of relief.

  Slater fidgeted with his knee for a spell, probing the soft tissue around the joint for any signs of inflammation. He couldn’t find anything. The seconds dragged out as he stood in place, fixated on his bad leg.

  When King said, ‘Mules,’ Slater thought nothing of it.

  They’d passed dozens of similar convoys over the last day and a half. There were often fifteen or twenty of the animals in a group, all wearing harnesses laden with supplies. Mostly gas bottles or crates of foodstuffs. It was the only reasonable way to get necessary supplies through such hostile terrain. The teahouses along the trail relied on the mules and their guides to keep the kitchens stocked with the right ingredients. That meant sharing the same trails as the hikers, and led to surprises when one of them poked you in the back on the way past.

  King and Slater had been told the rules.

  When you see them coming, step to the inside of the trail. Enough people have died after being knocked off the trail by a wandering mule to justify being cautious.

  So they went through the motions. They stepped to the inside of the trail. The mules stumbled on past, snorting and bumping into each other. The gas bottles attached to their harnesses clanked and clanged against each other. One of them sauntered a little too close for comfort, so Slater put a hand on its side and guided it back into the midst of the group. They were placid animals. Slater didn’t want to think about it, but the recklessness had probably been beaten out of them.

  Then the guide came past, bringing up the rear. He shouted and screamed and barked commands intermittently at the pack, trying to keep the mules at the front on the right trajectory. It was simple enough for one of the animals to take a wrong turn and saunter away, never to be found again. It required constant due diligence.

  But the guides were friendly enough to passing tourists.

  Slater met the man’s gaze and said, ‘Namaste.’

  The guide half-nodded, a sweat-soaked rag held low in his left hand, and he opened his mouth to respond.

  Then he paused, and looked over at King.

  Then back at Slater.

  Then he was lunging like a wild dog, and the knife was suddenly in his right hand, and his teeth were bared, and he was determined to kill.

  It took Slater by such surprise that he didn’t have time to get out of the way.

  36

  King saw the knife materialise in the man’s palm.

  He wondered if he was seeing things.

  Then the guy seemed to teleport across the trail, leaping over rocks like they weren’t even there, and then the blade was scything downward and Slater was pulling back but it was too late—

  The tip of the knife drew a line down Slater’s forearm, slashing it wide open.

  King watched him reel away, mouth agape in shock, his good hand flying to the wound. The Nepali guy slashed again but the blade sailed on harmlessly by, missing Slater’s throat by inches.

  Adrenaline surged in King’s brain, wiping out any regard for his injury.

  He couldn’t feel his bad ankle anymore.

  He reached for the Sig Sauer in his waistband but the front of his shirt was slick with sweat and he couldn’t get a proper grip on—

  No time.

  Go.

  He launched himself down the descent, landing in a heap on top of the guide, sending them both sprawling into the gravel with enough force to break a bone or gash skin completely open. Thankfully King landed on top of the guy, using him to cushion his own fall, and when he rolled off the body out of fear of a stab wound he instantly recognised the man had gone limp.

  Lying on his back, panting, he looked over.

  And immediately looked away.

  He’d seen enough.

  The guy was dead. No question about it. The back of his skull had met a particularly sharp rock, and then all two hundred and twenty pounds of King had come down on top of him.

  Not good for your health.

  King got to his feet and stared up and down the trail. As if sensing the absence of their guide, most of the mules up the back of the pack had come to a standstill. They stood in place on the rocky incline, emotionless, staring at the ground. They knew nothing but the trail.

  King barked a sharp unintelligible command and they set off up the mountainside.

  Then he put two hands on the body, gave it a short heave, and rolled it off the edge of the path. Limp as a rag doll, the corpse plunged into the thick undergrowth and rolled into invisibility, disappearing down the hillside. King kicked dirt over the grotesque bloodstain on the rock and rubbed it in with the sole of his boot.

  With the evidence wiped away, he deemed it acceptable to check on Slater.

  Slater was sitting on a smooth rock in the shadow of the mountain, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at the damage. He was using his good hand to hold two folds of skin together along his forearm. Blood seeped out of the wound.

  King scrutinised it.

  He said, ‘Fuck.’

  But it wasn’t the end of the world. Blood wasn’t fountaining out of the cut. There was just a steady trickle — Slater was doing an excellent job of mitigating the blood loss by gripping the wound tight.

  Slater kept staring forward and said, ‘How bad?’

  ‘You’ll be okay.’

  ‘It hurts.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that.’

  ‘Get the medkit.’

  King shrugged the duffel bag off his back and dropped it to his feet. He unzipped it, fished around, and came up with a clear plastic carry bag about the size of a handbag. It was large by commercial first-aid standards, but they’d brought a few extra goods in case of emergency. They’d been expecting bloodshed, after all.

  King pulled a spare water bottle out of his pack, already loaded with iodine tablets to kill germs. He unscrewed the lid, gripped Slater’s arm, and poured it all over the wound.

  Slater clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and let out a long and turbulent groan.

  When they looked up, there was a Caucasian couple frozen in place beside them, staring in horror at the injury. Behind them, a small Nepali guide carrying their packs tried to peer through to get a look at the wound.

  ‘Oh my God,’ the woman said. She was probably sixty, with long hair tied back and tanned, weathered skin. Her accent was Australian. ‘What happened?’

  Still gripping Slater’s arm, King gave a ludicrous smile and said, ‘It’s fine. He just ran into a low-hanging branch. Terrible luck. We’ll get it cleaned up.’

  Trying to stay conscious, Slater half-smiled and half-nodded.

  Looking queasy, the Australian man said, ‘That, uh… that doesn’t look too good.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ King said. ‘I’m a qualified medical practitioner. I’ll sort this out and get him to the next teahouse as fast as possible.’

  ‘Is there anything we can do to—’

  ‘No,’ King and Slater said in unison.

  A little too enthusiastically.

  The couple hovered, unsure how to react. Eventually they turned away from the grisly injury and shook their heads in disbelief.

  ‘If you say so,’ the woman muttered.

  They set off down the trail.

  King waited in silence until they were out of earshot, then said, ‘You know what I need to do, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Slater said through clenched teeth. ‘Don’t drag it out any longer. Just do it.’

  ‘It’s going to hurt.’


  Slater stared daggers at him. ‘No shit.’

  ‘Just warning you.’

  ‘It hurts right now. Can’t get much worse than this.’

  ‘Yes,’ King said with a sigh, ‘it can.’

  He pulled something out of the medkit.

  Something thin and metal, with a small trigger.

  A medical gun.

  Loaded with reusable stainless steel surgical staples.

  37

  With his right arm bound from wrist to elbow in heavy-duty bandages, Slater staggered along the trail toward Phakding.

  This time, King led the way.

  Somehow, he’d escaped further injuring his ankle when he’d crash-tackled the assassin into the dirt. He must have come down on his good side, preventing his foot from bouncing off the dirt. Even slightly disrupting the joint might have inflamed it beyond comprehension, and there was a point where no amount of mental toughness would let you walk on a brutalised limb.

  So he was in high spirits, setting a cracking pace. Slater tried to keep up, but under the hot sun it felt like he was walking through a fever dream. His arm hurt like hell, but he knew the injury wasn’t catastrophic. He could flex his fingers, so his movement hadn’t been impeded. There was no nerve damage. It just tested his pain threshold, like most operations did. All it required was steeling his mind, focusing on each step, and absolutely nothing else. He couldn’t afford to think about how much it hurt, or how far they had to go. That would freeze him in his tracks, flood him with dejection.

  After they spent an hour covering solid ground, King seemed to figure it was time for conversation.

  He backed up a few steps so they could stride side by side and said, ‘Update?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No you’re not.’

  ‘Is there any point admitting I’m in pain?’

  King thought about it, and said, ‘That’s true, actually. But I need to know if you’re on the verge of collapse.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then I don’t need to know anything else.’

  Because he understood. Slater had seen King deal with the ankle with a sealed mouth and a relentless mindset, and now he was attempting to do the same. The less they talked, the better. But now King wasn’t so focused on his ankle, and Slater could see his attention turning to the matters of immediate concern.

  ‘Who was that guy?’ he said to nobody in particular.

  ‘Just a civilian,’ Slater said. ‘But there must be word spreading down the pipeline of our presence. Someone wants us out of the equation fast. I’m assuming there’s a price on our heads.’

  ‘And you think Oscar Perry is really coordinating this with a network of rebels?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ Slater said.

  King didn’t respond.

  Slater said, ‘Think about it. The only thing you’re taking into consideration is the language barrier, as if that somehow prevents Perry from being able to do this. But he can work his way around that fairly easily. I’d have to say that the only way this could be the porter is if it was a spur-of-the-moment kidnapping. The guy would have sensed an opportunity and gathered together some of his buddies and gone for it. But someone like that isn’t going to have connections with an entire guerrilla insurgency. Who do you think is more likely to have the smarts to coordinate with a Maoist splinter group — a bodyguard in the world of black operations, or a porter working for less than minimum wage?’

  ‘You might have a point.’

  ‘I do have a point.’

  ‘Do we know how well-trained Perry is?’

  ‘If I had to guess, I’d say he’s pretty good. You have to be to reach this level.’

  King grimaced. ‘Actually, that’s making more and more sense. Perry has the knowledge of how this works. He’d be able to put out a hit with the right connections, even if he had to get past the language barrier.’

  ‘Let’s try not to debate it,’ Slater said. ‘Truth is, it could be one or the other.’

  ‘We should be prepared for it to be Perry.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘But you don’t have an arm, and I don’t have a foot.’

  ‘Nothing’s broken. They’re mostly superficial injuries. It shouldn’t impede us in the heat of combat. Adrenaline is a wonder drug.’

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ King said.

  Looking down at his foot.

  Slater froze. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s getting worse.’

  Slater suppressed a curse, and looked at his watch. ‘I’d say we’ve got an hour to go. We make it to Phakding and you can sleep twelve hours straight. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah,’ King said, but his voice was barely above a whisper.

  He kept moving.

  But each step brought a wince to the surface, creasing his features, contorting his mouth and eyes.

  Slater worried about himself, but couldn’t help concern creeping in about his comrade and closest friend.

  38

  They crossed a gargantuan suspension bridge swaying over a glacial blue river with caution and reached the town of Phakding at three-thirty in the afternoon.

  Utterly exhausted, yet determined to persevere, King trudged into the first teahouse they spotted in a trance-like state. It was a few dozen feet off the main trail, tucked away in the shadows of Phakding’s laneways, and they both wordlessly seemed to agree that it was better suited to their needs than the commercial enterprises right out in the open.

  They were up past Lukla now, and there were hordes more foreign hikers on the trail that had flown in to start their expeditions, all heading toward Namche Bazaar and then up to Everest or Gokyo Ri or the Cho-La Pass. Phakding was incredibly popular amongst trekkers, a world away from the rural trails they’d been slaving their way along for the better part of two days.

  As they pulled to a halt inside the teahouse’s entrance, King struggled to comprehend how much distance they’d covered in total. Roughly twenty-eight miles, he figured. An endurance feat to be rivalled, especially with the sort of terrain they’d dealt with. It was either straight up or straight down, with an almost entire absence of flat stretches. Besides the injuries sustained along the way, everything ached. His legs, his chest, even his shoulders from carrying all their gear on their backs. It was gruelling, back-breaking work — but someone had to do it.

  King limped into the main area and found a thirty-something Nepali man practically standing at attention. It seemed they were the only customers in the building — they’d come after the lunch rush, but before most of the trekkers made it to Phakding in the late afternoon.

  King stared straight at the guy and said, ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Do you have a room for us?’

  ‘Just the two of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Are we going to have any problems?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Why would we have a problem?’

  King jabbed a finger at Slater, and then back at himself. ‘The two of us are on someone’s shit list. That means there are people around here actively trying to hurt us. Would you know anything about that?’

  The Nepali man shook his head sincerely. ‘I don’t concern myself with gossip. Whatever problems you have, you’re safe here for the night. As long as you pay for the room, of course.’

  ‘What if someone else offers to pay you more?’

  ‘Then I will politely decline and tell them to go harass someone else.’

  ‘How’s that likely to work out for you?’

  ‘It might cause me some problems. But I am loyal to a fault. You were here first, so you get my loyalty.’

  ‘I appreciate that. I’ll be very angry if you go back on your word.’

  ‘That is not something I have ever done, sir.’

  Frankly, King didn’t have the capacity to press the issue any further. He didn’t h
ave the energy to try and be intimidating. The circumstances of the trek were less than ideal — he was hurting everywhere, his bones and muscles and brain were drained, and his ankle blazed with fiery intensity. He threw a look over his shoulder to see if Slater was faring any better, and immediately gave him a pass. He wouldn’t be able to keep up any sort of intimidating act either. He was sweaty and shaky, and the bandages around his forearm were riddled with a mixture of leftover blood and perspiration. He met King’s gaze with wide unblinking eyes and ever so slowly shook his head.

  I need rest, his eyes said.

  King nodded, and turned back to the teahouse owner. ‘We’ll give you a generous tip for your hospitality.’

  The man waved a hand. ‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’

  ‘Well, we’re giving it to you regardless.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’

  ‘Now if you could lead us to our room…’

  ‘Of course.’

  This time, they didn’t take separate rooms. Each room was the same — the ceiling and walls and floor made of cheap wood, the rickety single-bed frames pressed to each wall, the thin mattresses on top, a spare blanket folded neatly at the foot of each bed. Understanding their condition, the owner gave the space a quick once-over and then left them alone.

  ‘Should we eat dinner before we crash?’ Slater mumbled.

  ‘I could use a nap,’ King said. ‘I’ll set an alarm for later this evening.’

  ‘Works for me.’ Then he thought hard, despite his compromised state, and added, ‘Let’s take it in shifts, though. We’ll be most vulnerable over these next few days. And I don’t trust that guy at the front desk any more than anyone else.’

  ‘You go first,’ King said. ‘Looks like you need it more.’

  Without another word, Slater gently lowered himself to the mattress. He fished the sleeping bag out of his pack and, rather than clambering into it, draped it across his prone body and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was asleep.

  King sat on the opposite mattress, vigilant as ever, deep in his own head. He was exhausted, sore and cold. He scooted to the top of the bed, propped the pillow up against the wall for support, and elevated his swollen ankle onto the mattress. Working quietly, he started to peel off the duct tape to get a better look at the state of the injury.