Hunters - Matt Rogers (good novels to read TXT) 📗

‘I know,’ King said. ‘Just not now.’

Slater nodded.

Relief flooded King. At least they wouldn’t die in a blaze of glory. At least they had a chance to—

The big man up front reached out and grabbed him.

Violetta shouted, ‘I’m pregnant!’

With credit to El Salvador’s military, the soldier that shouldered through to cuff her did so with restraint, making sure not to throw her into one of the hard seat backs and risk killing her child.

It wasn’t the case for King and Slater.

The man up front spun King around and shoved him hard, throwing him off his feet so he sprawled across an empty row of seats. The armrests dug painfully into his ribs as another soldier piled in and they wrenched his arms behind his back, slapping cuffs on. Based on the grunts coming from the next row, Slater was getting the same treatment. Alexis let out a sharp exhale as they cuffed her, too, then they dragged their hostages back the way they’d come.

King never panicked in the field. It was useless and achieved nothing of note.

This time, though, he had to force the sensations down harder than usual.

This time, he feared they might have reached the end of the road.

49

King tried not to let his surroundings get to him, but it was close to impossible.

The chair he sat on was cold metal, as was the table in front of him. There was another chair on the other side of the table, and that was the extent of the room’s decorations. One wall was a giant mirror, clearly one-way, and the other three walls were white brick. It was artificially cold, to the extent that he had to roll his shoulders and flex his hands to stay warm, but he guessed that was intentional. Every aspect of the interrogation room was designed to make detainees uncomfortable.

He couldn’t let it seep in. If it affected his mindset, it was as good as over.

Most opportunities pass people by because they’re too distracted or stressed to notice them. King was aware of that, and knew the only way he’d get out of this place alive was to stay composed and wait for an opportunity to strike.

He had no idea where he was — the soldiers had hooded him as soon as they’d disembarked the plane and didn’t remove the rough sack until they were inside this room. He’d tried to time the drive from the airport. It was in the vicinity of thirty minutes. That tidbit didn’t help at all.

King’s wrists were chained individually to bolts on the table. The table in turn was bolted to the concrete floor. His bad arm was almost completely numb from the awkward positioning. He could see his damaged forearm muscle spasming, laid out horizontally on the table.

The door opened and an unarmed man in a cheap shirt and pants came in.

He was pencil-thin with a thick moustache and a politician’s haircut — black locks parted and slicked to one side with not a hair out of place. His nose was slightly crooked, perhaps from a misalignment when repositioning a past break, but that was the only feature of note about him. He had the distinct aura of an intelligence official. Instead of flicking through documents as he entered, he tapped away at his smartphone, like his prisoner didn’t exist.

He sat down opposite King, and when he spoke his English was perfect. ‘I need to know whether you’re going to give me the silent treatment or not. If you are, then I’m wasting my time here.’

‘What do you want?’

A hint of a smile tickled the man’s lips. ‘Good. Very good. Do you understand the situation you’re in?’

‘I think I have a grasp on it. Where are my friends?’

‘“Friends”? Do you mean your terrorist accomplice, your girlfriend, and his girlfriend?’

King stared. ‘By that logic we’re all terrorists.’

The moustache wobbled as the man threw his hands in the air. ‘You’re doing my job for me.’

‘Am I?’ King said. ‘You really needed me to incriminate myself, did you?’

‘It was a joke. I don’t need anything from you. You’ll be back in the hands of the country you fled before the sun rises.’

‘So then what are you doing here?’

‘Have you been to our beautiful country before?’

King didn’t answer. Didn’t give anything away.

The man asked, ‘How old do you think I am?’

‘Forty?’

‘Fifty-four. Good genetics — I’ve got my parents to thank for that. So I’ve been in my role a long time. Sixteen years ago, I was doing the same thing I’m doing now. You know what that means?’

King shrugged. ‘That career progression isn’t your strong suit?’

No response to that.

The man’s eyes were about to narrow at the insult, but he stopped himself short, refusing to allow King the minor victory. ‘Sixteen years ago, a man fitting your exact description went on a murder spree here in El Salvador. By its conclusion, six elected officials were dead. Brutally killed, the lot of them. The resulting political fallout was uniquely favourable for America. In its aftermath, they formed new deals with us. We were damaged, reeling, and we accepted. We, as your people would say, got the short end of the stick.’

‘We have different definitions of “elected,”’ King said.

‘Is that an admission of guilt?’

‘I think you should get to the point.’

‘Your government demanded we apprehend you today, and when we asked why, they were forced to reveal certain details about what you and your accomplices used to do. So I’ll only ask you this once. Did you or did you not serve as a black operative for the U.S. government sixteen years ago?’

‘I did.’

‘And did you kill those officials?’

The early days. Pioneering Black Force, blazing a trail of destruction through the criminal underworld, taking no prisoners, moving from one operation to the next with relentless fury.

‘I don’t know anything about deals,’ King said. ‘What I do remember is the underage American girl who got swept up in their trafficking ring. I saw her body.’

‘I’m sure