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

‘I’m not sure if you’ve come to your point yet.’

‘I don’t have one,’ the man said with a treacherous grin. ‘I just wanted to be sure it was you.’

‘And now you’re handing me back to the people who told me to kill those officials,’ King said. ‘Simply because they asked. That’s a spineless move. That’s weak.’

The man’s face turned to stone.

King pressed on. ‘You should keep me here. Myself and my accomplices. Make us pay for the sins of the past.’

There was hope there. If they remained in El Salvador, they might be thrown in a civilian jail to await a show trial, the outcome of which had already been decided. There was a better chance of escape than if America got their hands on them.

The moustache didn’t waver. The thin face was devoid of emotion.

King said, ‘I enjoyed what I did to your countrymen.’

Silence.

I have him, King thought.

Maybe, just maybe, they had a shot.

50

There was dark fury behind the interrogator’s eyes.

Indescribable anger.

Then it faded. All the emotion disappeared like it had never existed in the first place and the man burst out laughing.

King rocked back in his chair, stunned.

The guy slapped his thighs as he stood up, shaking his head in glee.

King’s voice came out low and concerned. ‘What is this?’

‘This is me fucking with you!’ the guy said, much louder, almost shouting. ‘You truly thought I’d keep you here? Disobey orders? No, I wanted to see the hope in your eyes. What did you think? That you’d be thrown in the prison system with the other scum and have the opportunity to get out? Silly, silly child. Yes, Jason, that is exactly what I’m going to do, now that you ask. I’ll hand you back to your country and keep my lips sealed no matter what indignity I might feel. I happen to know how angry they are with you. I didn’t climb my way out of the barrio by being stupid. When you need to stand down, you stand down. It takes a smart man to recognise his limitations. Maybe it would feel better to keep you here, see you suffer in the flesh, but that would make us too many enemies. No matter how much I despise your country, I have faith they’ll make you pay for what you’ve done to them.’

He went to the door, opened it, and looked back. ‘That’s satisfaction enough for me.’

He stepped out and slammed the door shut.

King slumped forward.

If he could put his head in his hands, he would have, but those hands were chained in restraints.

It felt like he’d taken a punch to the gut. It was hard to breathe.

That’s it, he thought. Nothing you can do now.

The familiar reminders returned. Focus on what you can control. Let go of anything you can’t. There will be a way out of this. A split second’s opportunity. There must be.

His ears picked up something.

Faint. Barely audible. Coming from the other side of the steel door.

Muffled shouting.

He tensed up in his chair, ready to fight for his life, trying to dump as much adrenaline in his system as he could. But as he strained to hear, his morale dissipated. It wasn’t a physical confrontation. Slater hadn’t escaped. It was bureaucratic in nature, pleading and whining mixed in with the yelling.

Then cold quiet.

A moment passed, then another.

The door swung back open. The same interrogator was standing there. He appeared even thinner now, his shoulders slumped in defeat, his face a mask of quiet desperation. Someone had ordered him to do something he really didn’t want to do.

The interrogator shuffled over to the table, produced a key from his inside jacket pocket, and unlocked King’s restraints.

King was frozen in disbelief.

The man’s voice was defeated as he muttered, ‘You’ve got powerful friends?’

King hesitated. ‘I don’t think so.’

The man gave a helpless shrug, like it didn’t matter one way or the other what King thought.

Evidently he did have powerful friends, whether he believed so or not.

King stood up, cradling his torn forearm. He was a full head taller than the interrogator. If he wanted to, he could kill the man by throwing him head-first into the wall, but that seemed like a bad idea given the circumstances.

‘Fabio Torres is demanding your release,’ the interrogator said. ‘So you’re getting released. His word is final.’

This time, King hesitated longer. ‘Who?’

51

Fabio Torres, it turned out, was a short, fat, ugly man in an incredibly expensive suit.

King followed the interrogator out through the maze of white brick corridors to a cold reception area with several officials milling around, averting their eyes. The man who could only be Torres stood in the centre of the room. Gunmetal grey stubble covered his double chin and his scalp shone under the lights thanks to male pattern baldness. The ring of hair around the sides and back of his skull was unkempt, but regardless of his physical deficiencies he exuded a commanding presence.

Slater, Alexis, and Violetta stood beside him, blinking hard, like they weren’t sure whether they were dreaming either. They weren’t restrained. If they wanted to, they could turn and sprint out the reception doors into the humid El Salvadoran night.

So could King.

But he stayed put.

The interrogator approached Torres and switched to Spanish. King followed along.

Torres’ voice was gruff as he said, ‘It’s not my call.’

There was a silent apology in his tone.

The interrogator kept his voice low. ‘Whoever’s call it is, you’d better be sure about what you’re doing.’

‘I have no choice.’

‘You know what you’re getting yourself into?’

‘Yes,’ Torres said. ‘I’ll deal with the fallout. When they call, you tell them you had no choice.’

‘There’ll be hell to pay.’

‘And I’ll be the one to pay it. Go back to work. Pretend this never happened.’

King had rarely seen anyone as uncomfortable as the interrogator in that moment. He stooped and breathed out as he walked away.

Under his breath he muttered, ‘Bicho.’

King caught it. He knew it was crude slang in El Salvador for “child,” no doubt