Contracts - Matt Rogers (chromebook ebook reader .TXT) 📗

paying for hot water. King let the ice-cold stream numb him from head to toe, and he let the jet pour onto his ankle for close to a minute. Then he stepped out, taped it up, put clean clothes on, laced up his hiking boots, and went to check on Slater.

Who was also dressed. Also laced up.

They were ready.

It was the same deal as every morning in Nepal. There was no fanfare, no celebration that they were up and moving. Just quiet acceptance of what was to come, and then they put their heads down and got to work. They paid cash for the room and the food, and were the first of the guests of the day to leave the teahouse. They had their duffel bags over their shoulders and were putting one foot in front of the other before either of them had the chance to comprehend what they were getting themselves into.

And then everything settled into monotony.

Suffer for long enough, and it all becomes the same. King already knew that, but he took advantage of it by keeping as much of the trek as monotonous as possible. He put his right foot down and winced, and then covered more ground with the next stride on his good leg. It hurt for the first half-hour, then he warmed up and settled into a rhythm. Of course, it still ached, but he’d repeated the process so many times that it no longer mattered.

They trekked up toward Namche Bazaar, and the air grew cold as they climbed above ten thousand feet in altitude. The wind packed extra bite, aided by the heavy cloud. It was overcast as they kept treading through the dirt, and although the trees around them were still lush green in colour they could see the rising prominence of snow-capped mountains, both ahead and off to each side. They strode over bridges crossing pale blue glacial streams, and let droves of mules past, ever paranoid of another assault.

They were an hour out from Namche when it happened.

King was the first to spot the pack of mules heading their way, descending the slope they were in the process of climbing. He whistled to Slater and they stepped to the right, pressing themselves against the cliff wall. The other side was home to a sheer drop, and neither of them wanted to spend their whole lives completing the most dangerous operations imaginable just to succumb to a careless mule knocking them off the edge of a mountain.

So the pack sauntered past, laden with gas bottles, and King’s guard wavered as he studied the Nepali man bringing up the rear. The guy was tall and wiry with rippling corded muscle packed onto a skinny frame. He nodded to each of them, and started to carry on past…

And then his hand scythed through the air.

A sudden movement.

King had his hands around the guy’s throat before he could blink. In one smooth motion he shoved him forcefully toward the edge of the cliff, pushing him off-balance so the guy teetered toward the drop and—

Slater screamed, ‘No!’

King froze, holding the guy in place. The man’s feet were inches from the ledge.

Then he noticed the panic in the guy’s eyes, and the absence of weapons in his hands.

Oh.

He gently took his hands off the man’s throat.

Slater muttered, ‘He was going to strike the mule. Not you.’

Sure enough, the mule at the back of the group was frozen in place — something both he and Slater had witnessed dozens of times before. Often they needed a slap on the rear to get going, which was precisely what the guy had made to do.

King said, ‘I’m sorry.’

The man massaged his sore neck, and stared at both of them in anger. He clearly wasn’t a weakling — he had a tough life, and a strong build, and would ordinarily have thrown a punch in retaliation for such a brazen act. But he must have felt King’s grip strength and assumed the man he was dealing with was a different breed of human, because all he did was snort with derision and stride off down the trail after his mules.

Slater said, ‘You can’t let that happen again.’

King put a hand out and pressed it against the rock wall, steadying himself. For some reason, the wind felt colder than usual. A chill ran down his spine, and he shivered.

He said, ‘I’m exhausted.’

‘So am I. But you came that close to killing an innocent man.’

‘I know.’

‘Don’t let it happen again. If we need to rest, that’s what we do. I don’t want your mental health jeopardised by this. I can’t let you get paranoid.’

‘I’m not paranoid.’

‘I would be. In fact, I am.’

‘Then that could happen to you, too.’

‘The end of the day,’ Slater said. ‘That’s it. That’s when we’re done. It’s close to midday now. There’s a half-day left. Then we’re out of here. All we need is absolute focus for twelve hours. Understand? Until then, neither of us can drop our guard.’

‘Roger that.’

‘Let’s go.’

They walked onward.

43

Slater was the first to reach Namche Bazaar.

The town was constructed in the shape of an amphitheatre — the buildings were laid out in a tiered “U” shape around a hill on the mountainside. He strode through the entrance archway symbolising their arrival in the town, and bent over momentarily to catch his breath.

They were making fantastic time.

And neither of them had hit a mental or physical wall yet.

King pulled up beside him, and they stared up at the sea of brightly coloured roofs — stark reds and blues and greens set against the backdrop of the enormous mountain they rested on. Up above Namche, they could see the terrain become increasingly barren. They were close to twelve thousand feet, and soon the altitude might start to have an effect.

Might.

That was the problem. Neither of them knew how their bodies would react. They’d never been this high before, and there was no way to train for it down at sea level. Even if