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

his knees slithered through the plants on the forest floor.

And then a silhouette reared up out of the gloom, only inches away.

They both recognised each other’s presence in unison.

But King was faster. That was guaranteed. His old black-ops division had recruited him for a reason, and most of it came down to otherworldly reflexes. Due to genetic blessing, his brain computed data at a faster rate than most on this planet.

So before the insurgent even knew what he was dealing with, King had darted into range and fired two shots through his heart. A death rattle escaped the man’s throat and he collapsed forward, which was King’s intention all along. King caught him by the lapels and allowed the corpse to fall over his shoulder, which would protect him if—

Every insurgent in the area reacted to the unsuppressed Sig Sauer by pointing their weapons in that direction and emptying their clips.

At the same time, King used his own muzzle flares to identify two more Maoists at close range, and as the gunfight erupted he sized up his targets carefully and fired a double-tap into each of their faces.

So they sprayed and prayed, and a stray bullet clipped the body draped over King’s shoulder, but thankfully there was enough bone and internal organs to make it ricochet off its trajectory, which meant it spilled out of the exit wound away from King.

Whereas King fired with precision.

And blew all four rounds out the back of his target’s heads.

The staccato of gunfire faded, and the muzzle flares disappeared, and all returned to darkness and silence.

King controlled his breathing, and ticked off three tally marks in his head.

His ears whined, and his hearing dulled, and he dropped the body off his shoulder and kept low as he waited for it to return.

When it did, he heard screams to his left.

Will Slater.

Breaking bones.

He looked over and thought he saw two figures tussling, their outlines barely visible.

A moment later, one of them pushed the other to his knees and fired an execution shot.

King’s breath caught in his throat.

49

Slater started out at a slightly faster pace than his counterpart.

Call it recklessness. Call it a burning desire to get this nightmare of a situation over and done with.

Call it anything, really.

But it happened. He kept low and kept a tight grip on the Sig Sauer and ran into the first hostile only a few seconds after he set off.

Literally.

He crouch-walked straight into the guy’s hip, but the soft bump of the impact was drowned out by a particularly vicious gust of wind. So no-one heard it. Slater decided, then and there, to wait before he fired a shot.

So in one smooth motion — before the insurgent could even respond to the knock on his hip — Slater bolted upright and seized the guy in a crushing bear hug, pinning both his arms to his sides, preventing him from aiming the weapon that was more than likely resting in his own hand.

If the guy pulled the trigger, he’d probably shoot himself in the foot.

So he hesitated, and Slater headbutted him once as a test. His forehead smacked into the soft flesh above the guy’s ear, and he used the stimuli to work out which way the guy was facing, and then he spun him round and headbutted him so hard in the nose that the crack sounded like a miniature gunshot.

The guy yelled out in pain.

When he did, Slater headbutted him in the mouth, knocking a few teeth loose.

Then, satisfied that he’d stunned the man enough to create a split second of hesitation, he released the bear hug and stepped back and smashed the Sig Sauer’s stock into the guy’s forehead.

Rattling his brain.

Putting him out.

Slater caught the unconscious man, lowered him to the forest floor, and quietly smashed the stock three consecutive times into his throat.

Caving in his windpipe.

He didn’t want the man getting up to ambush him from behind.

He crept onward.

Then, far to his right, King fired a pair of shots, lighting up the forest with a strobe-like effect.

‘Shit,’ Slater whispered.

Gunshots exploded from everywhere at once, a vicious cacophony of death and destruction, and Slater narrowed his gaze to try and make out what was happening. He saw King crouched low, carrying a body over one shoulder, aiming with confidence. Then the two silhouettes closest to King jerked and spun away, lit up by the muzzle flares. Ejections of blood arced out the backs of their heads, and then the world plunged back into night.

Someone tried to seize Slater from behind.

He felt the light touch of arms about to wrap around his chest, and he jerked away like he’d been shot. Which was a good decision considering the swoosh of a machete slicing through the air where his throat had been a second earlier. He spotted the silhouette looming over him, trying to recover from the missed swing, and Slater stomped his heel into the guy’s kneecap, hyperextending it, shattering bone and tearing ligaments. The guy screamed as he went down and slashed with the machete again.

Again, it missed Slater by inches as he jerked away.

But that’s where his reaction speed came into play. He kicked the guy in the elbow, neutralising that joint too. Then he heard the distinctive sound of the guy changing hands with the knife, refusing to quit.

So be it.

Slater raised the P320 and pressed it down on the top of the guy’s skull and fired once through his brain before he could swing the blade again.

Then he hit the deck.

A moment later gunfire roared, and bullets whisked over his head, shredding the undergrowth inches above him to pieces.

He thought his heart might explode from the stress.

King, he thought, it’s now or never.

50

King was ready.

He knew it was Slater who fired the execution shot when the insurgents recognised the gunshot wasn’t one of their own, and responded accordingly. They laced the trees with bullets, but the surviving silhouette was no longer there. The guy had seemingly vanished, but King knew the truth.

No-one