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

beyond it, the hiking trail. On the other side of the trail was the familiar row of teahouses they’d walked past at the beginning of their journey.

Only days ago.

It felt like ten lifetimes ago.

Slater took the lead, and King followed. They walked the length of the airfield until the fence fell away and they were able to meet the trail. Then they strode into Phaplu.

It was now mid-afternoon, and there was some activity. Guides, porters, and foreign hikers alike moved through the mud, either fresh off planes and brimming with vigour or worn down by a return journey to be reckoned with. The contrast was palpable. King couldn’t imagine what everyone thought of him and Slater. There was the exhaustion of days or weeks of trekking, and then there was a whole other level of tired reserved only for those who had pushed their bodies to the brink of death.

King scrutinised first himself, then Slater. He shivered in the chill, dragging one leg behind him, clad in dirty, damp, tattered clothes. He knew his face was lined with dirt and sweat and the remnants of blood that hadn’t been washed out by the glacial river water. Then there was Slater. The bandage around the man’s head had somehow held tight, but it was yellow with sweat and red with blood and faded and torn by the hell they’d gone through in Lukla. His arm was still wrapped in day-old bandages, but the makeshift cast was falling apart, exposing the grisly knife wound underneath. The staples had done their job, though, and the wound seemed to already be healing. When they got back on home soil, Slater would need to be loaded up with every antibiotic under the sun to prevent infection.

Together, they were a sorry sight.

But they were alive.

Adversity hadn’t defeated them.

And that gave them strength.

They moved slowly past every teahouse, glancing through windows, lingering unnecessarily, letting everyone see them. They were a sight for sore eyes, but there were no hostile parties in this village. They’d realised the second they stepped foot onto the trail. There was no tension in the air. No one was squared away or reserved. Just weary travellers finishing their journey, and fresh faces about to start. No insurgents, no soldiers — no trained killers of any kind. It was a quiet, quaint village, and King almost regretted that soon they would have to disrupt that.

Hopefully they could do it in privacy, if Parker had done what they’d asked of him.

They passed the teahouse where they’d spent the first night, where they’d first met Aidan Parker and his guide, Sejun. It lay dormant and silent. They hovered in the entranceway for a beat, scanning the main communal area for any sign of them.

Nothing.

So he had relocated.

That was something, at least…

They ventured down the nearest laneway, choosing it at random. The road was potholed and the walls that enclosed the space were damp with mildew. The cloud had drifted into Phaplu, draping a thin veil over everything.

They’d almost reached the back of the village when a side door flew open beside them.

King turned fast, ready for anything, his fists clenched.

Neither he or Slater had access to a weapon, but they would fight to their last breath with their bare hands if it came to that. But they both realised it wouldn’t be necessary.

Aidan Parker stood in the doorway, his features dulled by the shadow of the cloud and the darkness of the building. He was unarmed. He suspected nothing. His paunchy belly stuck out over the edge of his weatherproof pants. He wore an expensive windbreaker and had heavy bags under his eyes from lack of sleep. His hair was a mess, its thin wispy tufts sticking out at a dozen different angles.

He had the aura of a good man stressed to the eyeballs, involved in a situation he didn’t deserve.

Slater knew better.

He knew it was a facade, carefully crafted to dissipate suspicion.

Parker said, ‘I tried calling, but you didn’t answer…’

‘We ran into a few problems,’ Slater said. ‘We handled them.’

Parker noticed their condition, and lingered on the extent of their injuries for what felt like forever. Then he noticed the absentee.

‘Where is she?’ he said.

Slater said, ‘Is your guide here?’

Parker hesitated. ‘No. I figured from the tone of your voice in the call, it would be best if we were alone.’

‘Good,’ Slater said.

King stepped up and shoved Parker inside.

Slater followed, and they closed the door behind them.

85

Parker gasped in mock horror, as if it were the most brazen crime on the planet to push an innocent bureaucrat.

After all, he wasn’t the one to get involved with the physical side of the business. He sat behind a desk and coordinated logistics and made sure intelligence was conveyed accurately. That made him soft and weak and flabby, which he must have thought put an unconscious barrier between himself and the men and women he sent out into the field to die.

That was all about to change.

Slater grabbed him by the collar and shoved him further into the room.

Into the shadows.

It was a storage room, loaded with crates of Cokes and Sprites and raw ingredients, all stacked neatly up to the ceiling. There were no lightbulbs or lamps of any kind — only a couple of fogged-up windows on the far side of the room that let in twin shafts of silver light. The floor and walls were made of rock, and the space echoed. It was cold. Dark.

The perfect setting for an interrogation.

Parker managed to keep his feet, but King hit him once in the stomach and he went down to his knees like he’d been shot. Slater moved in to follow up with another strike, but King put a hand on his chest and murmured, ‘Wait,’ under his breath.

Slater hesitated.

Wondered what King was getting at.

Then Parker lunged for one of the crates.

He was slow and unathletic, and he was shaking. He managed to slip his hand through a pair of wooden slats before King pounced