Contracts by Matt Rogers (i like reading txt) 📕

‘And I’ll be twenty pounds lighter than I am right now.’

King glanced over at Slater’s frame — packed with dense muscle, but lean. There wasn’t a shred of body fat on him. Granted, King didn’t have any either, but his body was working overdrive to pump oxygen through the additional muscle.

King said, ‘That’d be something to behold.’

‘Are you worried about that?’ Slater said.

‘About what?’

‘Your musculature at altitude.’

King didn’t say anything. Just winced again. ‘We’ll deal with that when we get to those heights. We’re in shape. We’ll be fine.’

‘That’s not how altitude sickness works.’

‘I know,’ King snarled. ‘It’s random. Indiscriminate. So there’s no use worrying about it then, is there?’

Slater could tell he’d struck a nerve. They’d both pushed themselves to their limits to cover that much ground in a single day, especially over such difficult terrain, and the possibility that they’d repeat that performance over the next week just to get to the top of Gokyo Ri and fall apart from headaches and nausea was too much to process right now.

Slater said, ‘These teahouses aren’t the ones we’re looking for. Raya got abducted further down the hill. Shouldn’t be too far of a walk.’

King simply nodded.

Didn’t say a word.

Caught his breath, stood up straight, and pressed onward without a word of complaint.

Slater had to admire it. He was deep in his own head, struggling with his own demons as his body screamed for relief. He couldn’t imagine having to work with another twenty pounds on his shoulders. King was a goddamn workhorse, and Slater respected it.

The sun was gone now, giving way to a rapidly darkening sky, and they came to the teahouse that matched the coordinates as dusk settled over the hillside. They pulled up in front of it and King double-checked the info on his smartwatch and nodded once.

‘Here we are,’ he said.

They stumbled inside.

29

You only realise how exhausted you are when you stop.

King already knew that from a couple of decades’ experience, but the point hammered home when he dropped onto one of the benches and his energy reserves hissed away. He rested against the wall behind him and closed his eyes and exhaled. His knees and calves and ankles throbbed, his hip flexors were tight as hell, his chest ached from maintaining a high heart rate for the better part of eleven hours with only a brief stop for lunch, and every muscle in his body felt twice as heavy. His shoulders slumped and his frame drooped as he fought to get a morsel of energy back. But he didn’t let it show — masking weakness had been drilled into him for as long as he could remember by endless trainers. It made all the difference in a field like his, because momentum is everything. So he took the wince off his face and sealed his mouth in a hard line and opened his eyes.

Instantly he could see Slater was going through the same thing, but practicing the same mental fortitude.

They sat side by side, breathing long and slow, expelling the momentum of the day’s trek and gearing up to recharge for the next morning.

Then the curtains leading to the kitchen parted and a Nepali woman stepped in. She was small and plump and elderly, but she had a warm smile, and they returned it.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Small English for me. You are Americans?’

‘Yes,’ King said.

Slater nodded.

She nodded back, and maintained the same glowing smile, and toddled back through the curtains. King exchanged a glance with Slater, but there was no way to read into the conversation. She hadn’t revealed a thing.

‘Where’d she go?’ Slater whispered.

‘I don’t know. I know that if she comes back with a gun, I probably won’t be able to raise my hands in self-defence.’

She did return quickly, this time carrying a sealed briefcase made of something reinforced with a combination lock by the handle. She swung it back and forth as she crossed the room, and placed it gently on the table.

‘You take,’ she said. ‘I find on road.’

‘Could you show me where?’ King said.

She smiled and shuffled outside.

King tried to get to his feet to follow, but it took him a moment. Already his muscles and joints had set in place, winding down for the day in a method that came with minor swelling and impediment of movement as his legs set to work gearing up for the next day. So he hobbled a few steps, cursing himself all the way, lambasting his body for uncontrollably showing weakness even though there was no-one around to see it. Then his muscles warmed up and he found some momentum and worked his way up to something resembling a normal gait.

Slater said, ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No,’ he grumbled. ‘Just sore.’

He stepped outside and saw the woman down below the concrete patio, already on the trail. She was standing over a cluster of weeds a foot away from the dusty gravel, perhaps thirty feet from the door.

‘Here,’ she called out.

King judged the distance between the living quarters, and the location of the discarded briefcase. It was plausible.

He said, ‘Thank you.’

They returned inside.

She motioned to the briefcase and said, ‘You keep.’

Slater nodded his appreciation.

Without prompting, she continued, ‘I no like it.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It remind me of bad times. I have to clean room where man died. Blood — so much. I never forget.’

King nodded solemnly. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘Cart back down mountain. Wrapped up. This place for tourist. No place for body.’

Slater muttered to King, ‘You should check with Violetta if Winston’s body is getting flown back home. I’m sure his family would appreciate that.’

‘Will do.’

The woman said, ‘You two look very tired. You eat and drink? What you want?’

‘Please,’ King said.

Slater handed over their two empty hiking bottles and said, ‘Water, thank you. We’ll purify it ourselves.’

‘Tea?’ she said.

They both nodded.

‘Masala,’ King said.

‘Ginger,’ Slater said.

She sauntered off to the kitchen.

Neither of them moved. The stress of the day’s travels was still at the forefront of both their minds. King savoured the