Contracts by Matt Rogers (i like reading txt) 📕

panic and fumble, which gave the guy tackling him the momentum needed to drive harder and stronger, tilting King further forward, and he came down awkwardly on his side on the dusty gravel.

Thwack.

His head bounced off the ground, disorienting him just enough to delay the pain recognition. So when he came back to reality with swimming vision and a throbbing headache it took him longer than normal to realise he’d landed badly on his ankle. He could already feel it swelling, only a couple of seconds after impact.

That is not fucking good.

Finally he got a good look at his attacker, who was currently scrabbling through the dirt to try and get his hands on King.

Should have known.

He’d recognise those bulging eyes anywhere.

The stray porter was unarmed, clearly expecting that six handpicked combatants with automatic weapons would have got the job done without his involvement. Now the small bull-like man was making his last stand, realising that his plans had failed spectacularly and that he’d need to finish the job himself.

But even though the porter was a freak of nature strength-wise, most of his initial success had come down to catching King by surprise.

At least, that’s what King told himself.

The porter got to his knees and pounced forward, hands outstretched, reaching for King’s throat.

Immediately King knew the guy was an idiot.

He batted the hands away like they weighed nothing, drove an elbow upwards from his back, and caught the porter in the nose. He heard a crack but he didn’t stop there — when the porter froze up to comprehend his broken septum, King grabbed him and slammed him into the gravel. At the same time he righted himself and put a knee on the guy’s stomach, pinning him in place. Then he dropped another elbow, this time with the assistance of gravity to add an extra something.

Bang.

Elbow against skull.

Skull against dirt.

Goodnight.

King clambered off the body and tried to put some weight on his tender ankle.

It lit up like someone had actively torched his nerve endings.

He gasped, sat down hard, and wiped beads of sweat off his brow.

Then a silhouette materialised at the edge of the patio, backlit by the white lights.

Wielding an AK-47.

King’s pulse skyrocketed and he prepared to launch himself down the hillside to avoid a string of gunfire lacing his torso.

But the silhouette said, ‘Relax. It’s me.’

King breathed out.

He didn’t move.

Slater seemed to recognise it. ‘Can you get up?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Ankle.’

A pause.

Slater said, ‘How’d you get down there?’

‘I fell.’

‘All on your own?’

King jerked a thumb toward the unconscious porter. ‘Our friend here tackled me.’

Slater took his time assessing the porter. King could sense him lingering on the fact that the guy was about five-foot-two and a hundred and twenty pounds.

Slater said, ‘He tackled you?’

‘He caught me off-guard. Now shut up and help me up.’

Slater leapt down off the patio.

34

For obvious reasons, they didn’t sleep that night.

A couple of hours after the ambush, King sat in the dining area with his leg elevated on the bench and an ice-pack pressed to his swollen ankle. He was uncharacteristically quiet, even by his own standards. He couldn’t take his mind off the injury, and no amount of meditation would stop him overthinking. He sat still as a statue with his eyes glazed over, running through the hypotheticals, getting increasingly restless.

Slater stepped inside as the faint beginnings of daylight appeared on the horizon. He was sweating profusely.

‘Bodies are gathered in the storage room,’ he muttered, wiping his hands on his pants. ‘Just liked she asked.’

‘This must be hard on her,’ King said.

As if on cue, the teahouse owner waddled out of the kitchen, a look of dejection on her face.

Slater smiled at her, doing his best to keep her spirits up. ‘They’re out of sight.’

She tried to smile back, but didn’t seem to have it in her. ‘Thank you. I clean blood soon.’

‘We’re very sorry we brought this conflict here,’ King said. ‘We didn’t want this to happen.’

‘Not your fault. Is man’s fault. I always knew he trouble.’

‘He sold us out,’ Slater said. ‘Which means someone is looking for us. Which makes us responsible for what happened here. Again, we’re sorry.’

‘Not much damage,’ she said with a shrug. ‘You two okay. Maybe small hole in wall, small blood. That okay. Can clean.’

Slater put his hands in his pockets and nodded his understanding. Then he said, ‘Do you have any idea who those men were who attacked us?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But my English … not good. I don’t know how to say.’

They thought about that for a spell, and then King slid the satellite phone out of his pocket and dialled a number.

‘Hold on,’ he said to her.

Parker came on the line a couple of seconds later. ‘Have you found her?!’

‘No,’ King said. ‘Put Sejun on the line, please.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I asked you to.’

‘I want to know why.’

‘Because he has better English than the woman we’re with, so he’s going to listen to what she has to say and then translate it to you. You’ll tell us the end result, okay?’

‘Okay.’

There was a shuffling at the other end of the line, and King ushered the elderly woman over and handed her the phone.

‘Tell him what you know,’ he said.

A long conversation played out in Nepali, and King sat back and let her speak. He exchanged occasional glances with Slater, but the pair of them stayed quiet. Neither wanted to acknowledge the truth — it didn’t matter how much they knew about their opposition if King couldn’t walk. Which was exactly what Perry or the porter were going for by continuing the trek toward Gokyo Ri. They must have figured that, between the harsh terrain and constant assaults from hired mercenaries, even the toughest super-soldiers on the planet were bound to cop some wear-and-tear.

And they were right.

King tried not to think about his damaged ankle. He stared out the window as the sun snaked its way into view, turning the landscape golden. The wind had subsided, giving way to another clear