Contracts by Matt Rogers (i like reading txt) 📕

a two-storey lodge-style building surrounded by snowy slopes, complete with smoke billowing from a chimney atop the roof. There was a dry room just inside the entrance to hang any outerwear before venturing further into the warmth of the hallways. A few fogged-up windows faced them as they made their approach, but there was no-one looking out. They were invisible for now.

King hustled into the entrance and dusted snow off his jacket and pants. He stamped his feet a few times and gestured to a thin wooden bench running the length of the dry room.

‘Wait there,’ he said.

Slater actually appreciated the coddling. He couldn’t think straight. He sat himself down on the bench, put his back to the wall, made the same transfer with his Sig from waistband to jacket pocket, and widened his gaze to encompass the entire room. If anyone stepped in with hostile intentions, he’d have the wherewithal to blow a hole through their forehead before they could try anything.

Then he slumped down and tried to recharge.

King hovered across the room. ‘You’re not going to drop dead on me, are you?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘I’ll be right back.’

He ducked into the hallway and vanished from sight.

Slater took in a deep rattling breath, held it for a few seconds, and released it.

He was hurting.

And then, piece by piece, the lack of oxygen caught up to him.

Minute by minute, he started getting worse.

58

King stepped into the dining room and found at least twenty trekkers spread across the tables.

One by one, they turned in their seats to check him out.

He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. He hunched over as if the day’s journey had sapped all the energy out of him, which didn’t require too much of a performance. He kept his hands in his pockets and trundled over to the service desk skewered into the far wall, manned by an older Nepali guy in his fifties. The P320’s stock in his right palm gave him reassurance, and he kept a tight grip on it the whole way across the room.

He could almost taste the tension.

They were here. Raya, and Perry, and the porter, and a small army of rebels. They were probably spread across the teahouses to minimise scrutiny, but they were here all the same. There was simply no alternative. Camping away from settlements wasn’t conducive to survival, so they’d have to stay in a village. And Gokyo was the only option, based on where they’d been spotted along the trail.

So this was it.

The culmination of the journey.

He stepped up to the desk, met the worker’s gaze, and paid very close attention for signs of suspicion.

And he found them immediately.

He said, ‘Can I get a room?’

The man wasn’t a good actor. He stared at King for a few beats, registering the newcomer’s appearance. Then he said, ‘Just you?’

Then and there, King knew the man had been given their description.

String him along. Find out what you can.

He said, ‘I have someone with me.’

‘Who?’

The guy was too curious. His ears practically perked up at the announcement of another traveller. So the word was out. Maybe every teahouse in the village had been told to look out for King and Slater, and to contact the necessary parties if they arrived.

The gears were now in motion. The cat was out of the bag. There was no going back.

King said, ‘My wife.’

‘Your wife?’

Palpable confusion.

Not part of the game plan.

King said, ‘Yes. Is there a problem?’

‘Where is your wife?’

‘Downstairs.’

Hesitation.

More confusion.

The guy was unsure how to proceed. He had limited English as it was, and wasn’t particularly nuanced in manipulation.

He said, ‘Sir, could you bring wife up here, please?’

‘No.’

‘I need to see who is getting room.’

King allowed rage to settle over his features, and said, ‘She’s very tired. That would be incredibly rude if you made her come all the way up here. She needs to rest.’

‘Yes, sir, but—’

King glared at him. ‘Would you like me to take my business elsewhere?’

It wasn’t so much the prospect of losing money as it was going against his instincts. The Nepali were overwhelmingly kind and polite people, and even though this man might have been instructed at gunpoint to identify King and Slater together, he wasn’t about to offend anyone in his establishment. So he held up both hands and offered a placid look of acceptance and said, ‘No, sorry, sir. I give you room, and you pay when you check out. Okay?’

There was little else to say. King wasn’t in the mood to loiter with his back turned to the rest of the room, so he nodded his thanks and held his hand out for the key.

The man handed it over.

‘Downstairs,’ he said. ‘Corridor 1. It is labelled. Room 105.’

‘Thank you.’

An awkward silence elapsed, and King immediately knew they would find no refuge here. The guy didn’t want to make small talk — he no doubt had direct orders to inform someone as soon as he identified the persons-of-interest. Even though Slater wasn’t up here with King, enough suspicion had been aroused to proceed.

King turned and walked away. He felt eyes drilling into him, but didn’t meet any of the trekkers’ gazes. There wasn’t likely to be anything hostile in them, but he wasn’t in the mood for a chat with anyone.

Tension laced the air.

He sensed the worker’s eyes boring into the back of his skull. Thinking, Are you the man everyone’s looking for?

Yes, King thought. Yes, I am.

And we both know it.

He wondered how long it would take for the cavalry to arrive.

Was the guy dialling the phone already?

King didn’t look back. He figured if he acted oblivious it might buy more time. They could slow down and formulate a game plan if they thought neither King nor Slater were wise to their presence.

They.

Whoever “they” were.

And that was what made him truly uncomfortable. He and Slater knew nothing, and now the owner was alert to who they were.

But there had to be principles in place. Rules and customs that could not be