As he drove, he grimly accepted that he would most likely be heading to another dead end. If the phone had a passcode, or simply didn’t hold any useful information, then he was unsure of what to do next. He’d been moving forward this entire time, yet his barebones investigation would probably come to a screeching halt at the bottom of this path. Nevertheless, he forced the thought to the back of his mind and concentrated on what lay ahead. It was what he’d always done. He wasn’t about to give up yet. Not until he was dead, or he’d found out who was trying to kill him.
The path opened out into the clearing, just as he’d thought. He pulled to a stop in the middle of the dead grass. The factory lay ahead. In the daytime it was far less imposing. Still large, the majority of its exterior had rusted from exposure to the cold and the wind. Metal awnings shadowed the surrounding ground, and a twisting array of brick and steel arced toward the sky. King spotted the open warehouse door on the ground floor. The construction workers’ pickup truck still sat where he’d left it, battered into a wreck. Further inside, he saw the machine that housed the four bodies. A cylindrical cone. Some kind of industrial grinder.
What came next — searching the bodies — would not be a pleasant task. He got out of the sedan, hoping that the decomposition process had yet to begin. After only two days in often sub-zero temperatures, he didn’t think it would have.
He strode into the warehouse and listened to the creaks of the empty factory around him. The pickup was parked close enough to the cone to act as a stepping stone. He leapt onto the bonnet, which groaned under his weight. He gripped the rim of the cone and scurried over the edge.
The entire ordeal turned out to be less disgusting than he had anticipated.
Overnight the bodies had frozen. They lay stiff and rigid, completely pale, lifeless. Far less of a problem than if they had been kept in heat for two nights. King had seen enough dead men in his time to remain unperturbed. He opened Buzzcut’s jacket and peered at it in the gloom. Sure enough, there was an inside pocket at chest height which he’d missed on his first search, held shut by a single button. He prised it open and withdrew the iPhone that lay inside.
He pressed the home button, and to his surprise the screen fired up. The small battery symbol in the top right corner indicated it had less than four percent left. Which wasn’t a problem, as either Kate would have a charger or the hardware store in town would.
He leapfrogged out of the cone, leaving the bodies behind. Hopefully they could be at peace and he would never have to look at them again. As he crossed the stretch of ground to the entrance, heading back the way he’d come, he decided to try the phone. He turned the screen on once again and flicked sideways.
It unlocked instantly.
The sheer stupidity of Buzzcut’s actions surprised him. He peered down at the home screen, wondering just why a hitman would fail to secure his phone. Perhaps he’d been confident enough to throw caution to the wind, sure that he would not meet his match in a small country town like Jameson. King stepped out into the empty clearing, still staring down in disbelief. The lack of a passcode had thrown his awareness out the window.
Which meant he momentarily lost concentration on his surroundings.
When he looked up, he realised the clearing wasn’t so empty after all.
His sedan was surrounded. But not by mysterious hitmen or assassins. Four men stood facing him, all brandishing state-of-the-art automatic weaponry. All sporting bruises and swollen faces and jagged cuts. All men he recognised.
The bikers.
CHAPTER 19
‘Long time no see, pal!’ the nearest man called.
It was Jed. No doubt hopped up on painkillers. His jaw had turned black and blue and there was a strip of duct tape covering the wound on the top of his head. Even from a distance away, he looked like shit. Skinny stood beside him. Behind them was Beefy, and behind him was the first man King had knocked out, who he had yet to ascribe a label to.
King couldn’t believe that they had returned. He knew he’d made a mistake by keeping them alive, but he hadn’t found it within himself to kill the four men back in the clubhouse, even after what they had done. They were just local thugs, after all. They had deserved a beating, but not death. And Beefy had looked at him as if he were the devil incarnate. Such fear couldn’t be faked. King had been certain that the four of them would flee. So why were they here?
Then he noticed the weapons they held, and everything made sense.
King recognised the design all too well. There had been enough of them around during his time in the Special Forces. Colt M4 carbine assault rifles, issued to the US military. Brand new, shiny. As if they’d been taken right off the production room floor. Expensive, exclusive firearms that were entirely out of place in the hands of a ragtag group of small-town bikers.
These guys had probably been intercepted on their way out of town by those in the shadows of Jameson. Geared up with state-of-the-art weaponry and told to go headhunting for Jason King.
Big mistake.
‘Hey there, Jed,’ King said, heading for them.
Jed and Skinny raised their weapons like the amateurs they were. They held the massive rifles in trembling hands. King knew they had never used assault rifles before.
He had.
‘Keep your hands up when you come over here,’ Jed said.
‘That’s good, Jed,’ King said. ‘You sound stern. I like it. Much more imposing than sitting on the dirt and sobbing.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
‘Didn’t think you’d come back.’
‘We did.’
‘I can see that. How much did they pay you?’
‘Huh?’
‘How much were you offered to kill me?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Those guns you’re holding,’ King said. ‘Who gave you those?’
Skinny perked up. ‘They’re ours.’
King laughed. Spitefully. Sarcastically. ‘No they’re not. You’re a bunch of backwood thugs who haven’t seen a real fight in your life. I took care of all of you without breaking a sweat. Now you come back with an arsenal of guns, because you all know you won’t be able to do anything against me unless you get help from your sugar daddy. Am I right?’
King knew he didn’t stand a chance from twenty feet away. If the bikers desired, they could light him up at a moment’s notice. He’d die, without a doubt. His heart pounded against his chest wall, pumping his veins with adrenalin, but on the outside he made sure to exude cockiness. He kept his demeanour confident and arrogant and insulting. If he could antagonise the bikers to the point where they decided to get up close and personal, then he had a chance.
He was far from the one in control. But he made it seem like he was. He preyed on their desire to show him who was boss.
It worked swimmingly.
Jed and Skinny, guns up, made for him. They closed the gap until they were within touching distance. Another big mistake. Jed walked with a pronounced limp, no doubt still battered from the altercation the previous day. He prodded King with the barrel.
‘Get on your knees,’ he said.
As King dropped to the ground, he scrutinised their M4’s up close. Once again he struggled to comprehend how such powerful arms had been transported to Jameson. Who were these people supplying them? What reach did they have? Whatever the case, it was more than clear that he was now a definite target, and not just someone in the way. His enemies had, instead of showing their faces, supplied a bunch of local bullies with enough weaponry to arm a special forces unit and sent them after him. And they would succeed in getting the job done unless he capitalised on the situation.