A round struck the ground a few feet in front of him, slotted precisely through the empty space in the forklift’s cabin. He ducked. They wanted him dead, that much was certain. And they would succeed if he stayed put.
He had a single M&P handgun. They had an unknown number of forces, and enough ammunition to bother supplying a group of local bikers with military-grade assault rifles.
As he lay there on the gravel, scrunched up into as little space as possible, pressing the back of his head against the cold steel, he came to the conclusion that he would not bother fleeing. These people had some kind of connection to him, unless he was facing the most unbelievable of coincidences. Which he knew he wasn’t.
He knew the distance to the factory would not be impossible to close. There was little cover in between save for a handful of industrial vehicles and a few mounds of scrap. He knew the closer he got, the more trouble it would be to hit him. Sniper fire relied on long range, on stationary targets. Yet he had no knowledge of how talented his adversary was.
There was only one way to find out.
He waited until the next shot came. He knew it would. It was only a matter of time. When the report blasted in his ears and the ground nearby kicked up a handful of gravel he turned and got his feet underneath him and powered out from behind the forklift, running wildly, zigzagging, jerking his head off-centre, doing anything possible to throw off the marksman’s aim.
He had little time to get a grip on his surroundings. A single moment of opportunity came to take a glance at the nearby factory. He saw a blurry mound of steel and metal twisting above the trees. Too many open spaces. Too many vantage points. Nowhere near enough time to pinpoint the sniper.
He dove behind a rusting flatbed trailer on the very edge of the property. Another round slammed into it, shaking it on its wheels. A near miss. Luckily, the space between each neighbouring property had no obstructions. No chain link fences, no barbed wire, no barriers of any kind. Which gave King a slight advantage. He could make one more burst across open ground and then the awnings of the factory would shield him from view. He’d be swallowed up by the enormous building. Once he was inside, he knew the playing field would turn ever so slightly in his favour. He thrived off confusion. Tight spaces, wild close-quarters combat, no strategy or tactics or anything of the sort. It brought all encounters down to speed, power and timing.
Three things he excelled at.
There came a break in the gunfire. Silence descended over the site, but none of the familiar sounds of the forest returned. All the wildlife had been scared away. Now the only audible noises came from the groans of long-dormant machinery, spurred on by a cool breeze. The sudden quiet was eerie. King zoned in and slowly looked over the top of the flatbed.
Nothing. No gunshot. If there was, he would never know anyway. He would be dead before the sight or sound registered. But he stayed alive, because the sniper had run out of ammunition. King knew he would be reloading.
Now.
He vaulted off the dusty earth and slid across the width of the trailer, moving with the efficiency and energy of a man running for his life. He saw nothing from the factory ahead. No muzzle flashes, no sudden movements. There was only time for a rudimentary glimpse, though. When he touched down on the other side of the trailer he surged toward the ground floor of the factory like a man possessed.
He heard the sound of another gunshot — and ducked reflexively — but felt nothing. It had missed. He wasn’t sure where the bullet had impacted, how close it had come to ending his life, but in the end it didn’t matter.
Whether it missed by a hair or a mile, he’d made it to the building in one piece.
He ran underneath an open roller door into a large space that had long ago been the factory floor of a slaughterhouse. The space was filled with rusted hydraulic equipment, conveyor belts, chains, hoists; anything that could be useful in the killing of animals. A row of broken industrial-scale refrigerators ran the length of the far wall. It was dark and musty and putrid, like the workers had abandoned the place without caring to salvage any of the machinery. Which gave anyone trying to sneak up on him plenty of cover to do so.
The roof far above creaked and the wind battered the outside of the structure and somewhere far away came the sound of dripping water. But otherwise, no hostile sounds.
Then a sharp crack filled his ears and his vision exploded and he dropped to his knees, the action involuntary. He’d been struck from behind. Whoever had crept up on him had done so with impeccable precision. Usually he was able to sense most attacks, yet this one caught him completely off-guard. He fell to the dusty floor, on the verge of retching. He careered forward. Crashed into the ground. Knocked senseless.
Another impact to the back of his head, from something long and hard and metal. This strike put him dangerously close to unconsciousness. He saw nothing except darkness. He heard nothing except a roaring in his ears. He felt his senses depleting, slipping away.
Then a male voice, close by, in his ear:
‘Jason King. Just who I expected to see.’
He used all the effort in his system to turn his head and attempt to get a glimpse at the assailant. In his peripheral vision he saw a blurry outline, dressed all in black, before another blow crashed against the side of his skull and he collapsed to the floor. Agony flared across one half of his face. The weapon had struck his already swollen cheek.
Everything shrunk to a pinpoint and disappeared.
CHAPTER 29
It was one of the worst concussions King had ever suffered.
Over the course of his time in the military he’d been battered, shot, cut, tortured, knocked out multiple times. The sensation of losing consciousness was impossible to get used to. His memory became sporadic. The next stage of his life passed in nothing but flashing, distorted images.
Someone helped him to his feet.
Dropped him into a car.
Still disoriented, he slurred his words. Unclear as to which way was up, which way was down, where he was headed, who he was with.
The trees flew by. They were driving on twisting mountain roads. The journey blurred into a single incomprehensible rollercoaster. His head throbbed and his eyes watered and he battled to control his senses. If he could just urge his limbs to act, then he could deduce whether he would survive the rest of the day. Was he being driven to a grisly death? Where was Kitchener? Where was Kate?
Then there were no more trees.
A building appeared in front of him.
Someone helped him inside.
He was in a small room with a double bed and flaky white walls and a cheap kitchen and a circular table. He lay on the bed and someone pressed a cool towel against his forehead. Time shrank and expanded and then suddenly, all at once, he could think clearly. He could still felt the concussion’s devastating effects. The pressure in his skull was immense. He felt like he would pass out again at any moment. But at least he had control of his bodily functions.
A woman sat on the bed next to him. Resting a hand on his chest. Her face was freckled. Her long brown hair fell over one shoulder. She sported a look of concern and worry and anger all wrapped up into one emotion.
Kate.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
King shook his head, and immediately regretted the decision. His head pounded like nothing else. ‘I’ve been badly concussed.’
‘I know.’
‘Which means I’ll feel like this for weeks.’