Hence — no guns.
They collected their duffels from the baggage carousel and slung them over their shoulders. There were no disassembled automatic rifles, or switchblades, or, really, anything that could be used to defend themselves. Just thermals and waterproof hiking pants and Gore-Tex jackets and trekking boots. All top-of-the-line, because they weren’t about to scrimp and save when they knew they’d need to make up time fast. The gear wasn’t going to be much of a factor — that’s where their elite conditioning came into play — but it couldn’t hurt.
They didn’t speak to each other as they ploughed their way out of the small terminal.
Slater certainly wasn’t in the mood to talk.
He stewed silently, his mind racing faster than he could keep up with. Usually a drink or three subdued the constant chatter, but not today. Because they were on the move in a foreign country, surrounded by naive tourists and wizened locals alike. Technically on their first live operation together.
They made it out to the pick-up point and were bombarded by a horde of Nepali men practically fighting to help newcomers carry their bags to waiting vehicles.
Slater saw tourist after tourist get swept up in the madness, as helpers wrestled their bags off them, carried them five feet to the car, placed them aboard, and then aggressively demanded a tip for the trouble.
A gang of five men approached him as he stepped off the sidewalk.
‘We help, sir,’ one of them shouted, gesticulating at the duffel draped over his shoulder. ‘We help.’
‘No,’ Slater said.
King watched from the sidelines.
Another Nepali man materialised — he was younger than thirty, with long black hair tied back, wearing a simple puffer jacket and dark grey jeans. He motioned to them both.
‘Jason? Will?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ King said.
‘I’m Utsav. Your guide.’
‘Great to meet you.’
‘The car is this way.’
He led them through the horde, but the helpers had zeroed in on Slater. For reasons unbeknownst to either of them, they’d determined they could find success if they persevered. Little did they know how unlikely he was to agree.
One of them reached up and seized hold of his duffel, trying to tug it off his shoulder. ‘I help, sir! Car there? You go! I take.’
Slater stopped dead in his tracks and his eyes turned to ice and he said, ‘Take your hand off the bag.’
The atmosphere bristled. Sudden realisation spread across the Nepali man’s face and he backed away like he’d been electrocuted. There was no palpable threat conveyed, but there might as well have been. Slater felt the cold dead blackness of his soul spread across his face, just for a moment. Only for a single second. But it was enough. There was something inhuman in his eyes and all the hustlers recognised it and backed off immediately. And then suddenly he was back to normal, smiling at them and brushing straight past, and he passed his duffel to Utsav and slipped into the back seat of a waiting four-wheel-drive.
The seats were tattered and smelled strange, but Slater didn’t care. He’d dealt with worse conditions. The chatter in his brain fired up again, but truthfully that was when he felt most at ease.
King slotted into the rear seat beside him and slammed the door shut, and Utsav got in the passenger seat and nodded to the driver.
They weaved around the army of hustlers and plunged into the chaos of Kathmandu traffic.
8
King figured there was no use planning for the operation if they died on the way to the hotel.
And, by his estimation, they came close a dozen separate times within the first ten minutes of leaving the airport. Their driver leant on the horn like his life depended on it, and narrowly avoided clipping every motorcycle or vehicle that shot past.
King and Slater, both warriors with storied history in a secretive black-operations division of the U.S. government, held on for dear life.
Because death was death, no matter how it happened.
King’s phone shrilled in his jacket pocket. He took one palm off the handle above the door and fished it out. He knew who it would be.
The screen read: Violetta LaFleur.
He swiped a finger across the screen and said, ‘Hey.’
‘Hey,’ she said back.
There was an awkward pause, and the driver took the opportunity to get as close as humanly possible to another head-on collision without actually going through with it.
Beside him, Slater swore.
‘What was that?’ Violetta said.
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ King said. ‘I think we’re going through our initiation into Nepal.’
From the passenger seat, Utsav laughed.
King’s quip glossed over the discomfort emanating from both ends of the phone. Because this was uncharted territory for their relationship. It was King and Slater’s first official contracted operation — at least, the first since they’d parted less than amicably from the government years earlier.
Violetta was their handler.
But to King, she was much more than that.
‘Is this just business now?’ he said, vocalising what they were both wondering.
‘I think it has to be.’
‘So we put everything else on hold until I get back?’
‘Something like that.’
She paused, and he could sense her chewing her bottom lip, debating what to say.
He jumped in with, ‘How are you?’
‘Good. All things considered. Yourself?’
‘Same boat.’
A pause.
Then an audible smile from the other end of the line.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said. ‘Acting professional is weird.’
‘Same boat,’ King repeated.
‘Got any updates for me?’
‘I was about to ask you the same thing. You didn’t give us much to work with before we got on a plane.’
‘That’s getting put together. I’ll brief you both tonight. For now — everything okay?’
‘Will’s not happy,’ King said. ‘He thinks you’ve misjudged the situation by sending us in. He doesn’t think it’s the right move. He wants an explanation.’
Slater bristled, but didn’t say a word.
Violetta sighed and said, ‘Are we
