Hawk, p.7
Hawk, page 7
part #6 of Will Slater Series
But it was a dichotomy, because he could look at it the other way and realise no-one had the depth of emotional experiences he’d been through. They hadn’t seen tyrants die, or saved innocent lives from the brink of death, or lifted people out of ruin.
He had.
And now he had someone in his life who’d been there before.
The only man who could relate to him.
The only man who understood what it was like to live like this.
He stripped out of his dress pants and cashmere sweater and stood poised in the centre of the room in his underwear. He studied his reflection in the mirror. Two hundred and ten pounds of rippling muscle. Nothing had changed.
But the trauma he put his muscle tissue through on a regular basis would be nothing if he didn’t have flexibility, dexterity, and cardio.
So he took himself through his morning routine, honed and refined over more than ten years of putting his body through hell.
Fifty minutes of vinyasa yoga, opening his hips. Oiling the joints, so to speak. Ensuring there were no kinks in the framework. Ensuring he didn’t lift weights and get tighter and tighter until he could barely throw a kick or a punch without disrupting the fascia. He followed the yoga with a relentless string of burpees, leaping up and jumping down until his muscles screamed for relief.
Then he kept going.
He burnt himself out, sweating profusely, flushing the alcohol out of his system from the night before.
When he finished, he staggered to the bathroom and vomited. Not a typical part of the routine, but an unfortunate side effect of the amount of liquor he’d consumed.
Sometimes it happened.
Nothing he could do about it.
Yes, there is, he told himself.
But he ignored that voice.
As he’d become so extraordinarily adept at doing.
He took an ice cold shower, another discomfort he’d overcome early in his life. The benefits were profound. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly how it had altered his life, but it was something about the willpower necessary to overcome water at its most chilling in a setting that was usually warm and comfortable. It set the course for the rest of the day. Get over the first hurdle, and you can tackle the next obstacle, and the next, and the next.
That’s how all of life operated, as far as he could tell.
A strange philosophy, maybe, especially because it was something so simple, but he had taught himself long ago that often the only thing that separated a disciplined person from an undisciplined one was the tiny consistent habits they set for themselves each and every waking moment. Actions that seemed like nothing in the moment, but added up to everything over the course of his life. He’d put that theory to the test nearly fifteen years ago, and judging by the fact he’d cultivated more discipline than a thousand men put together, he figured he was doing okay.
He dried himself off, skin tingling from the chill, and dressed in the same clothes from the night before. He’d come to Budapest on a whim, as he assumed King had too, and he hadn’t bothered to pack luggage. With four hundred million dollars to his name, a new wardrobe was the least of his concerns.
He had bigger fish to fry, most of them residing deep in his own mind.
What most people base their entire life around, he barely gave a second thought. Luggage was the least of his concerns.
Maybe that’s it, he thought as he made his way out of the room and downstairs to the lobby.
Maybe when he mastered his mind, the rest of life’s problems fell away, leaving him with only the most raw concerns.
Maybe that’s why he got himself wrapped up in other people’s problems.
Because he hadn’t a single one of his own.
Somehow, some way, that gave him temporary peace.
Then he remembered why Jason King had walked back into his life, and all that peace fell away.
Nothing good would follow in the coming days.
He was sure of it.
He stepped out into the lobby and found King in the social club, still as a statue amidst a horde of early morning business meetings.
It seemed King had gone out and bought himself a fresh change of clothes earlier in the morning.
He wore a pair of slacks, and a long-sleeved shirt stretched tight over his fearsome physique, and the whole package was draped in an overcoat that looked like it cost somewhere in the mid-four figures. It was a new coat. Slater didn’t know where King’s old one was.
Slater walked up to him and said, ‘Speaking of finances — you’re not doing too bad yourself.’
‘Living in Thailand is cheap,’ King said. ‘I had all I needed. My Black Force funds have been accumulating interest for the better part of a year now. I can afford to splash out.’
‘If we get through this next chapter, I’ll split my fortune with you.’
‘You don’t need to do that,’ King said.
‘You think I need the other half?’
‘I’ve got all I need.’
‘I’ve got all I need, too, and then I’ve got three hundred and ninety nine million dollars more.’
King managed a wry smile and said, ‘At least use five. One is pushing it.’
‘Let’s call it two hundred even. I don’t like our chances of getting through this, anyway. But when has that ever stopped us?’
‘And why’s that?’
Slater checked his watch — almost an impulse move by this point. He said, ‘The day’s barely started, and we’re about to take on an organised crime syndicate.’
13
King said, ‘Why don’t we rendezvous in a few hours? You’ve barely slept.’
Slater sat down across from him and shook his head. ‘I don’t need that much sleep. Call me genetically blessed.’
King raised an eyebrow and said, ‘I thought you told me you got more than eight hours a night usually.’
‘Usually,’ Slater said. ‘Because it’s vital for recovery. But I don’t need it to function.’
There was a pause.
Slater said, ‘Why are you down here, then?’
King said, ‘I’m the same as you.’
‘In sleep, or in life?’
King gave a subtle nod.
Slater sighed and said, ‘I’ve got a feeling we’ve got a lot to discuss later.’
King stared at him. The lobby ebbed and flowed around them — men in suits and women in smart business attire strode past, late for various appointments, all wrapped up in their own individual bubbles. A few lingered in the social area, sipping steaming coffee from exquisite mugs and talking amongst themselves, or reading the newspapers alone, but no-one was in earshot.
Slater sat there, oblivious to it all, removed from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.
Finally King said, ‘I think Klara was my one connection to the normal world.’
‘See how you feel after we get the people responsible,’ Slater said. ‘It might change your perspective.’
‘If we get the people responsible.’
Slater figured it wasn’t the opportune time to go down that path, so he changed direction. ‘What was life like in Thailand?’
‘Good,’ King said. ‘Better than good. Better than I thought possible.’
‘So why not give it a second chance?’
‘Because she was the glue holding it all together.’
‘It’ll get better,’ Slater said, mirroring what he’d said the night before. Except this time he was sober, so he meant it. ‘With time. Trust me. It’ll heal.’
‘I don’t think you’re the best person to give advice in a situation like this.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because you’re just as fucked up as I am. It’s like talking to a mirror.’
Slater laughed.
King laughed, too.
A waiter floated by, and Slater enquired about the breakfast options. He typically fasted in the mornings, but it had been quite some time since his last meal, and hunger reared its ugly head. The man explained there was a buffet on the other side of the ground floor, or for a small fee he could bring a designated selection of meals to their table so they could continue their talk in peace. The man seemed to sense the subject matter of their conversation was sensitive, and not for prying ears.
Slater nodded graciously.
The waiter said, ‘What would you like?’
Slater looked at King, who looked back at Slater.
A knowing look.
Their brotherhood was forged in the fires of hell, after all.
They could almost read each other’s minds.
‘One of everything,’ Slater said. ‘Each.’
The waiter nodded. ‘Certainly, sirs.’
He floated away, and in the meantime Slater and King made small talk the only way they knew how.
By diving straight into the deepest subject matter they could think of.
For, in Slater’s humble opinion, there was no better way to live. He had long ago figured no-one really cares how the weather is, or if your favourite sports team is winning, or how office politics are faring. He figured it was all just noise to fill the gaping void people had in their lives. Perhaps that was the perspective of a sociopathic killer, but he didn’t think so.
He had to admit he thought a little differently than most.
But so did King.
Slater said, ‘What have you been doing these last two months?’
‘Stewing over what happened. Blaming myself.’
‘I know you. You’re improving. At an exponential rate. I can see it. I’ve only known you were back in the game less than twenty-four hours, but it already seems like you’re coping better with each passing moment.’
King said, ‘I only pulled my head out of the sand when I figured I was mentally strong enough to handle it.’
‘You’re doing good, King,’ Slater said.
More to reassure him than to tell the truth.
Because Slater could see in the man’s eyes he’d never felt emotion like this.
King said, ‘I’ll feel better when I have the heads of the people who ordered the hit. Nothing else matters.’
The waiter brought back plates loaded with eggs, bacon, mushroom, spinach, crispy Viennese sausage, bread, and croissants. King and Slater devoured all the food at a lightning pace, much to the surprise of the waiter, who tiptoed back and forth across their line of sight with wider eyes each time he passed.
They were following the old rule, and they didn’t care who judged them for it.
Eat when you can.
Satiated, they settled back into their chairs and bickered back and forth for twenty minutes as the food digested. There was no use powering toward the objective with enough calories settling in their stomachs to impede their movement. So they settled back into the same rhythm — it had taken time, but Slater found himself rapidly warming to King now.
The way it had always been.
He didn’t know what it had been at first. Maybe hesitancy to dive into his old joking ways after hearing the brutal reality King had been dealing with for the last two months. Or because of Russia. They’d both felt a bond severed there, never to return.
But it had.
Almost immediately.
Proving they were one and the same after all.
Finally, King said, ‘Okay. What needs to be done?’
‘We’re going to have to split up at the start,’ Slater said. ‘The way I see it, we need to do two things at exactly the same time. And each of them needs to happen fast. Or we’ll miss our window of opportunity, and then we’ll be relying on the first two options I told you about last night.’
‘That wouldn’t be ideal,’ King said. ‘What’s the play?’
Slater laid it out, in all its detail.
14
Jason King stepped out of the hotel lobby with a renewed purpose he hadn’t felt in months.
He pulled up a satellite map of Budapest on his smartphone and made straight for the eighth district, as per Slater’s instructions.
Budapest, whilst scoring safe in most crime statistics, had noted a substantial increase in methamphetamine use due to the influx of the drug on the city’s streets. Slater had his own business to settle, but the timelines had to align, so King kept himself to a strict schedule. Despite a lack of change in his circumstances, he felt different. He couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but he thought he had a general idea.
He had a goal now.
Before, he’d been wandering across the globe, achieving nothing in particular, wallowing in self-pity. It had taken all his willpower just to stick to the same physical exercise regime of old, something that had previously come naturally to him. But now he was out of that hole, and although the emotional wounds wouldn’t heal for some time, he had his head screwed on straight.
Or so it seemed.
He was in good enough mental shape to concentrate on the task at hand.
His instructions from Slater were simple.
Find a street-level dealer.
Follow the supply chain upward.
Use any means necessary.
That was it. Although it would be a little harder to put into practice than to discuss in theory. Thankfully, King didn’t think he’d be stepping far out of his comfort zone to accomplish this particular task. He’d been doing this sort of thing for over a decade. Knocking a few heads together was part of his daily life by this point.
He’d had a couple of months off, though.
Maybe close to half a year, if he counted the time that had elapsed since Russia.
And that had been an isolated experience, a return from the dead before plunging straight back into retirement.
He hadn’t been active in over a year.
Time to shake the ring rust off.
He figured it was better to overcompensate than underestimate the competition. So he charged himself with adrenalin, the only way he knew how.
He visualised his life on the line.
He imagined a gun in his face.
He thought of the imaginary man standing across from him, trying to strip him of everything he had, trying to take his life away, to humiliate him and degrade him and leave his corpse in the street like a stray dog that had been shot out of mercy.
He balled up his fists, and tightened the muscles in his forearms, and strode into the eighth district like he had a death wish.
Then he cooled off slightly, recognising the disadvantage of charging into the fray like a wild bull. That was a mistake reserved for his youth. He’d been through several early solo operations using that strategy, but it didn’t bode well for long-term health. It usually involved broken bones and torn muscles and a concussion or two for good measure.
That wasn’t what he was going for this time.
But it was good to know he had the sensation in his back pocket. He could pull out the rage like a secret weapon, whenever he so desired. He slowed his pace, and levelled his breathing, and scoured the streets with a sweeping gaze.
It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.
He powered down random streets and laneways and wider roads until he spotted a thin pale junkie lingering at an intersection.
The man was trying his best to blend into the hordes of passers-by. He seemed to be in his early thirties, but it was hard to tell. He had big bags under his eyes and wrinkly acne-ridden skin. He could have been eighteen. Meth had that effect on people. He was leaning against a concrete column that was propping up the portico of a big old building. The shadows spilled across him, giving off the intended effect. He was trying his best to look menacing. If cops wandered into the area, he’d scurry away, but to everyone else he was a person to avoid.
But he was attracting the right crowd.
King set up camp across the street, sitting down at an outdoor café in full view of the intersection. He ordered a coffee and put all his surveillance skills to use, only taking quick glances at the gangly junkie out of the corner of his eye every now and then. The rest of the time he spent on his phone, or observing the crowd around him. He was a businessman in an expensive overcoat with his concentration wrapped up in his smartphone, just like most of the men sitting on their own at cafés in Budapest.
The junkie changed positions, alternating between loitering against one of the columns or sitting on the steps leading up to the portico itself. There was no exterior signage, so King couldn’t tell if it was a town hall, or a museum, or a government building.
He very much doubted it was the latter, for every now and then a hunched figure wandered up to the junkie and handed him a wad of cash.
The junkie returned the favour with a small plastic baggie that he passed across in a concealed palm.
The move was discreet, but King knew exactly what he was looking for. He only caught the occasional brief glimpse of the drugs themselves — anyone else looking might not have seen a thing — but it gave him all he needed.
He pulled out his phone and messaged Slater, tapping away at the screen.
Got one. Moving in.
Slater came back an instant later.
Okay. There’s security on my end. I’ll deal with them.
King replied.
Does the timing work?
Slater came back.
Not going in yet. Just dealing with security. That’s all.
King replied.
I’ll keep you posted.
As he was rising out of the chair, he drained his espresso and caught a final ping from his phone. He pulled it back out of his overcoat and checked the departing message from Slater.
Bring the old King back.
King typed two words.
He’s back.
Then he paid the bill, shoved the phone into his pocket, and strode across the busy two-lane street towards the junkie.
15
Slater hovered in the lee of the alleyway across the street from Lukas and Benicio’s townhouse.
In fact, he didn’t know if it belonged to one or both of them. But both men had treated it as home the night before, storming through the bedroom doors in unison. Perhaps it was Benicio’s place, considering he’d been the first man inside the bedroom. Or maybe that was just because he came through the front door first.
