Contracts, Matt Rogers [phonics reading books TXT] 📗

sternum with enough force to rattle the wooden column behind it made her sick to her stomach. She fought the urge to vomit.

The porter dropped his head, pain drenching his face, and winced as he faced the floor.

He was in a world of misery.

The soldier turned to Perry, and raised an eyebrow.

The bodyguard didn’t say a word.

Nodding and smiling sadistically, the soldier barked to his comrade, who handed over a trio of coarse black cloths. The man wrung them out tight, making them thin, and forced them between Perry’s lips, followed quickly by the porter. With both of them gagged, he wrapped blindfolds over their eyes.

Then he turned to Raya.

She didn’t kick or flail or scream. There was no point. It’d only intensify the panic once she lost the ability to speak and her world went dark.

Instead, she stared daggers at the soldier as he forced the dry rancid-tasting cloth between her lips, binding it tight against the corners of her mouth. She found herself thinking, My dad knows people.

They’re coming.

For you, and your friend, and whoever else is behind this.

Then the blindfold went over her eyes and she saw nothing but the dark material pressing tight.

But it didn’t end there.

There was a pause as the soldier got to his feet, and then he barked a sharp command. Raya sat still, assuming he was just talking to his buddy.

But then there was movement directly across the room.

She wasn’t able to pinpoint where it came from — the left, or the right. But she knew what it meant, and her heart dropped, and her walls came up, and she vowed to never utter another word to anyone until she was safe. It wasn’t so much the fact that it had happened. This was an extreme situation, and she hadn’t expected everything to unfold perfectly. It was the betrayal that cut her soul.

Because either Oscar Perry or the unnamed porter had just shrugged off their bindings and got to their feet.

One of them had been faking it.

Pretending to be held against their will.

Footsteps crept across the room, quietly, so Raya didn’t know whether it was the heavier Perry or the lighter porter. But the liar joined his soldier comrades and shook their hands — Raya heard palms clasping softly — and then the three of them left the room.

Raya yelled against her gag, but all that came out was a jumbled gargle.

She went quiet, waiting for a response from whoever was left across the room.

But their gag must have been locked tight, because all she heard was kicking feet and the thumping of a body squirming.

She couldn’t tell if it was coming from the left, or the right.

Perry and the porter had been seated too close together.

Raya went quiet, and took a deep rattling breath through the gag, and cried into her blindfold.

20

Phaplu was overcast and moody as they pulled in later that afternoon. It was a small village skewered into the Nepali mountains, offering a reprieve before the trek to Everest officially got underway.

They mounted a road running between a row of identical wooden teahouses and a tiny airport. The accommodation tried to lure in the arriving tourists coming off the planes. The runway to their left was impressively short, just a small strip of tarmac slapped horizontally onto the side of the hill, separated from the muddy trail by a cheap wire fence.

Slater watched King alternate his gaze between the phone screen and the murky surroundings outside, searching for their destination. They found it near the very end of the trail — a smaller teahouse, complete with the same wooden exterior, tucked into the shadows. The whole building seemed derelict, especially compared to the newer establishments aiming to trap tourists closer to the airport.

King parked the jeep, and they got out in the late afternoon gloom.

Slater’s breath steamed in front of his face. He had endless doubts about the mission still festering in his head, but now they were here in the middle of it, and there was no longer an opportunity for Violetta to reconsider.

So we might as well get it done fast, then.

He said, ‘This the place?’

King stared up at the forlorn structure. ‘As far as I can tell.’

‘Parker’s the only one here?’

‘I think his guide is still with him.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘It’s only unwise if we have reason to suspect the guide’s involved.’

‘I don’t trust anyone.’

‘Nor do I.’

‘Does the guide speak English?’

‘We’ll find out.’

‘I can take him,’ Slater said. ‘You take Parker.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m a little less … accommodating. And I think the guide’s more likely to know something than Parker is.’

‘I wouldn’t assume anything.’

‘Then we can switch halfway through,’ Slater said. ‘Good cop, bad cop.’

King nodded slowly. ‘That might work.’

‘Then let’s get this over and done with.’

They retrieved their all-weather duffel bags from the small storage compartment on the roof of the jeep, and trudged through the wet gravel toward the teahouse.

Ten feet from the entrance, the door swung open in their faces.

A white guy stood there, maybe fifty years old, carrying maybe thirty more pounds than he needed to. He must have been an athlete in the past — he still had the stocky, broad-shouldered build and overall poise of someone who knew how to move their body around. But there was a little too much fat under the stubble coating his jaw, and his hair had receded a decade ago. Nevertheless, his eyes were kind underneath the bloodshot surface.

He’d been crying a hell of a lot, it seemed.

Aidan Parker said, ‘Thank God you two are here.’

Slater paused to scrutinise, to assess, to look for suspiciousness, but King didn’t miss a beat. He strode forward and offered a hand and said, ‘I’m Jason King. This is my partner, Will Slater. We’re here to help.’

‘Thank you,’ Parker said. ‘Honestly, thank you so much. This place isn’t exactly around the corner.’

Slater watched King half-smile and shuffle past as Parker stepped aside to let him through.

Slater stepped up.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m Will.’

‘Hey, Will,’ Parker said. ‘Thanks again for coming.’

‘Don’t