Contracts, Matt Rogers [phonics reading books TXT] 📗

brain were drained, and his ankle blazed with fiery intensity. He threw a look over his shoulder to see if Slater was faring any better, and immediately gave him a pass. He wouldn’t be able to keep up any sort of intimidating act either. He was sweaty and shaky, and the bandages around his forearm were riddled with a mixture of leftover blood and perspiration. He met King’s gaze with wide unblinking eyes and ever so slowly shook his head.

I need rest, his eyes said.

King nodded, and turned back to the teahouse owner. ‘We’ll give you a generous tip for your hospitality.’

The man waved a hand. ‘That won’t be necessary, sir.’

‘Well, we’re giving it to you regardless.’

‘Much appreciated.’

‘Now if you could lead us to our room…’

‘Of course.’

This time, they didn’t take separate rooms. Each room was the same — the ceiling and walls and floor made of cheap wood, the rickety single-bed frames pressed to each wall, the thin mattresses on top, a spare blanket folded neatly at the foot of each bed. Understanding their condition, the owner gave the space a quick once-over and then left them alone.

‘Should we eat dinner before we crash?’ Slater mumbled.

‘I could use a nap,’ King said. ‘I’ll set an alarm for later this evening.’

‘Works for me.’ Then he thought hard, despite his compromised state, and added, ‘Let’s take it in shifts, though. We’ll be most vulnerable over these next few days. And I don’t trust that guy at the front desk any more than anyone else.’

‘You go first,’ King said. ‘Looks like you need it more.’

Without another word, Slater gently lowered himself to the mattress. He fished the sleeping bag out of his pack and, rather than clambering into it, draped it across his prone body and closed his eyes. Within seconds, he was asleep.

King sat on the opposite mattress, vigilant as ever, deep in his own head. He was exhausted, sore and cold. He scooted to the top of the bed, propped the pillow up against the wall for support, and elevated his swollen ankle onto the mattress. Working quietly, he started to peel off the duct tape to get a better look at the state of the injury.

Halfway through the process, his satellite phone barked.

He noticed Slater peel one eye open, curious enough to emerge from his nap.

He answered.

Violetta said, ‘You need to see something. We’ve received a video. I have to warn you — it’s not good.’

39

Slater hadn’t been asleep for more than a few minutes, but the room was awfully quiet and he heard every faint word from Violetta’s end.

He sat up immediately. ‘Ask her how they got it.’

King mirrored the enquiry, and thumbed a button to put her on speaker.

She said, ‘It’s from the kidnappers — whoever they are. They uploaded it to the dark web using tags they knew we’d be searching for. We found it eight minutes after it was uploaded. It’s… well, see for yourself.’

‘You’ll send it to this phone?’

‘Yes — it’s secure.’

‘Okay. Whenever you’re ready.’

He ended the call and tossed the phone to Slater, who fidgeted with the display. The satellite phone was blocky and archaic compared to the sleekness of commercial devices, but it was technologically state-of-the-art and could receive video files without issue. The screen was smaller and the quality less impressive than a typical smartphone, but Slater didn’t imagine they’d have to scrutinise the footage too hard to get the picture.

He was right.

The device vibrated in his hands, and he opened the MP4 file sent anonymously from a blocked number. Its thumbnail appeared on the screen, and both he and King took in the scene. Raya Parker, Oscar Perry, and the porter, Mukta, had their hands bound behind their backs, and their ankles strapped together, and grimy gags in their mouths. They were propped up in seated positions in front of a cheap plasterboard wall with no easily identifiable features. The lighting was weak, and all three of them were in rough condition.

Sure enough, Mukta had a horrifically swollen eye.

Perry had superficial cuts and scrapes, but nothing drastic.

Raya just looked exhausted.

‘You already know what this is going to be, right?’ King said.

Slater looked at him. ‘I could assume. I’m trying to be more optimistic, though.’

‘You shouldn’t be. Hit play.’

Slater took a deep breath.

Steeled himself for what was to come.

Hit play.

The trio came to life, transforming from a freeze frame into living, breathing people. They shook in the cold, and their teeth rattled against the gags, and Raya’s eyes seemingly went everywhere at once, fixating on multiple targets behind the camera.

Then two men who looked like the same Maoist rebels who’d ambushed them in Kharikhola stepped into frame.

They wore the same shiny boots and cheap camouflage fatigues, and they had the same soulless black eyes. That was all Slater could make out, because they were clad in cheap black balaclavas. They stared into the camera for a few beats, one on each side of the seated hostages, flanking the trio. Then one of them squatted down so he could speak into the camera.

His English was broken, but passable.

‘We know there are two soldier your government send on trail. This is good for us. It prove to us that you take this seriously, so we can make high demand. They are good soldier. They do lot of damage to us, but not enough. We have many men.’

He turned and looked at Raya, who stared defiantly back.

The guy reached out and touched her cheek.

Then returned his gaze to the camera.

‘She valuable,’ he said. ‘She very, very valuable. You send your best. This is mistake on your part. But this is why we take her on this trail. Because it obvious if you send people to get her back. We do not want this, though. This bad for business. We do punishment now.’

Over Slater’s shoulder, King cursed.

‘Shut up,’ Slater said.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the video.

The soldier took a knife out of a sheath on his belt. It had already been sharpened, and