Contracts, Matt Rogers [phonics reading books TXT] 📗

times, but his ankle was sturdier by the day, and it was holding up.

He paused to fetch his bottle and take a few gulps of water, and when he craned his neck to stare up at the peak, he thought he saw something.

Hundreds of feet above.

The barely visible outline of a silhouette, already at the top of Gokyo Ri, staring down.

Observing.

King watched it for a few seconds, trying to take in as many details as he could.

It was futile.

A moment later, the silhouette vanished from sight.

Overwhelmed by dread, he continued onward.

63

There was a flurry of activity in the rooms at five a.m., almost an hour after King left.

Slater heard a faint cacophony of alarms go off within the same minute, as each smartphone struck five on the dot. There were the sounds of feet shuffling, and zips gliding up jackets, and trekking poles touching the ground. Then doors opened and hikers grumbled quiet greetings to each other as they bled out into the main corridor, heading to the other building for breakfast and tea before the day’s climb.

He listened without moving, keeping the Sig Sauer in a tight grip. When the last of the Gokyo Ri trekkers vacated the premises, the building returned to silence.

Slater kept his eyes fixed on the door, and did his best to focus on recovery.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to achieve. He knew descending the mountain was all that would help. It would take weeks for his body to adapt to this altitude, and he had mere hours before shit was bound to hit the fan one way or the other.

Either King wouldn’t return and he’d be left to fend for himself, or King would return with Raya in tow and a pissed-off Maoist splinter group hot on his heels.

The cold never let up, leeching through the thin walls and chilling him to the bone. He dragged the sleeping bag over himself, but didn’t dare get inside. Even though his body was on the verge of total shutdown, he knew there’d be some final morsel of energy locked away that he could access when his life depended on it. He didn’t want to use it up struggling to get out of a sleeping bag.

So he lay there and shivered and focused on his breathing and watched the door and tried not to get tired.

Minutes blurred into hours, and he lost all sense of time. He refused to check his phone — it would only make the time pass slower. Light steadily bled in through the frosted window pane as the sun rose behind the distant mountains. Now he could see the breath clouding in front of his face on each exhale, which somehow only made him colder. It was the inevitability of hyperintention — draw your attention to something, and it only makes it worse. He could see the physical effect of the cold in his breath, and it only served to chill him to the core.

His teeth started chattering when there was a knock at the door.

He nearly leapt out of his skin.

He listened hard. He hadn’t heard anyone approaching. Whoever was out there was making a deliberate effort to keep quiet. But it couldn’t be the insurgents. Not if they wanted him dead. They’d simply kick the door in and come through the window simultaneously. Hit the room from all angles, and there’s no way he’d survive the onslaught.

Slater angled the Sig toward the door, squaring up the barrel with its centre. He kept the sleeping bag draped over his mid-section, but the material wouldn’t affect the bullet’s trajectory at all.

He said, ‘Come in.’

He’d left the door unlocked. It’d take all his effort just to cross the room, so he’d elected to allow ease of access in case someone showed up to enquire about anything banal.

The door swung open.

It was the man who’d checked them in the previous day.

His hands were bare.

But Slater kept the gun angled at his chest all the same.

The guy couldn’t see it, obviously. The gun was covered by the sleeping bag. But if he tried anything hostile at all, Slater would put a bullet in his heart.

Slater said, ‘What do you want?’

The man looked sheepish. ‘You are still here.’

‘Yes. I’m sick.’

‘Your friend…?’

‘He went on ahead.’

A pause, and then, ‘To where?’

‘You know where.’

The owner bowed his head. ‘I cannot pretend I do not know. You could tell … when I checked you both in.’

‘Yeah.’

’They said they would kill my family.’

‘I know. You’re not the first person they threatened.’

‘I had to do what they say.’

‘I know.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Are you here to kill me?’

The owner shook his head.

‘Are you here to talk?’

‘I saw your friend leave an hour ago. I thought you stay. Had to make sure.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘Give you option to kill me.’

Slater paused. ‘What?’

‘They tell me to call and give them information when you or your friend leave. I have delayed long enough. If I do not tell them, they carry out their promise. I know these people. Very bad people. They hurt my children if I do not do what they say.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘To give you warning. To tell you to run. I do not want you to die.’

‘I can’t run,’ Slater said. ‘I can’t even move. So it looks like I’m staying right here.’

‘They hurt me and my family if I do not call.’

‘Then call.’

‘You can kill me,’ the owner said. ‘If you want. I have … dishonoured you. You are guest here, and I put your life in danger. This is not something you forgive.’

‘It’s fine,’ Slater said. ‘Call them.’

‘I know you have gun under there. You shoot me?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because this isn’t your fault, and you’re backed up against a wall with no way out. I don’t blame you. Make the call.’

The owner thought about it for a long time. He said, ‘I respect you.’

‘Thank you.’

Then the man thought about it some more. ‘Give me your key.’

‘Why?’

‘I give you one for empty room, and replace it.