Contracts, Matt Rogers [phonics reading books TXT] 📗

Then I tell them you staying in that room. It look like I’m telling truth because that is only key I give out. You understand?’

Slater half-smiled. ‘Yeah, I understand. You’d do that?’

The owner fished a key out of his pocket and threw it over.

The digits 108 were inscribed into it.

‘Maybe this buy you some time,’ the owner said. ‘Maybe this mean you live.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you hate me?’

‘No.’

‘Good luck, sir,’ the man said. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘I leave you now.’

‘Okay.’

‘Can I bring you food and drink? Before … everything happen?’

Slater thought about it. ‘Sure.’

He tossed the 105 key over, leaving his life in the owner’s hands.

64

It took King two hours to summit Gokyo Ri.

He covered the last half like a walking zombie, dragging his feet with every step. He’d underestimated the severity of the slope. It was steeper than any terrain he’d covered before. If he was in good shape at the bottom, he would have breezed through it, but the miles he’d clocked up over the last few days were finally taking their toll. He reached the archway of multi-coloured prayer flags at the peak in a sweaty, breathless heap.

Despite everything, he took time to admire the view. He was the first trekker on the peak, and a single glance down the mountain showed the next group behind him were at least an hour from the top. He checked briefly for any sign of hostiles, but there was little point. If they wanted him dead, they’d potshot him from a distance. He was putting blind faith in them to stick to their word, at least until he could meet with them face-to-face.

So there was no harm in soaking in one of the most incredible views he’d ever laid eyes on.

He spotted Everest to the east. It was further away than most of the mountains in sight, but it still dwarfed them. It was something to behold. Below he could make out the village of Gokyo, just a speck in front of a glacier that was at least twenty miles in length. To the south-west he saw the Renjo-La Pass in all its beauty, consisting of endless snowy mountains twisting and turning in every direction. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and by now the sun had risen over the mountain ranges, coating everything in a golden hue.

Still spectacular, despite the circumstances.

He knew the kidnappers and their rebel buddies were residing somewhere to the north. It was the only side of Gokyo Ri that wasn’t home to a sheer descent down the mountainside. Instead, the peak declined maybe fifty feet into a natural bowl in the landscape, covered entirely in snow and surrounded by peaks. The terrain was visibly treacherous and there was no clear path leading down there. Gokyo Ri was meant to be climbed and descended via the one path. There was no room to be trekking around the unstable north side that led further into the mountains.

King would have to figure out his own way down.

He knew they were watching him. He could feel eyes on him from somewhere — there were endless vantage points down in that rocky maze. They’d be peering out from all of them. They’d leave nothing to chance.

‘Well,’ he said under his breath, ‘here goes nothing.’

He could sense the lack of oxygen in the air as he set off again. Each breath seemed to come up short — no matter how much air he sucked in, his system pined for more. He deliberately exacerbated his breathing as he set a measured pace down the north side of the peak, sucking in giant lungfuls of air.

His muscles were aching, but he didn’t panic. It could still be chalked up to general exhaustion rather than the crippling effects of altitude.

If he succumbed to the same fate as Slater, then he’d never make it back down.

But he wasn’t there yet.

And, if that was the way it was going to go, he’d fight it until his last breath.

He made it a few dozen feet through the knee-high snow before he sensed the first sign of movement. It came from a cluster of boulders to his right, and he picked it up in his peripheral vision.

But he didn’t overreact.

A man stepped out from behind one of the rocks.

Clad in faded camouflage fatigues.

Wearing black shiny boots.

Pointing an AK-47 at his face.

‘Hey,’ King said, hunched over against the wind chill.

The guy didn’t budge. His aim didn’t waver. He wasn’t going to slip up — not with this much on the line, not with the potential for unimaginable riches dangling in front of his face.

‘Don’t accidentally shoot me,’ King said. ‘You know why I’m here.’

No response. No movement.

King said, ‘You want to pat me down for weapons?’

‘No. Walk.’

Smart man, King thought.

If the guy got into range, King could batter the cumbersome Kalashnikov away with a single swipe. Then he’d break the man’s neck for having the gall to point a loaded weapon at him. But the insurgent clearly recognised these risks — King’s frame was intimidating to anyone — and he kept his distance, skewering himself into the snow, looking through the AK-47s sights, unblinking.

King said, ‘Walk where?’

‘Keep going. Down there.’

‘Where?’

‘Walk or I shoot.’

‘No you won’t. You don’t want to upset your boss. The girl is worth a lot of money. I’m the guy who will get you that money. You understand how that works?’

‘Walk.’

Stalemate.

Call it delirium, call it recklessness, call it idiocy. King didn’t know which label to assign to it, but he decided not to draw his weapon. It would be relatively simple, and the odds were in his favour. A single jerky movement to the left and then a dive to the right, throwing the rebel’s aim off for the split second it would take to get the Sig Sauer in his hand and the bullet through the guy’s forehead. The sun would help him, reflecting off all the snow, compromising the man’s aim. King had the reflexes, the training, and the track record to pull it