The Alex King Series A BATEMAN (summer reading list txt) 📖

wasn’t a main route to anywhere. He eased out slowly from the trees, crouching in the dried-up drainage ditch. He could see two guards milling around in the smashed-open gateway. By the looks of them, both had been injured when Rashid had rampaged through the gates. One was limping, favouring a leg, the other was rubbing his shoulder and nursing a cigarette. He carried an assault rifle and was holding its muzzle towards the ground. Both men were watching as several men approached the stationary digger. The had off-loaded enough ammunition for a small war and were tactically advancing as if the person inside might still pose a threat.

Rashid turned his attention further up the driveway. He could see clusters of men regrouping. His thoughts were of King and whether he had reached his objective. He had undoubtedly created a diversion, but now he needed to buy King some time.

Rashid stood up and crept across the road. He had twenty-metres to go when one of the men started to turn. Rashid sprinted, suddenly realising he was favouring an injury of his own. His knee was stiffening with swelling; he must have clouted it on the dash as he was thrown through the windscreen. He powered onwards, the man completing his turn when he was five paces away. The barrel of the AK74 started to rise, and Rashid could see the fear in the man’s eyes as he closed the gap and barrelled into him at alarming rate. Both men hit the ground and sprawled at the other man’s feet. Rashid knew the man he had taken down was less of a threat than the other, and he kicked him in the knee. It wasn’t enough to take him down, but it was the injured leg and it bought him enough time to scramble for the rifle. He caught hold of the barrel and swung it like a baseball bat, the man taking the wooden stock to the side of his head. He was out cold and falling before Rashid finished the swing. He elbowed the other man in the face, then got up onto his knees and straddled him as he hammered down a flurry of fists into the man’s face. They weren’t killer blows, but they were fast and there were so many of them that the man was soon unconscious.

Rashid got up and limped over to the rifle. He checked it over, then took three spare magazines from one of the inert men. He noticed the other rifle on the ground. A Russian AK15. This was a modern version of the famous AK47. Designed to take on the west’s silky-smooth assault rifles, it was a short-ranged sniper weapon for the urban environment. Good for six-hundred metres, chambered for the 7.62x39mm cartridge and equipped with a chunky suppressor for quiet operation, and a handy x6 magnification wide-angle scope. It covered a multitude of bases and was possibly a more complete package than what many NATO countries were using. Rashid had never been so close to one, and he checked the magazine and slung the weapon over his shoulder. If he could get it to the British embassy, he knew the boys at Hereford would want to take a look at it.

Rashid turned his attention back to the forty-year-old design of the AK74. He tucked the spare magazines into his waistband and took cover against the wall. He started to take single shots at the men at the house, then turned to the men advancing on the digger and fired several rounds at them, before turning his aim back on the men who were scattering at the house. He repeated the process until there was all-out gun battles ensuing. He changed magazines and switched to rapid fire sending volleys the three-hundred metres or so to the house, then short burst to the men in the open and those who were now using the digger as cover. He was soon out of ammunition and he dropped the rifle onto the ground. He unslung the AK15 and held it ready but did not fire. He could see the pandemonium at the house, and the men at the digger were firing off rounds ineffectively at the wall that Rashid hid behind.

He backed out of the gateway, his eyes on the house. “Well, my friend, I’ve got to get going now,” he said. “I hope that bought you enough time…”

71

 

“Are you going to kill me?”

King couldn’t answer that. He looked down at the blood on his stomach. He felt weak. He had made the call: I have what you want, he had said. He gave the location and told her not to be late. Get here if you want to see her alive…

He looked down at the Black Sea. It wasn’t living up to its name today. It was glistening like the med, the sun turning it a hue of gold in places. The pine trees across the mountainside were rich in scent and shimmied in the gentle breeze. He ran a hand down to his stomach and looked at the blood on his fingers. He tore a strip off the lining of his jacket and felt under his shirt, tucking the strip inside the wound like packing wad. He grimaced, his face bruised and swelling from the fight.

The fight of all fights.

“I’m sorry,” Catherine said, looking at his stomach.

“You loved him?”

She shrugged. “He treated me well,” she said solemnly.

“He was married.”

She nodded. “To me.”

“But Anna Sergeyev said you had been recently abducted.”

“And you trusted her?” Catherine smirked. “More fool you…”

King stared at her coldly. “Then why does Helena want you? Surely she would know you and Romanovitch were together?”

Catherine looked back at him. From inside the boot of the car. It was the coldest expression he could recall. “Because she hates him. Hates him more than she loves me…”