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

I misread you,” King paused. “So now, I’ll just have to kill you.”

“Kill me!” Sergeyev screamed at him. He paced over and stood two paces in front of King. “Look around you, dickhead! I am calling the shots! It is I who will kill you!”

“And you will never see your wife and child again. They are quite safe. For now. But they will die of thirst and starvation before you find them, or before anybody else does,” King paused, held up his hand. “You control their fate. Don’t be an idiot. I’ll give you one chance, and one chance only. We’ll put this down to ego, to theatrics. Emotion, even. Now, get your boys to put down their weapons and leave us alone to talk.”

“Niet!” Sergeyev screamed. He pulled a gold-plated Makarov pistol out of his waistband and aimed it at King.

Sergeyev went down hard. The bullet striking him in the chest and throwing a mist of crimson in the air. Some of it went on King’s face, but he was already moving and had the shovel in his hands as he rolled back up onto his feet. He saw the bewildered expression on Dimitri’s face, right before he split the big Russian’s head open through to the middle of his face.

Gunshots echoed out, but these were not the shots that were finding their targets. Instead, two of Sergeyev’s bodyguards went down almost simultaneously. King dug the shovel out of Dimitri’s face, went to swing at the nearest monkey, but the man went down, his head dissolving into a pink mist. King dropped to the ground, scrambled over to Sergeyev and picked up his pistol. He sighted on the last remaining guard, who looked at King in bewilderment, more than anger, and watched him fall into the rear door of the Range Rover, slip to the ground and lie still.

King was breathing hard. He had no cover, no target to acquire in the pistol’s tiny sights. He stood up slowly, the pistol lowered down by his side.

The figure rose from a pile of broken branches, twenty-five feet from him and stood still, the rifle held with the muzzle pointed at the ground. He walked over, stepping over one of the dead Russians. He was dressed in an army surplus olive jacket and a pair of tan cargoes. His hair was as black as jet and his dark coffee complexion remained invisible in the dim light, right up until he stood next to King.

“You cut that fine,” King said.

“Better late than never,” there was a distinct brummie lilt to his accent.

“Better never late.”

The man shrugged, cradled the suppressed M4 rifle. “You didn’t give me much notice. Seems to be a habit. And you still owe me a pint from last time.”

“I’ll buy you a couple later.”

“Do you know how hard it is to smuggle one of these out of Hereford? And through the border force lot at Dover?” he raised the rifle, then glanced at Sergeyev on the ground. “You’ve got a live one.”

King turned around to see the Russian mafia boss trying to push himself backwards across the earth. The fallen pine needles were thick, and they were mounding up around his shoulders. He raised the pistol and Sergeyev stopped moving. He was bleeding heavily from the wound in his chest. The blood was almost black. The bullet had caught his liver.

“Bastard…” he said, his Russian accent thick and hateful.

“I gave you a chance. You were too much of a tough guy to take it,” King paused, looked at his companion. “Rashid, find the keys to the Range Rover and let’s get out of here.” He looked back at Sergeyev. “Your wife and child are quite safe. I’ll release them tonight. No harm will, or would ever have come to them. But I’m in a tight spot. Someone who wants you dead is holding my fiancé.”

“So?” he rasped.

“Her name is Helena. She is from the Ukraine and she married an English billionaire…”

“Helena Milankovitch…”

“You know her then,” he said flatly. “What’s her issue with you?”

The Russian sneered. He touched his chest, then looked at his blood-soaked hand. He’d seen enough in his violent and unforgiving life to know his fate. He seemed to relax, as if knowing had knocked the fight out of him. “Fuck you,” he grimaced. “Fuck you, and fuck her too…”

“We’ve got wheels!” Rashid shouted. “Stick a bullet in him and let’s get the hell out of Dodge!”

King looked down at Sergeyev. He didn’t see the tough and resourceful, unrelenting, unforgiving mafia boss who had risked the life of his wife and child in a show of strength to his men. He saw a dying man, whose violent past had finally caught up with him. Whatever it was, the mention of Helena Milankovitch had taken the wind out of his sails.

“Your liver has had it,” King said. “You are going to die here, in this clearing. You’re not going to talk about Helena, are you?”

“Niet!” Sergeyev glowered. His face was ashen, his torso now completely soaked. He forced a smile, perhaps a last-ditch show of bravado. “But mark my words,” he said, his breathing laboured. “If she has your woman, she is as good as dead. You won’t bargain with Helena.” He smiled. “Your bitch is as good as dead…”

King looked at the Russian, then glanced around the clearing at the bodies strewn on the ground. He shook his head, angered with himself that he had let it get this far, taken this turn of events. He had tried to give a man a chance. Not that the man deserved it. A ruthless individual who would have caused untold pain and suffering to others in his world of organised crime. His quest to become more powerful, ever wealthier, had caused misery for so many. He wasn’t a man who deserved a chance,