by A P Bateman
Breakout
By
A P Bateman
Text © A P Bateman
2019
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing or otherwise, without written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction and any character resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Some locations may have been changed, others are fictitious.
Facebook: @authorapbateman
www.apbateman.com
Rockhopper Publishing Limited
2019
Also by A P Bateman
The Alex King Series
The Contract Man
Lies and Retribution
Shadows of Good Friday
The Five
Reaper
Stormbound
The Rob Stone Series
The Ares Virus
The Town
The Island
Standalone Novel
Hell’s Mouth
To my wife, Clair
For her unwavering support and understanding. Writing a novel is like balancing between sanity and insanity. It’s self-indulgent and time-consuming, and while you are immersed in your characters and plots, the real world sometimes gets left behind. It isn’t nine-to-five and when the words are flowing, you’re working. When the flow dries up, you fear it will never return. Like a spectre, a writer hovers between two realms, thank you for snatching me back occasionally into the real world. I know it isn’t easy.
Chapter One
Washington
Seventeen days ago
Four months had been building up to this point. Four long months of training – both in the field and the classroom – and in his mind. The mental strength, tacit stoicism needed for a task such as this was immeasurable. Certainly, his toughest assignment yet, and in a career spent plotting and fighting in the shadows, that meant a lot.
Alex King had paid for the room using a stolen credit card. The cardholder’s body would be found, but only when the time was right. Only when all his ducks were in a row. The man had been a prolific terrorist. He would not be missed. Certainly not by the right people.
The rifle had been purchased at a gun show in Texas. A Barrett M82, 12.7x99mm NATO, or in these parts - .50 cal. It was stripped and folded, strapped in the carry box with the sights affixed to the sight-rail, pre-zeroed to two-thousand-six-hundred metres. King had put five-hundred rounds through the weapon and was confident that he could make the shot. Today’s wind was light and drifting in from the Potomac in a steady South-westerly.
Congressman Willard Standing III was a fifty-nine-year-old veteran of Operation Desert Storm, where he ranked as Major and served with distinction. A lot of people had, America was long overdue a war and medals had been light on the ground since Vietnam. He terminated at Colonel with a few more decorations from Iraq and America’s second attempt to bring peace to the region, and he entered politics two years after leaving the army and a short stint with a veteran’s charity followed. He had accumulated a wealth of over two-hundred-million in the metallurgy industry, specialising in the smelting of gold. King wasn’t sure how much the stolen Kuwaiti gold had helped him along, but he was willing to bet it had a more positive effect than negative on the company’s earning potential. Standing Industries had been on a healthy climb since it was founded, first gaining the contract to buy weapons and military vehicles, both domestic and obsolete, and captured Iraqi stock, smelt them and return them to metal producers around the world as finished billets to create everything from cutlery to washing machines to premium vehicles. King realised that the man’s contacts within the military had helped him get through the pentagon, but nobody had ever found anything untoward in the man’s dealings. Still, if it walked and quacked like a duck…
Standing had been ahead of the game and cashed out of steel and into gold before India and China dominated the steel industry. At the right time. Conveniently so. Standing Industries was set to do nothing but climb, and the world-wide stock markets were indicating substantial stock growth over the next year. With wealth and influence came the need for more of both, and he had run through mayor and governor easily enough, faltered for a while because of an investigative journalist’s questions about missing Kuwaiti gold his unit had liberated from the Iraqis, but was back on course for senator and congressman in a short seven years. The investigative journalist had been shot and killed in a Seven Eleven robbery gone wrong. Or right. It depended on your point of view. The perpetrator had never been found.
King checked his watch. It was a black digital and analogue affair, guaranteed to withstand shock and Gs. It wasn’t his type of watch, but it had been worn by the cardholder and that would provide a trail. Another breadcrumb. It was ten-twenty-seven AM. Eighteen minutes until Congressman Standing took to the podium.
King plugged in the hotplate and made himself another cup of tea as he waited for it to heat. He took the cup over to the table and looked down at the rifle. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the latex gloves he was wearing and started to assemble the parts with well-practised precision.
Chapter Two
Thames House, London
“It’s been over two bloody weeks!”
“I know.”
“And not a word?”
“Nothing.” Ramsay shrugged. “He checked in before Standing’s speech. We know there were multiple shots fired and even saw Standing down on the stage. The whole world saw it. No arrests made, and no further word from King.”
Amherst steepled his fingers under his chin. He was a young man to hold the position of Director, but the MI5 chief felt older today. Older these past two-weeks. He would swear that there had been more grey hair at his temples when he looked into the mirror at the ageing figure who stared tiredly back at him this morning. “Simon?”
Simon Mereweather shrugged. “There hasn’t been any chatter. GCHQ has tasked Echelon with tapping the right channels. The CIA are denying an arrest was made. The FBI have been silenced through an order of National Security.”
“And the Washington police?” Amherst asked, but to no one in particular.
Ramsay said, “But they won’t know anything. Silenced.”
“Can we at least make some intelligent guesses as to King’s whereabouts?”
Simon Mereweather hesitated, then said, “It’s a big country…”
“I know it’s a big bloody country, Simon! But there are places where he could be. Some more obvious than others…”
Neil Ramsay was Mereweather’s deputy. And even though Simon Mereweather was joint Deputy Director – the other being an administration only role – this in no way made him number three in the Security Service. Ramsay always joked that being the deputy’s deputy merely made him overworked, underpaid and forever in the firing line. Even so, as a good batman, he took the pressure off his boss and said, “The Mid-West.”
“Why so sure?” Amherst asked dubiously.
Ramsay had thrown a bone, now wished he hadn’t. He hated backing up statements with nothing more than a hunch. But so far, his hunches had played out. “It’s vast. And it suits their purposes. You can drive for days and avoid seeing a town.”
“And that’s it?”
Ramsay shrugged. “It’s a calculated guess. But it makes sense.”
“Oh, well that’s okay then…”
Mereweather and Ramsay both knew sarcasm when they heard it, but neither man made the mistake of saying anything.
“So, we just have to wait?”
Mereweather nodded. “It will happen soon enough. We’ll hear something about King, and we’ll be ready to move.”
&
nbsp; “I hope you’re right,” Amherst said. “For all our sakes.” He picked up a sheet of paper from his in tray and said nothing more.
Both men gave it around ten seconds, Mereweather making the first move and getting to his feet. Amherst seemed oblivious as both men headed for the door. Outside, there was an office with Amherst’s PA typing quickly and expertly at a laptop. She smiled at them as she typed. She did not know Alex King. Nobody on this floor, or any floor within Thames House would recall the name or recognise a photograph. Mereweather held the door open for Ramsay and the overhead lighting illuminated the corridor. The building had been hit by anti-aircraft gun fire and incendiary ammunition in a terrorist attack and this level had been entirely rebuilt. It had lost what little character it had, and that wasn’t saying much. Controlled by sensors, the lights ahead of them switched on and the lights behind them switched off as they walked. No matter the time of day, the experience was eerie.
“A hunch?” Mereweather asked. “Or an educated guess?”
“They’re usually one and the same.”
“But enough to go on?”
Ramsay shrugged. “I heard talk before, years ago. South Dakota, Wyoming – that sort of postcode.”
Mereweather scoffed. “What’s that? Three or four times the size of Britain?”
“A bit more.”
“How much time will it save?”
Ramsay shrugged. He had a feeling too much was going to rest on his hunch. “A few days, at least.”
“And if it turns out to be Florida?”
“Then I guess I get another job…”
“Or King dies…”
Ramsay nodded. “Sorry, yes.” He felt a little foolish at his flippancy.
“Go with it,” Mereweather said decisively. “Get back out there and see what you can find out. I won’t tell the big cheese, not just yet. Get things in place for the Mid-West.”
Ramsay nodded. He wasn’t about to tell the Deputy Director that he had put both a plan and personnel in place a week before King had even deployed. It was a layered plan, borne of both hunch and intelligence gathering. A man’s life was at stake. A friend’s life. The plan the top floor had instigated had been difficult enough, but in Ramsay’s mind it hadn’t been sufficient. Too many variables. Ramsay’s counterplan would give King some security and a buffer. But it would make terrorists and saboteurs out of them all. But King was a friend and he deserved a fighting chance. But not only that, what King had been working on held ramifications for the rest of mankind.
Chapter Three
Two months earlier
King watched her draw and fire the pistol. She wasn’t altogether a natural – she did not get enough practise for that - but after a few rounds she found her groove and settled into the discipline. From his position above the firing line, he couldn’t see where the bullets were grouping on the paper figure 11 target some thirty-metres further forward, but the strikes in the building sand of the back-stop behind the row of targets indicated that her shots were at least consistent. By the time she fed the third magazine into the Glock 19 pistol, her movements were both relaxed and fluid.
“I do find it a bit of a turn on,” Rashid commented. “A hot chick with a gun. Kind of like when you see a fit bird driving an Aston Martin or a Ferrari on Oxford Street. A balding bloke in his forties or fifties just looks like a tosser, but a fit woman? There’s a huge difference.”
“I ought to punch you right now,” King said flatly. “Anyway, Caroline drives a Mini.”
“She’s handling that weapon really well…”
“Could you get any more innuendo into that sentence?”
“There’s no innuendo in that.”
“Not what you say, just the way that you say it.”
Rashid smirked. “You sound like my other half now.”
“You have another half? Surely not…”
“Marnie,” Rashid replied.
“The chubby bird in analytics?”
“You see, when I say something, it’s funny. When you say it, it’s downright nasty.”
King smiled. “Ah, did I hurt your feelings?”
Rashid hauled the bag out of the rear of the Land Rover and bundled it at King. “Well, I won’t tell Marnie you said that,” he said and looked back at the firing line. “I might tell Caroline, though. She’ll love that, what with all the women power and all that…”
“Now that’s nasty. What did I ever do to you?”
“Plenty,” Rashid paused. “Now, what range are we starting at?”
“Is it zeroed?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, let’s get a few on at a hundred and work backwards.”
Rashid nodded and picked up the ammunition box. He hesitated and nodded to the firing line. “Look, Ramsay’s up.”
King watched as Caroline holstered her weapon and guided Ramsay around the Glock 17 in his hands. It was larger than the model 19 and would fit his hand better, recoil a little less. She started him off pointing at the target and getting used to the blade safety on the trigger. Ramsay then worked the action and she handed him a loaded magazine. She showed him how to drop the slide and make the weapon ready and aim at the target.
“I’m glad he’s finally getting some training.”
“I know,” Rashid smiled. “But who’ll carry my shit in a gunfight now?”
King laughed and headed towards the rifle range.
“This is from Hereford,” Rashid said as King took the Barrett .50 out of the gun bag. He knew Rashid was an ex-SAS Captain, and the man still had his contacts. “So, don’t break it.”
“And this is definitely the weapon?”
Rashid nodded. “From the grooves and twists in the bullets recovered from the bodies – or at least near the bodies after over penetration - it was definitely a Barrett used in the assassinations.”
King had used one before, and he set about assembling the barrel into the receiver. He could hear Ramsay on the 9mm. It sounded as if the desk-jockey was getting excited. The sharp reports were closer together and it sounded as if Caroline was encouraging him to double tap.
The range ahead of them spread out to almost three miles of uninterrupted Hampshire countryside. Rashid had earlier set out the figure 11 man-sized targets at various distances, although he had not told King what they were.
“First is at two-hundred,” he said. “Forget zeroing on a hundred, the bullet is still rising at that range.” He settled onto his stomach and raised the Zeiss field glasses. “I’ll sight you onto the target.”
King settled down beside him and put the ear protectors on. He hadn’t loaded the magazine, simply placed a dozen of the bullets on the mat and dropped one into the breech. He closed the bolt and sighted on the centre of the paper target. The weapon was fitted with a two-stage trigger and King took up pressure until it gave, and he knew the tiniest contact would now make the weapon fire.
The gunshot was loud, even through the protection of the ear defenders and the recoil through his shoulder was like a hard punch.
“Off the paper,” Rashid said looking at the plume of soil that had exploded into the air. “A foot right and I’d say a good foot high.”
King fired again. He worked the bolt, dropped in another bullet and fired once he had settled his breathing. He wanted to establish a grouping before he adjusted the sights.
“Yeah, same place. You can plant some potatoes in those holes later if you like…”
King adjusted the top turret. The dial was ratcheted, and he spun it round half a dozen clicks. He did the same with the turret on the right side of the scope. He settled down, loaded the huge bullet into the breech and closed the bolt.
He fired again.
“On the paper, six inches high and ten right.”
King could see for himself at this range, but he enjoyed the man’s company. He also knew the man next to him was the finest sniper he’d ever encountered, and any pointers would always be appreciated, even after all his years in
the field. He fired twice more.
“Tight grouping. That’s nice.”
King adjusted both turrets and fired another shot.
“Vee bull. High. Twenty-five points, buddy.”
Another shot and the bullet clipped the last hole. King adjusted the top turret two clicks and the elevation three down. He loaded another bullet and closed the bolt. He fired again. His shoulder feeling the kick against the stock now.
“Bullseye! You win the cuddly toy…”
King put two more through the bull and there was nothing left to fire at. He changed his aim to the next target. He estimated four-hundred metres. He fired again.
“Bullseye!”
King fired three shots and tore the bull out of the target.
“Try one thousand,” said Rashid.
The sight was fitted with an off-set to accommodate shots at various distances. King switched to the next aperture and took a steady aim. He fired.
“A little low,” said Rashid. “You’re more or less bang-on for point of aim.”
Over the next ten-minutes, King brought the bullets into the bullseye. He re-set to the third aperture. He now had the rifle zeroed to four-hundred and one-thousand metres respectively. He could choose either setting to fire at six-hundred metres – simply aim a little high for the first aperture or a little low with the second.
“It’s a shit plan,” said Rashid.
“It’s the only one we’ve got.”
“Too many variables.”
“You could say that.”
“I just did,” he paused. “How much does Caroline know?”
“The general premise.”
“And that’s enough?”
“Not nearly,” said King. “But when it happens, you and Ramsay will be there for her.”
“And that will be enough to get her through?”
“It’ll have to be,” King paused. “It will work. I’ll make it work.”
