The light from the back deck of the house near the Bewl Water reservoir helped guide King quietly through the trees. The goldcrests sang their happy tune above him. He knew what type of bird was prominent in this part of the world because of the dozens of hours he’d spent familiarizing himself with all things East Sussex. While he knew such information regarding the area’s indigenous wildlife would be of no use during the assassination, he also didn’t want any surprises. When it was life and death, no detail was too small, no stone would go unturned.
The mansion at the water’s edge was sprawling, and so was the land on which it was situated. The reason Maragos chose it—its isolation—was now the very thing that made him all the more vulnerable to a man like King. During the past month, King had spent every visit scouring the property. He knew everything about it. Most importantly, he’d learned that there were no security cameras. Maragos didn’t want any record of where he’d been hiding from the world, and he also didn’t want anyone to have the ability to hack into them to find out his whereabouts. Maragos was familiar enough with technology to know that anyone with any tech savvy at all could reach right into a set of security cameras from a computer anywhere on the planet.
That was his reasoning to have around-the-clock guards instead.
A couple of weeks ago, there were four men walking the grounds. The past week, only two. Not counting the guard at the gate several acres to the north, who was not a concern because by the time the guards near the house realized they needed backup or Maragos himself was in trouble with the other guards down, King would be long gone.
The only other important thing King knew after watching from across the lake was that every night at eight thirty Maragos got on his treadmill on the top floor of his home. The window in front of the walking machine looked out over the lake below, but both times King had entered the house when Maragos was gone, he made sure the end of the deck below could not be seen from the treadmill. King had to be sure the deck was out of sight because of the guard who regularly paced back and forth on that very deck. As King watched now, the armed guard turned his back to the trees and walked toward the opposite end of the deck.
King made his move.
He crossed the grassy area between the trees and the deck like a mouse scurrying across a kitchen floor. At the foot of the stairs, he crouched and waited. He reached inside his pocket, pulled out the knife, and thumbed open the blade. Though his Glock was fitted with a suppressor, that didn’t mean it wouldn’t make a sound. It would make a noise like that of a hand slapping against a wall, which was better than a full blast but still loud enough to get the guard’s attention at the front of the house.
All King could hear now was the whisper of the breeze, the chirps of the goldcrests as they settled into their nests, and the footsteps of the guard coming back his way. King could tell by the groan of the wood planks under each step that this was the larger of the two guards at the mansion. He squeezed the handle of the knife and placed his foot on the first step leading up to the deck. He listened for the footsteps to stop then start again; that way he knew the guard had once again turned his back.
The footsteps began moving away, and King matched the cadence of the guard’s footsteps exactly as he ascended the stairs. When he reached the top, he sprinted for the guard. As the guard turned to see the commotion, King was already on top of him. King stabbed just below the man’s beard to stop his shout, then twice to the carotid artery so he would bleed out.
As the guard grasped at his neck, trying desperately to keep his blood on the inside, King lowered him to the ground and took the semiautomatic rifle that was strapped over his shoulder. He ejected the magazine, plus the round that was chambered, and put both in his pocket, leaving the gun resting on the man’s chest. He walked away as the guard slipped quietly into death.
Before he left the deck, he paused to look up at the windows above him. The lights were on, and when he really tuned his ears, he could hear the news on the television inside. His target was in position. Now it was time to eliminate him.
As he descended the stairs, he pocketed the knife and took the Glock in his hand. He squeezed the grip on his familiar friend as he rounded the side of the house. There was no need to chamber a round; it already lay waiting. One of the reasons he chose a Glock many years ago as his most important tool was because there was no need to fiddle with a safety since there wasn’t one. The gun was always ready to go.
King sidled up to the edge of the brick wall of the home. He inched his head around the corner. The yellow light from the two porch lamps hanging from the house on both sides of the front door shone down on the man standing at the bottom of the driveway. This was the part of the job that King hated. He knew the man upstairs on the treadmill deserved to die, but this man guarding Maragos, did he qualify for the same fate? In any war, there was always collateral damage for the greater good. But King never liked this part. This man has a family, friends, maybe even kids, but a host of bad decisions led this man here—guarding a man responsible for the death of many innocent people—and though King didn’t like being the hand that brought the consequences, it’s the life he chose. Nobody likes everything about their job, but the work must still be done.
King raised his gun and squeezed the trigger in quick succession. The suppressor clapped twice, and the man dropped to the ground. He moved forward and once again removed the magazine and the bullet in the chamber from the dead man’s gun. Then he found the keys to the front door in the guard’s left pocket and moved toward the house.
Inside, the mansion smelled of cooked hamburger. Maragos’s last meal. Every light on the bottom floor was on. The stone tile floor beneath King’s feet made it easy to stay quiet—no groaning wood. The staircase turned left as he ascended then turned left again at the top to walk the hall that ran the length of the upstairs. The wood beams running along the ceiling gave the mansion a mountain cabin feel, but King cared nothing about that; he was focused on the open door at the far end of the hall.
The BBC was blaring from the television, almost loud enough to cover the thrum-thrum thrum-thrum of Maragos’s sneakers skidding along the conveyor belt of the treadmill. As King stepped forward, his heart rate stepped up a beat. Over a year ago, the nanochips that Maragos had his terrorists implant in King’s team members and also King’s sister and niece could have killed them at any moment. Would have killed them if King hadn’t been able to take out the only two people who knew how to set them off before it was too late. Andonios Maragos, his now deceased brother and sister—Gregor and Anastasia—were all part of a terrorist group that the United States had deemed defunct once Anastasia was killed.
But King had known better.
He knew the kind of radicalism coursing through the veins of this Greek family didn’t come from the teachings of their wealthy father. They had come from somewhere else. And while the US government was okay with being able to tell the American people that it all ended with the death of the “ring leader”—Anastasia Maragos—King was being pulled by some unseen force to look deeper. Even past the man in the next room, Andonios, who most of the world saw as a harmless and wealthy playboy.
Money-funding terrorists are anything but harmless. That’s why King’s only ally, Sam, was currently in Greece investigating the lives of the Maragoses, how they grew up, who knew them as children. At that very moment she was following up on a lead about a caretaker the Maragoses had during their childhood. King wasn’t the type of man who lived his life letting signs dictate his behavior and beliefs. However, he was a man who trusted his instincts, and they were telling him that what Sam was about to uncover in Athens would lead to the real people in charge of the terrorist organization that Maragos’s money had been funding. Now it was time to cut off the money supply. King would worry about the head of the snake when the serpent was finally identified.
As King rounded the upstairs banister, Andonios Maragos came into view. For most people in this situation, their adrena
line would be gushing. Their heart rate would be spiking, and their breath would become short. All making it more difficult to get the job done.
Most people aren’t trained killers.
Alexander King placed the Glock in his pocket, right next to his knife, as he stalked toward the open door. His breath was even and his mind, clear. There was no need to question Maragos, because King knew he wouldn’t give up any information. King had no plans to prolong the visit at all. He’d already searched the entire house for clues, and there were none. There was only one thing left to do.
As King walked through the open door, Maragos turned in shock, looking like he’d seen a ghost. Which, for all intents and purposes, that was exactly what King was. When it registered that King had come to kill him, he jumped off the treadmill and ran for the desk sitting under the window at the far wall. He reached under the desk for the Walther PPK pistol that King had removed two days ago. His look of shock at the gun’s absence morphed into determination as he rushed at King. A last-ditch effort to survive.
King stepped to the side at the last second and helped Maragos’s momentum by pushing him headfirst into the wall. Maragos fell to his knees. King moved forward and landed a Thai kick to the ribs. Andonios grunted in pain as the breath was forced from his lungs. King lifted him by his shoulders, put his back against the wall, then clamped his right hand around Maragos’s throat like a vise.
King looked deep into the man’s eyes who just a year ago had put his family in grave danger. There was no need for words or explanations, because Maragos knew whose hand was wrapped around his neck. As opposed to hating having to kill the security guards outside, this moment King relished. The feeling of erasing evil from the world was always uplifting, even when it meant death. And because the Maragoses had decided to make it personal by targeting this CIA operative’s family, well, that just made the squeeze all the sweeter.
It was a good night. The last of the Maragos family was slipping off into the afterlife, which meant so too was a lot of the money funding a violent terrorist organization. But King knew evil would always find a way. That’s why, once Maragos was dead, King’s mind quickly shifted to what he had to do tomorrow—the next step in the effort to keep his loved ones, and his country, safe.
The next step in finding the monster who was really behind it all.
Chapter Three
The Next Day
London, UK
“We have a visual on Tango.”
Special Agent Shawn Roberts rushed over to the window that overlooked Oxford Street in the Mayfair neighborhood of London. He searched the hordes of tourists and shoppers moving in and out of some of the most posh restaurants and boutiques in the city. But he saw no sign of Bentley Martin.
“Negative on a visual,” Roberts told his man on the street.
“Sky-blue tracksuit, white running shoes, hair in a ponytail. Looks like she’s stretching for a run.”
Roberts found her by her dark hair sprouting out from under a white hat, contrasting against the light blue tracksuit Agent Anderson just referenced. When she stood from her stretch, Bentley looked to be a normal teenager, but Shawn had learned the hard way, in his line of work, that looks can be deceiving. Intelligence had produced communications coming out of Athens, Greece, that she was an asset to a terrorist cell the CIA had been attempting to collect more information on for the past six months. The details of her involvement with them were unknown, but over the last several days a couple of the few known members of that terror organization had been spotted in London. The tail end of a tapped cell phone conversation between one of the terrorist cell’s members and someone back in Athens produced the time and location of activity that somehow involved Bentley. Roberts’s orders were to follow Bentley in hopes that she would lead them to some of these high-value targets.
The CIA hadn’t yet determined the level of Bentley’s involvement. She could simply be an unknowing messenger, or she could have been recruited a while back. Her internet history hadn’t proved to be the cleanest. Months ago she had researched this very terrorist cell from her laptop. This was the only reason they’d found her. Bentley wasn’t a common name, and there weren’t too many who lived in the surrounding area. When they matched her internet history with her name, she was the only logical suspect. And it didn’t really matter if they found her or not. Knowing where she lived just gave them a focal point. What mattered was they had the date and place, so any suspicious behavior was going to be monitored on this street regardless.
“I can bring her in now if you want,” Agent Anderson said.
“No,” Roberts said. “Stay with her. Let’s see where this little run takes her. I don’t like the looks of that fanny pack she’s wearing.”
“Why?” Anderson laughed. “Because she could have something dangerous in there she’s passing along or because it’s a terrible fashion statement?”
Bentley eased into her jog down Oxford Street.
“Both.” Roberts smiled. “Just stay with her and keep your eyes open.”
“Copy that,” Anderson replied. Then Roberts heard him shout through his earpiece, “Hey, watch it, man!”
Roberts scanned the street below until he saw Agent Anderson facedown on the pavement. Coincidences certainly happen, but in espionage they were rare.
“What the hell happened, Anderson? Tired of running already?” Roberts said.
“No, some douche bag in a gray hoodie ran right over me.”
Roberts especially didn’t like the sound of that. He moved his eyes up and down the sidewalk until he spotted a man moving at more of a sprint than a jog.
Shawn clarified, “Gray hoodie with a black backpack?”
“Yeah, he was really moving.”
He was really moving and had almost caught up to Bentley. The man couldn’t have looked more suspicious. The hoodie was baggie, as if to conceal the man’s body type. His hat was pulled low, the brim touching sunglasses that sat just above a bushy beard.
“I don’t like this,” Roberts said. “Stay with him!”
The man in the hoodie began waving his arms like mad.
Agent Anderson spoke through his earpiece. “He’s shouting something. I think he’s trying to get people to move!”
Obviously something was off.
“Agent Jones,” Roberts said to the third agent on the team who was positioned at the next corner, “Tango and suspicious gray hoodie are coming right for you. Be ready to move in! I’m coming down—”
Before Agent Roberts could finish, the man in the gray hoodie grabbed Bentley and tackled her to the ground away from the street. If he hadn’t, the exploding car to her right would have killed her. A ball of fire flared from the car, and black smoke plumed skyward. The explosion reached all the way to the building where Roberts could feel the rumble beneath his feet. He turned and sprinted through the doorway, turned left down the stairs, and rushed out onto the sidewalk across from the chaos. He watched as the hooded man pulled Bentley to her feet.
“They’re moving, Jones, don’t lose them!”
The fire still burned in the ruined car. Onlookers screamed in panic. Roberts looked past the explosion toward the corner toward the northeast corner of the intersection. He dodged a few stopped cars as he crossed the street to try to block the hooded man and Bentley. Agent Jones began moving toward them as well. Then he watched as, just before Jones made it to the corner, the hooded man pulled Bentley by the arm and jerked her down the stairs into Bond Street Station.
“They’ve gone into the underground!” Roberts shouted. “I’m almost to them! Agent Freeman, if there’s a train down there, get on it now!”
Agent Freeman was the fourth and final member of Roberts’s detail. Roberts had positioned Freeman in the Tube for this very reason.
“Copy that,” Freeman said. “There’s actually two trains. One at the Central line and one at the Jubilee line.”
Roberts maneuvered around two more stopped cars; he was almost across the st
reet.
“Tango and Gray Hoodie are headed your way. I need to know where they’re going. Stay with them in case we don’t make it to the train in time.”
“Copy. I’m at the split. I’ll follow them and let you know their 20.”
Roberts ran around the blazing car, dodged the stunned bystanders, and followed Jones and Anderson through the entrance to the underground train station. They sprinted down one set of stairs, then down another, and continued dodging people as they rushed through the station and jumped the turnstiles.
“Freeman?” Roberts shouted.
“Jubilee line. They just ran past me.”
“Stay as close as you can and try not to get made. But do what you have to do. Don’t let them get on that train without you. No matter what! We can’t lose them!”
The urgency in Roberts’s voice suggested his concern not for the safety of Bentley Martin but for the information she likely possessed. The terrorist cell based near Athens had become the deadliest in the world. Factions were spreading across Europe like a cancer, taking credit for a record number of small and large attacks in multiple countries. They’d been listed priority one by CIA Director Mary Hartsfield. This was the closest anyone in the agency had been to any sort of lead in months. They needed something. Countless innocent lives depended on it.
Freeman came back in Roberts’s ear. “They’re at the escalators. I haven’t been made.”
“We aren’t far behind you,” Roberts said.
Roberts and his men continued weaving through the turns to get to the escalator that led down to the Jubilee train’s platform. After one last turn and a sprint down a long hall, he could see the escalators.
“Escalators in sight. About to reach the train—”
Before Shawn could instruct Freeman to take down the man in the gray hoodie, three men came running out of the crosswalk hallway in front of him and sprinted down the escalator out of sight.
All three of them were holding guns.
Alexander King Thriller Series: Books 1-3 Page 2
