Alexander King Thriller Series: Books 1-3

by Bradley Wright

  “Freeman! Three men coming up on your six! All of them armed!”

  Gunshots rang out through the tunnel system. Screams followed as civilians began panicking.

  Anderson dodged several frightened people turning away from the chaos and looked back over his shoulder at Roberts as they approached the escalator. The look of fear in his eyes was chilling. Roberts was certain Anderson had found the same shocked look on his own face.

  “Freeman!” Roberts shouted.

  No answer.

  The three agents sprinted down the escalator, and about halfway down the bullets were turned on them. More screams, more loud bangs, and more clanking metal all around them. Roberts yanked both of his agents by the backs of their shirts as hard as he could. When his ass hit the moving steps that were pulling them downward, he pulled his pistol and moved backward up the escalator steps with all he had. The relentless motion of the escalator pulled them down as they scrambled upward. Roberts watched as Anderson took a bullet in the leg and Jones took one in the arm. He began to return fire as the three of them backpedaled away from the gunman who waited for them at the bottom.

  He wasn’t sure who these men worked for, but he could only assume they were the terrorists they had hoped to find.

  Careful what you wish for, he couldn’t help but think as he squeezed the trigger on his Glock.

  Two gunmen were firing on them from around the corner at the base of the escalator, not far from the train.

  No sign of the third gunman.

  No sign of Freeman.

  No chance to stop the hooded man and his hostage, Bentley Martin.

  This operation had just gone horribly wrong. And the only thing Special Agent Shawn Roberts could hope for right then . . . was a whole lot of help.

  Chapter Four

  Alexander King had yet another life-and-death decision to make. He had half a mind just to let the American agents who were currently taking fire on the escalators get what they deserved for possibly blowing a clean getaway for him. After all, he had what he came for: Bentley Martin in hand and a clear path back to his flat. He had spent too much time and effort getting to this moment to let his old “save them all” mentality ruin this. If Bentley could help him, innocent lives would be saved. Not only had he just risked blowing his cover, but if he returned down the tunnel to help, he would most certainly lose Bentley.

  He didn’t know how many American agents there were in total. He only knew of two for certain: the man he’d run over on the sidewalk holding his hand to his ear and the “homeless” man with perfectly clean sneakers and a fresh haircut at the Central and Jubilee line split. Either the CIA was short staffed or they were just getting sloppy.

  The gunfire continued as the train pulled in. It was decision time. And even though he didn’t like it, there was only one decision to be made.

  “If you want to survive this, don’t move.”

  “Who are you?” Bentley looked up at him. Her lips were trembling and her eyes were wet with emotion.

  King removed his backpack, digging inside and pulling out the change of clothes he’d brought for her. They were huddled against the wall inside the train platform. Everyone around them was staying low to the ground, anxious to get on the train before the battle down the tunnel made its way to them.

  “I’m the guy who just saved your life. You might want to listen to me. That car bomb would have killed you, you know.”

  King handed her the clothes. She didn’t take them immediately.

  “Clothes? What am I supposed to do with these?”

  “Put them on.” He shoved them into her chest. “Do everything I tell you or you really will be dead.”

  The seriousness of his tone brought the fear back to Bentley’s eyes. Across the platform the train had stopped and the doors opened. People rushed in, knocking passengers to the ground as they tried to exit. The gunfire was still echoing all the way to the train platform, deterring anyone trying to exit from doing so. Everyone packed themselves into the train. Bentley turned quickly toward the train, but King caught the back of her arm.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. The shock of being stopped from saving herself was clear in her raised voice and crazed look in her eyes.

  “We can’t leave. Put the clothes on and wait here—”

  “Wait here?”

  King looked over Bentley’s shoulder and pulled his Glock from his concealed hip holster. In the sea of people moving inside the train, there was one figure moving against the tide. King yanked Bentley down to the concrete by her arm with his left hand as he fired three shots at the man who had emerged and was now in the process of raising his gun to fire on King. Several people screamed as the gunman dropped to the ground beside them. If Bentley had been frightened before, now she was terrified.

  King helped her up from under her arm as her gaze volleyed back and forth between King and the man who’d almost shot them.

  “How did you know he was—please, let’s go! Get me out of here!”

  She attempted to pull away toward the train again, but King held her in place.

  “The door’s about to close, what are you doing?” She looked past King down the tunnel where the gunfire continued. “They’ll come this way. They’ll kill us!”

  The doors closed on the train, and it began to pull away.

  Bentley was incensed. “You just got us killed! Why are you doing this?”

  King was calm. “Put the clothes on and stop talking.” He nodded toward the gunfire down the tunnel. “You want them to hear you?”

  Bentley shook her head no.

  “Just put these on right over your clothes. Keep the hat on and pulled low.” He gestured over her shoulder. “Get behind that pillar and don’t move until I get back here.”

  “Get back here?” Bentley said in a shouting whisper. “Where are you going? You can’t leave me here!”

  “Just stay put. The next train will be here in ten minutes.”

  Bentley continued to protest, but King had already begun moving down the tunnel. There was a break in the shooting, so he kept his gun at the ready in case someone were to run his way. As it always did, the adrenaline felt good moving through his system. As he approached the turn in the tunnel toward the foot of the escalators, gunshots once again rang out, but they were now farther away. The terrorists looking to kill Bentley had pushed the CIA back toward the entrance. The situation was bad, but if the shooting made it out to the street, things would get a lot worse.

  King moved with speed through the tunnel, and with his back to the next wall, he peeked around the corner. The homeless man King had pegged as CIA lay dead at the foot of the escalator, a pistol in his hand. Beyond the dead agent, the lengthy escalator was empty. He headed up the escalator, remaining in a crouch position, and let it carry him toward the gunmen. Once he made it to the top, there was no turning back; he would be exposed. Shoot first would be his only strategy.

  He crested the top of the escalator, his aim unwavering, but there was nothing to shoot at. He moved forward as he heard a couple more bangs pop off near the entrance of the Tube. When he made it around the last corner, he watched a man drop to the ground on his left as well as a man rise up to fire on his right. Across the turnstiles, the sun was bright behind the silhouette of a man. King aimed down his sights and shot the man on his right in the leg. As the man dropped, King surged forward.

  “Put your gun down!” a man with an American accent shouted. It was the owner of the silhouette, who King knew was one of the CIA agents.

  King ignored the command, moved over the man he’d just shot, and removed the pistol from his hand. He put his knee heavy on the man’s chest and pressed his own gun against the man’s olive-skinned forehead.

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Hey! I said put the gun down!” the silhouetted man shouted again.

  The man beneath him closed his eyes, expecting death. It was obvious this man was willing to die, so the only way King would get
anything out of him would be to surprise him.

  There was no time for a back and forth, so King took a chance.

  “Husaam Hammoud,” King said.

  Husaam Hammoud was a notorious terrorist leader, also connected to Greece, which meant he was also connected to the man King had choked to death the night before. The Maragoses were all from Greece. King’s instincts had told him from the beginning that Andonios and his family were likely connected to Hammoud, but he hadn’t yet put all the pieces together. He was hoping Sam was about to change that with her investigations in Athens.

  King knew the man pinned beneath him would never say who sent him, but he hoped his reaction to Hammoud’s name might give it away. As soon as the name left King’s mouth, the man’s eyes shot open. But it wasn’t the reaction King expected. The man was . . . confused.

  “Silence isn’t an answer,” King said, pressing his gun deeper into the man’s forehead. “Who do you work for?”

  The man’s accent was Middle Eastern. “I don’t know his name. But he sent a lot of money for this, and he was American. I swear it’s all I know.”

  Now it was King who looked confused. He hadn’t seen that coming. But there was no time for more questions. King looked up over the turnstile, and the silhouette had begun moving his way. He looked back down at the man under his gun, tapped him twice on the forehead with the tip of his Glock, and gave him a smile.

  “Have fun in prison.”

  King pulled back his gun and sprinted around the corner.

  “Stop! Stop right there!” the agent shouted at him through the tunnel.

  Just before he got to the escalators, he heard a man say to someone else, “Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. I’m going after the hoodie!”

  King knew that with the timing of the train arrival still being a couple of minutes away, he was going to have to face this American agent one way or another. He rushed down to the bottom of the escalator, turned right toward the train platform, stopped as soon as he was out of sight, and put his back against the wall. If he had to deal with the agent, he was going to meet him on his own terms.

  Chapter Five

  King waited patiently around the corner from the escalators. His face was beginning to sweat under the fake beard, and the sunglasses were annoying him at the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, he still couldn’t remove either one. He could hear the train moving toward the platform behind him. He didn’t have a lot of time to deal with the American agent coming his way. If Bentley made it on the train and he didn’t, he knew he would lose her. And he hadn’t spent the last six months putting things in motion for this day just to lose it because of someone on the same side of this battle.

  King heard the footsteps running down the escalator come to a stop. He figured the agent was backpedaling slowly to keep his distance. He assumed the agent had his pistol extended, waiting for King to make a move. Soon, the sound of the train would make it to the agent. It was mostly quiet in the tunnel now. Only murmurs from people still huddled in fear and a bit of street noise from above.

  The train screeched to a stop at the platform—easily heard by anyone underground. The agent would need to make a decision, which King was prepared to capitalize on. He knew the agent could not let him get on that train with Bentley Martin.

  As soon as King heard the first heavy footstep at the bottom of the escalator, he ducked down, surged forward around the corner, and caught the agent off guard by tackling him at the waist. It was fairly easy for King because he had him by at least thirty pounds, the agent was built more like a distance runner. King drove him down, pinning his back against the ground just below the moving stairs. He grabbed the agent by his right wrist and slammed his gun hand on the ground. The pistol dislodged from his fingers, and King moved into mount position—shoving his right forearm under the agent’s chin and pressing his full weight against him. King didn’t recognize the man with the buzz cut and short beard-covered iron jaw. Why would he, though, since he’d had almost no contact with the agency over the last two years.

  “I’m not your enemy,” King said. “Clean up the mess on the street, and forget you saw me.”

  King eased the pressure he was applying on the man’s neck, just enough for him to speak.

  “Who are you?” the agent said.

  “A friend. That’s all you need to know. Don’t follow me down to that train. Next time I won’t play so nice.”

  “What are you going to do with Bentley? How did you know someone was going to try to kill her?”

  The agent was looking for something, some morsel of information to take back to his superior. King could understand that. But the train was about to pull away, and he had to go.

  “Andonios Maragos wanted to kill the president. Now that Maragos is dead, I’m sure the real terrorist he was funding has the same agenda. Find out who Maragos was in bed with and you’ll find the head of the snake. Maybe I’ll see you there.” After sharing this little nugget, King picked up the agent’s gun and rose to his feet.

  “Are you CIA?” the agent asked.

  “You know, I’ve never really been one for labels.” King ejected the magazine and the chambered round. Then he dropped the gun and pocketed the ammunition. He started to walk away, then stopped. “And listen, have someone give you a lesson on blending in. Your team couldn’t have been more obvious.”

  “Who are you?” the agent asked again.

  King shook his head. “Remember, focus on Maragos, and forget about me.”

  The train was seconds from leaving the platform, so King left him with that. He sprinted down the tunnel and readied his Glock in case more gunmen might be waiting on this train like the man he had to shoot on the last one. As he made the final turn, he could see the red Jubilee line train there waiting. Then he heard the two beeps signaling the door was closing. He surged forward. There was no time to check if Bentley had already boarded; he just had to trust that she had. At the last second he launched himself forward, diving through the closing doors onto his stomach. Pete Rose would have been proud.

  When he looked up, it was clear that Bentley wasn’t impressed. She’d thought she was going to get away without him catching up. King got up and walked over to her.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  King wobbled when the train sped forward. He could barely see the agent he’d left at the escalators running down the tunnel before the window of the train disappeared behind the wall. He and Bentley were the only ones on the train. All other passengers had managed to pile in the earlier train, and police must have kept more from boarding this one. He was lucky authorities were letting the trains run at all. This would make his exit a whole lot easier.

  “You know there are thousands of cameras all around these trains,” Bentley said. “They will just follow from camera to camera wherever you take me. You won’t be able to get away with this.”

  “Beauty and brains,” King said. “Bet you had to keep a stick handy to fight off the boys at school.”

  King pulled a phone from his pocket and powered it on.

  “Is this funny to you? People are trying to kill me.”

  “And you would already be dead if it wasn’t for me, so maybe try to be a little grateful.”

  King typed one word—Go—and hit the send button to the only contact saved in the burner phone.

  “Okay, you did save me,” Bentley said. “But now you’re holding me against my will. So I’m sorry if my mood isn’t to your liking. It will be a lot better when the police are waiting at the next stop to take you in and let me go.”

  “News flash, Bentley, the people behind the car bomb that was meant for you are your enemy. Not me. And the police? We won’t be seeing them.”

  Bentley started to reply but stopped when the power to the train shut down and the lights went out. The train slowed to a stop, and King put his sunglasses on his hat, stood, and moved to the back of the train.

  “You coming?” King said. “Wouldn’t want your bombe
r friends to find you wandering the streets alone.”

  That was all he needed to say. She walked over to him, and they both walked out the rear exit of the train. King knew exactly where he was. He’d been in that exact spot three times in preparation for this very moment. It’s easy to spend a lot of time planning when everyone on the planet thinks you’re dead. The “deceased” don’t have a hell of a lot of social distractions.

  He followed the course he’d plotted down the walking tunnel along the right side. He used the phone’s flashlight to guide the way. The power returned to the train, and it sped away from them toward the next stop. The tunnel went quiet. King once again removed his backpack. He removed his hat and hoodie and stuffed them in the bag. He had a white Mind The Gap tourist-special T-shirt underneath. He handed Bentley one as well. She changed without him having to ask—progress—and the two of them walked the maze of dark tunnel until they found the door he’d been looking for.

  Beyond the door they walked up a flight of stairs, and at the top, King eased open another door and gave things a look. It led to a public tunnel above ground for a different train line, and the camera that usually faced the door had been removed for “maintenance,” just like he had paid for it to be. He and Bentley walked out onto the sidewalk and settled into the crowd, as if they belonged there like everyone else. Immediately King spotted the car waiting for them. The two of them casually climbed in, and the car pulled away. No one was the wiser.

  Chapter Six

  Rafina, Greece

  Thirty kilometers east of Athens

  A few miles northwest of the port of Rafina, Greece, on the Aegean Sea, the quaint coastal town turns into a rural wooded area before the landscape climbs the peaks of the Penteli Mountains to the west. Somewhere nestled in between there exists a gathering of twelve small homes, situated on a couple hundred acres of private land. Twelve years ago Saajid Hammoud and his brother, Husaam, moved from their family’s small flat in Athens to this expanse of property in order to expand operations. After their father, Majid, died at the hands of American soldiers, keeping him from building Allah’s army to fight what he deemed the growing cancer that is Western culture, Saajid vowed to carry on his father’s legacy.