The Alex King Series

by A P Bateman

  It occurred to him that Amanda could have taken another road, but this was the most direct route, and the myriad of roads meant that he could essentially search all night. He drew a line under it and as he crested the steep hill and turned left into his lane, he could at least satisfy his conscience, if not the nagging feeling inside that he had been missing something. It played on his mind, as he drove down the bumpy lane, right up until his windscreen shattered and he heard the gunshot.

  13

  The bullet had entered the windscreen, punching a tiny hole slightly high and right of King’s head, and travelled out through the back window, blowing out the glass completely. Afterwards, on reflection, King put this inaccuracy down to the severe potholes which pock-marked the lane. The car dipped half a foot at the point of impact. Glass peppered King’s face, and he ducked down, floored the accelerator and swerved into the gravelled driveway. He had heard the gunshot at the point of impact. The shooter was close. But only in sniper terms. Anywhere from a distance of point blank to one-hundred metres. He noted, as he remained low, that the bullet hole was small. Not a .338 Lapua Magnum, that was for sure. The sound had been that of an assault rifle. A sharp report, the crack of a high-velocity bullet breaking the sound barrier, but some of the sound leaving the open breach of the weapon as it cycled another round into the chamber.

  The second and third shots were fired in quick succession and smashed through the driver’s window, and half of the glass shattered into a thousand pieces like cut diamonds and covered King as he crawled across the seat and opened the passenger door. He rolled out onto the gravel and darted for the front door. He realised that he had not locked it behind him in his haste, which was great for taking cover, but there could be more people inside.

  That’s how he would have done it.

  A shot buzzed past his head and thudded into the oak door. King barged through the door and fell into the hallway, the hard-slate floor breaking him as much as his fall. He grimaced and carried on to the hall table, where he had left his .357 magnum revolver in the drawer. He opened the cylinder and checked it as he turned back towards the door and switched off the lights. The cottage was in darkness, but he knew his way around. He took a breath, deep and calming. They hadn’t waited for him inside. They hadn’t checked the cottage for a weapon. Some of the skill of the sniper’s incredible shot at the California house was being redressed. He had felt overwhelmed, outclassed in a world where he had once been in the higher echelons. This gunman had made a mistake, and that meant King had a chance.

  He went through into the kitchen and stopped at the back door. There were an array of light switches and he turned on the outside lights, but only the PIR sensor settings. Turning the key in the door cautiously, he listened. There was a layer of thick gravel chippings surrounding the house. A nightmare to weed, but good for drainage. But primarily, he had laid them as a warning to footsteps. He could hear anybody making their way down the side of the house.

  King eased the door inwards and listened. Nothing. He took one step across the thick gravel and pushed himself up onto the wall of the raised ground beside the cottage. He wouldn’t have called it a garden – it was far too overgrown for that – but it had been once, and the bushes and shrubs were so big and bushy, that they provided perfect cover. He moved slowly until he reached the front of the property, crouched low and kept the handgun out in front of him.

  The night was still. A little breeze, but most of the trees were still in bud, not yet thick with leaves, so the ambient noise was at a minimum. No leaves rustling. King heard the first tentative step on the gravel at the front of the cottage. The attacker would have fired his first few shots from the fallow field in front of the property. Far enough back from King’s headlights to remain undetected.

  The fence was broken in places and low. King could imagine them stepping over, the timber slimy and wet, the line of rail wobbling as they teetered with a leg each side. He could hear the direction of the next crunch of gravel, aimed the handgun, waited for the figure to merge into silhouette in the darkness, his eyes needed to catch up. His night vision was not there yet, certainly not up to the attacker’s. He turned his head and used his peripheral vision. It was sharper in the darkness. The light-sensitive layer of cells at the back of the eyeball, the retina is comprised of two types of cells: rods and cones. The cones require a large amount light to operate and are functional during daylight but are almost useless at night. Simply turning your head and looking a foot or so past what you want to see gives you better vision in the darkness. King had used this technique many times. He remained low, shrouded by the shrubbery.

  Another tentative footstep.

  King waited.

  He figured one more step.

  As it was, it was two steps, but when the outside light illuminated, it caught the lone gunman by complete surprise. King saw that the attacker as a man, tall and slim and dressed all in black. He was wearing a black beanie, special forces style. He carried a compact rifle, a bullpup design. There was a moment of indecision, but not on King’s part. The man outgunned King, his weapon was equipped with a scope and the light now gave the man an advantage. He had the range and superior firepower and he had the scope on top of the rifle. But the advantage briefly ran to King too, because the gunman had not seen him. And that meant King had two choices.

  Not three.

  The first choice was to hide. But hiding was not a definitive action. If he hid, the man would still be there. The other option was to shoot while he had the element of surprise.

  King still couldn’t see a third option.

  He couldn’t shout and expose himself, and he couldn’t walk out, covering the man with his weapon and apprehend him. That would more likely force a western-style duel. And the man had all the firepower. But King wasn’t one to hide or runaway, so he was left with one choice only.

  He fired.

  The man went down. The .357 shattered the night-time silence and the flash of yellow-white light from the muzzle briefly lit up the sky as much as the outside light. Centre-mass, large pistol calibre. King doubted the man was wearing body-armour, but it was an option. He stepped out from the shrubbery and walked in a semi-circle, skirting the gravel on the fringe of grass in front of the fence. The prone figure was twenty-metres away with his back to King. There was movement, but King could not see the weapon. He aimed the sights on the man’s back, the red illuminated blade of the foresight steady on the centre of the man’s shoulder blades. King recognised the movement as hampered breathing. And pain. And shock. He knew what the man was going through – he’d been there himself. He’d also been in the man’s predicament. He’d had his back to an approaching enemy before. It worked out that time for King. This guy wasn’t going to be so lucky. King tightened the semi-circle, placing himself at an angle the man would be unable to cover with his own weapon merely by rolling onto his back.

  “Hands in the air!” King shouted. “You won’t make it!”

  “My back’s busted,” the man wheezed. His accent was East-European, perhaps Russian.

  “Let go of the weapon then.” The man moved a little, but the weapon stayed where it was, still clutched in his right hand, the barrel resting on the gravel. King was a dozen paces away now. “Tell me who you are working for!”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Drop the weapon and raise your hands where I can see them. Roll onto your back,” King paused. “Do it, or you’re a dead man.”

  “I’m dead anyway,” the man wheezed. “If you don’t kill me, they will.”

  “Who?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Tell me. I’ll get you protection.”

  “You can’t protect me!”

  “Trust me. I’ll get you medical attention and protection. My department…”

  “Your department knows shit! Your department hasn’t got a clue!”

  “Well tell me!” King snapped. “I work for the British government. I am with MI5.”

  �
��You think I don’t know that?” The man shifted. King was close now, the handgun unwavering. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “No, you don’t,” King said coldly. “Now take your hand off the weapon. Do it or I’ll fire again.”

  “Well do it! You’ll be doing me a favour!” He rolled slowly onto his back with a grunt, brought the compact rifle around unsteadily. The barrel was tracking across open space. King would soon fill the gap.

  King shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger. The man recoiled sharply as the bullet shattered his thigh. But he had let go of the weapon and it clattered onto the gravel. King lurched forwards and kicked it away. The man clutched his thigh, his teeth grit together and his eyes white. He hollered and wailed, twisting on the gravel. “Bastard!”

  King stepped around and looked down at him. “True,” he said. “But I’ve gotten over it. Now, tell me, who sent you?”

  The man panted for breath. He pulled his hand away from the wound, looked at his palm. It was soaked, looked like it had been dipped into a can of red paint. The wound was spurting blood at an alarming rate. The man put his hand back onto the gunshot wound, then looked up at King and seemed to relax. He took his hand away from the wound, and it pulsed and pumped with blood. He forced a smile. “Nice shooting, shithead.”

  King looked at the wound. He hadn’t meant to, but he had hit the femoral artery. There was no telling what fragments and bone splinters would do - the bullet for that matter, all twisted and sharp and misshapen. This guy had been unlucky.

  King shrugged. “Those are the breaks, I guess,” he said. “So, are you going to talk, cleanse your soul, that sort of shit? Or do you want a minute alone?”

  They always wanted time alone, a moment to prepare.

  “Please, leave.” The man started to sob. “I have a wife and child back home…”

  King nodded, then picked up the bullpup rifle. It was a French-made FAMAS. The shortened commando version in 5.56mm calibre. He walked back towards the cottage, knowing the man would likely be dead before he got back inside.

  14

  King had loaded up with some tea. He took it strong and sweet, the same variety that he had found a taste for in Turkey. He had spent a great deal of time in Turkey over the years – the gateway to Iraq, Iran and Syria. It was going to be a long night, so he spooned in a little more of the dark sugar. It was a Fairtrade variety with a hint of vanilla that Caroline had bought, and as much as he had scoffed at the price at the time, he had taken a liking to it.

  His first call was to his handler. This was his go-to contact in the operations department of the Security Service, otherwise known as MI5. He had left a message – standard procedure, as it was never answered first time. Simon Mereweather called King back and they spoke in depth. King outlined the attack and Mereweather had said he would call and direct a containment team. From the start the incident would be ‘Section D’d’ under national security. Which meant it as good as never happened. The police would be called after the containment team were in place and the findings would be noted, the investigation handed over to MI5 personnel and a notice put out that there would be no press involvement. The team would use a Home Office coroner, and the body would be moved to a facility in London.

  King was curtly reminded of his duties involving the case and instructed to continue with his investigation. Now all he could do was wait. Simon Mereweather was a career MI5 officer with most of his experience in planning, analysing data and acting as go-between with other government departments, the police, MI6 – their sister service dealing mainly in foreign operations – and what the service called ‘damage limitation’ in the field. King didn’t dislike Mereweather, which was unusual for him, but he did dislike the company line the man so often stayed the right side of. He knew Mereweather was in line for the deputy directorship of operations, so King didn’t go out of his way to antagonise the man, but he wasn’t afraid of voicing his opinion when he felt the integrity of an operation was being lost in favour of a smooth ride for the service.

  King emptied the two spent cases and four live shells from his revolver and placed them on the hall table, along with the weapon with its cylinder left open. He sipped more of the tea, decided to take it with him upstairs.

  In his downtime, King enjoyed painting. During his time with MI6 a department psychotherapist had recommended King take up an artistic outlet and once it became evident that he liked to paint, the psychotherapist had later casually asked to see some of his work. King had known the woman’s motive to get an insight into his psyche, and had set about painting a scene which had made Dante’s Inferno look tame. It had become one of the biggest jokes in the service, and someone had even taken it and had it framed and hung in the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, along with a handwritten note telling the story.

  Despite King’s notorious work hanging behind the bar in that most exclusive, members only club, he only painted landscapes. Each room throughout the cottage was adorned with one of his watercolours or oil paintings. He had become most proficient over the years. A favourite of his was of a derelict cottage and watermill he had painted when Jane had been alive. They had picnicked and made love on a sunny afternoon in May in a bed of bluebells within a copse of trees nearby. King had sketched out and photographed the cottage afterwards while Jane had lain back in the grass and teased him about his new-found hobby. It was true, the picture wasn’t that good. Early art never compared to later offerings. It would never get stolen, that was for sure. Which was why he had picked it over the others. King lifted it off its hook to reveal an open recess. A cardboard box containing fifty 9mm bullets and a Glock model 19 pistol filled the space. They had been there a long time, and along with three magazines for the weapon, the only other item was a brown paper-wrapped package. Inside this was a false passport and five-thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes. He deliberated over taking this also, but stopped himself. It was his bug-out package. He had many more around the country. All with a false passport, a weapon, ammunition and a similar amount of money. All taken from operations over the years. There had always been equipment he should have disposed of and expense money, mostly ludicrously over-funded, that was unaccounted for. It was a precaution that belonged to his old life. He hoped it was a part of him, the uncertain life he had once lived, that would remain in the past.

  King replaced the painting and set about loading the magazines. They were standard fifteen-round magazines. He preferred them, as they fitted flush and kept the weapon both lighter and a better dimension for concealed carry than the after-market extended capacity varieties. He liked the Glock too – an ergonomically proficient design with no external hammer or safety catches to snag on clothing. A simple flap on the tip of the trigger acted as a safety. If your finger wasn’t near the trigger, the weapon couldn’t fire. Not even if it was dropped. The sights were a simple three dot affair. One luminous white dot on the front ramp sight and one on each side of the squared vee. Simply put all three dots in a line and aim the row of dots on what you wanted to hit. It was a great weapon to use in low light conditions. Over sixty-metres and you simply tilted the weapon to raise the middle dot. King had the discipline down over years of training. Ideally, he liked to use a handgun under fifty-feet from the target, but he was proficient enough to make consistent one-hundred metre hits on man-sized targets with most handguns.

  Once the magazines were full, he loaded the weapon with one of them and made it ready. He dropped the five loose rounds into his pocket and placed the two spare magazines into two separate pockets. He tucked the pistol into his belt and pulled his shirt tails out to conceal it. He checked his pocket knife – he always carried one – a small folding lock-knife with a three-inch blade honed to a razor’s edge. It was light and featured a graphite skeleton cut-out body and blackened blade with a thumb-stud for opening with one hand.

  He grabbed his travel bag and took it downstairs with him. He wouldn’t be staying the night now the cottage had been comp
romised. King picked up the assault rifle and walked to the car. He dropped his back on the back seat, then looked out across the field. He shouldered the rifle and checked the sights. They were a low-light set up, illuminating everything he swept over. His view was in a green tint, but in different shades. He swept the rifle over the field, stopping for a moment at clumps of bushes he had allowed to grow through lack of care. He had no livestock, and it was all he could do to keep the cottage dry and mould-free. He rarely had time to work on the grounds as well.

  There was movement in the far corner. He tracked the rifle, caught sight of a figure sliding over the hedge. His finger tightened on the trigger and the crosshairs centred briefly on the person’s lower back. He knew he wouldn’t fire, he had no way of knowing if the person was armed or whether they had even posed a threat. People often shot rabbits at night with lamps and .22 rifles, shotguns or air rifles. He had seen them before in neighbouring fields, skirting the hedgerows and climbing the hedges. The figure had disappeared, and King took his finger away from the trigger. A moment later, the red glow of a vehicle’s taillights lit up the other side of the hedge and an engine started and idled. They must have been brake lights as the person started the engine with their foot on the brake. The headlights flicked on and cut a swath of light briefly across the far side of the field. King realised this was where the road curved dramatically, then straightened out after fifty metres or so. The vehicle appeared to stop, its lights dipped and its engine idling.