by A P Bateman
But the one thing Caroline Darby promised herself, that kept her going - perhaps more so than even the slim chance she would ever be free, to see the man she loved, her family or her friends again - was that before this ended, in whatever way fate dictated, she would make the man hurt a hundred times more.
6
Biarritz, France
“We have a saying in the Urals, where I grew up,” Sergeyev paused and sunk his Scotch in one mouthful. He did not grimace at its bite, but thoughtfully studied the remnants, the droplets of amber liquid running inside the glass. “You cannot negotiate with a wolf, while your balls are still in his mouth… but you can still kill him, if you care not for your own fate.”
“There’s a saying on the estate where I grew up,” King said. “It’s about shit and being full of it. Right now, your wife and daughter are being held. You are a tough and resourceful man, I get it. You took control of the brotherhood. And you did it by being a ruthless son of a bitch. Here’s the reality check. There is always someone more ruthless, tougher and more resourceful. He’s sitting here, drinking a beer and giving you one chance, and one chance only.”
“You are brave,” Sergeyev said. His hair was jet black and greasy. But it was product. He was sweating profusely, and the beads of sweat were trapped in the product. When they eventually ran, they formed thick rivulets. King noted that the man’s colour had paled. The man was not riding this out with as much bravado as he made out. Sergeyev wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I could kill you. Right now.”
“And never see your wife and child again,” King said coldly. “Let me tell you, tough guy… that would look good to your monkeys here. That would make you look tougher than just about anyone. But you will burn and freeze and ache inside forever more. And besides, like I said, don’t assume you’d win. And don’t assume your two monkeys will beat me either.”
“You are not armed,” the Russian said. “You’re very arrogant.”
King sipped some of his beer and shrugged. “I’ve been asked to kill you.”
“You’re an assassin?”
“I suppose. I’m not here for financial gain, and I’m not serving my country. Somebody is holding the woman I love prisoner. They have me in a corner. They want you dead, and I don’t think one death will cut it for them. So why the hell should I further their agenda? I want my fiancé back, but when this is all done, I don’t want to have helped the person calling the shots. I don’t want them to gain from this.”
Sergeyev thought on this for a moment, then clicked his fingers. One of the man mountains stepped forward. Sergeyev snapped at the man in Russian and he seemed to protest. Sergeyev pulled him closer and spoke slowly and hoarsely into his ear, and he seemed to think better of it, turned around and walked to the bar. “More drinks,” the Russian said. “I’ve ordered you another glass of that piss you are drinking…”
“Thanks,” King said, somewhat impassively. “You drink Scotch,” he commented. “I thought you’d drink vodka.”
“Peasant’s drink,” he replied. “We used to put garlic in the stuff we drank at home. It held the impurities which could otherwise make you go blind…”
King nodded. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said. “I need the lavatory.” He stood up and casually buttoned his jacket.
“Dimitri will accompany you,” Sergeyev said emotionlessly. “Just to make sure you don’t go anywhere before we’ve finished our little… chat.”
King nodded. “Of course.” He pushed past the hulking minder and watched him fall in behind him using the mirrors behind the bar. King walked casually, unhurried. He pushed the first door inwards, then when he reached the gents he opened the door, glanced at the Russian. “Are you coming in? I can’t take a piss with someone watching.”
“Tough shit.”
“Well, after you then.” He pushed the door wide and the Russian stepped inside.
King took a shuffle step and kicked the big man between his legs from behind. To be fair, the man had quite a package and King’s size twelve leather brogue had no trouble finding the target. The man gasped, but as he dropped, King was already on him with a right, left, right combination of punches to his kidneys. He was felled and dropped hard on the tiled floor. King had watched the lavatory door as he played blackjack and talked to Sergeyev. He knew nobody would be in here, but he could not account for who would follow and when, so he stamped on the back of the man’s head and drove his face hard into the tiles. King was already heaving his unconscious body into the furthest cubicle, the one that would give him more privacy. He bundled the man onto the toilet seat, pushed the door closed, then took a deep breath. He was lightheaded for a moment. The twenty-plus stone of muscle was dense and unpliable. King reached inside the man’s jacket and retrieved a nickel-plated Colt .45 pistol with mother of pearl grips. Neither classy, nor a practical combat piece. Nickle reflected light big time and mother of pearl had all the grip capabilities in combat - where palms can be sweaty, and fingers seem numb - of a wet bar of soap.
The weapon was a solid design though, and King had used the big Colt many times before. He was always happy with the slow travelling, hard impacting .45 round. Usually a one shot, one drop weapon. He checked it over, saw that it was chambered but not cocked. A big mistake for the single action pistol. Safe to carry, but the hammer would have to be cocked back before firing, unlike most semi-auto pistols made from the seventies onwards, where they could be carried with extra safety on a dropped hammer but would require twice the trigger pull on the first shot. After the weapon had fired, cycled and a new round chambered, then the hammer remained back, and an easier trigger pull was given for every following shot. And this weapon, although mimicked and even made under license by other companies, was well over one-hundred years old in design. And completely unchanged from its first patent and subsequent use in the First World War. Testament to its capabilities yet flawed in many ways by today’s standards. King got it though. The hefty weight and size, the appearance, the shine and bling. It was a drug dealer’s weapon, a mafia’s tool of the trade. It was noticeable and had most likely been waved in many faces as a warning. A taste of what was to come if deadlines were not met, if sales were not made and percentages not paid.
King checked the man’s pulse, tucking two fingers with a lot of force into the side of the man’s throat, pinching the carotid artery. He frowned, adjusted his position, then felt a weak thud. It was enough. The guy would either make it or he wouldn’t. He couldn’t worry about the little things. Sergeyev’s instructions to the other monkey had been clear enough. He would be outside, calling in the troops. The Russian had not assumed, somewhat arrogantly so, that King could speak Russian. King had spent a lot of time either in Russia or fighting their agents in secret wars. He wouldn’t pass for a local by any means, but he could understand and speak the language beyond conversational levels.
Sergeyev was a fearsome man. King could see that now. There was a reason he was still at the top, still the man running one of the most notorious of the Russian brotherhoods. A man willing to chance sacrificing his wife and child to remain top dog. He was hedging his bets on making King talk. Making him give up his wife and child, and if he did not, then that was the price he had been willing to pay.
King checked over the man’s pockets. He went through his wallet. There were a few cards and five-hundred euros. It would come in handy, so he took it, along with a spare magazine for the Colt. That still only gave him fourteen rounds in total. Not enough for a proper shootout, especially with Sergeyev’s men on route. King knew that the Russian had business interests in Biarritz, not least the casino. He would have to get out fast. But how? Casinos were like banks. Only with more security. He tucked the pistol into his waistband and adjusted his jacket, before pulling the door inwards and closing it carefully behind him. Once outside in the corridor he saw that the only other door was that of the female lavatories. Not even worth a look. The windows would be barred, as they had been in t
he gent’s. No, his only chance was to slip behind the bar as he re-entered the casino lounge and try to get down to the works of the building – the pot-wash, kitchen and beer-cellar or wine-cellar.
King eased the door outwards, looked directly at Sergeyev, who was standing in front of him. There were four burly security personnel on either side of him. All had a variety of handguns pointing at him. King was fast, and he was good. But nobody is that good. He glanced to his right, where the house security stood. Unarmed, but they were loving the turn of events. He figured they would get a bit of him sooner rather than later.
“Give me Dimitri’s gun,” Sergeyev said quietly. “Slowly.”
King reached slowly, as he was told, but even now, he was unsure which end to give the Russian. The muzzle first and a .45 bullet right between the eyes, or butt first and surrender? King had never surrendered before. He had been shot and captured, held and tortured, but he had never had to hold up his hands and accept capitulation. He eased the weapon out of his waistband. He could do it, was convinced he’d take down several of them, but it was a suicidal move. But he couldn’t abandon Caroline. Right now, he was her only hope of survival. Play the game he had been pulled into and look for the right opportunity. King held the pistol pinched between his thumb and forefinger, held it out carefully.
“Easy,” one of the armed men said. He stepped forward and caught hold of the barrel with confidence and familiarity. He twisted the weapon away from King and gained possession, before stepping back.
The unarmed men lunged forwards as one. A flurry of fists and elbows, but King was too akin to a life of survival to take a beating without a fight and reacted hard and fast, the men dropping around him clutching chopped throats, gouged eyes, broken noses and loosened teeth. King dodged and weaved and punched and kicked and with five men down, was starting to look like he could go all night and take on all-comers. And then he felt an impact between his legs and an indescribable pain through his testicles and his stomach. He dropped to his knees and took the slam to the back of his head. He fell forwards, rolled onto his side and saw the bulk of Dimitri in the doorway. The big Russian was holding his own groin and heaving for breath. He was pale and clearly pained, but he looked like he was pleased with his efforts. He’d certainly repaid King for the kick in the balls.
King gasped through the pain, struggled to get a breath inside him, as he watched the big Russian walk forwards and raise a size fourteen shoe above his face, hovering ominously.
Perhaps it was time for plan B? Plan A had gone to shit, he just hoped things would get better. There was no avoiding the stamping foot, nor the darkness of the unconsciousness which followed.
7
The pine forest smelled dry and fresh. The scent was strong, heady – like a pine air freshener. The forest was dry and hot too. A savagely-hot start to the summer, with long hot days and uncomfortably close nights, had dried the forest floor, the needles and the scattered pine cones.
King could smell this, and more besides. His own body odour in the confines of the vehicle’s boot was not the freshest thing he’d smelled in a while. And the exhaust fumes that filled the boot had worked its way into his nose, his throat and his eyes.
He had regained consciousness on the drive into the forest. The car had been driven erratically along the twisting country roads. Many were straight, interspersed by cross-roads, but the road surface was of poor-quality. Seldom maintained, deeply rutted, which tested the vehicle’s suspension.
The vehicle had slowed and pulled off the road, and King could tell that they had travelled on softer ground. Just as rutted, but foliage scraped underneath and occasionally, the vehicle would bottom out and the wheels would spin as the driver tried to maintain progress.
When the car eventually stopped, King realised he could hear another vehicle. There was the sound of doors opening and closing, and low voices. He could smell cigarette smoke, and he imagined the men gathering together to devise their plan or receive orders.
There had been a few times over his time with the intelligence services, that King had been convinced he was about to die. Fate, luck or happenstance had turned it around, but right now, bound and imprisoned inside the boot of the vehicle, this was one of those times. Possibly the definitive moment. Plan A hadn’t worked out, and plan B was a work-in-progress. Whether he got out of this would depend on one thing. But now, after spending much of his time in confinement, he just hoped it had been enough.
The boot lid opened and even though it was close to sunset, the light stung his eyes. He blinked against it, then felt rough hands on him, some grabbing his collar, others grabbing him around the ankles. King was solid, a shade under six-foot and around fourteen-stone. But he was whipped out of the boot and thrown through the air as if he were a child. He looked up to see it had been three men who had got him out. The monkey named Dimitri, all twenty-stone of him, and two other men, similarly sized. Dimitri clearly had a grievance, and King couldn’t blame him, but could have done without another kick to his ribs. He gasped, grit his teeth, and hoped he had not shown how much it had hurt. He couldn’t get up with his hands bound behind him, but he got onto his side, more to take in his surroundings than in any hope of getting to his feet.
Sergeyev smoked a cigarette and watched with amusement. He was flanked by two more guards. He nodded to one of them, and the man dutifully walked around to the open tailgate of the Range Rover. He retrieved a shovel and a chainsaw and walked towards King, throwing the shovel at him. It hit the ground and bounced into his face. King recoiled, fell onto his back.
“I think getting a man to dig his own grave gets that man into the right headspace for what is about to happen,” Sergeyev paused as he inhaled some of the cigarette smoke and blew out a thick pungent-smelling plume. “You will die, but before you do, you will tell me where my family are, and you will beg for a swift end. I guarantee it.” He nodded to one of the men behind King and he bent forward, slashing the rope bindings with a knife.
King knelt slowly, rubbing some feeling back into his wrists. He looked around him. There was a glimpse of the ocean, the beach some fifty metres beyond the trees. He closed his eyes, a distant memory coming to him. Southwest France, the beach, the pine forest, the pungent cigarette smoke. King would bet anything it was a Turkish blend. The memory of a night of killing, the start of his career all those years ago. He shook his head to dismiss it. He needed to stay in the game.
King stood up, heard the safety catches release or hammers cock on the various pistols around him. For a moment he was reminded of the scene in the film Blazing Saddles and the gunmen lining up on the Wako Kid, hammers cocking. Comedic interlude in a dire situation. Gallows humour. He smiled to himself. He didn’t have a gun, almost certainly wouldn’t be as fast as Gene Wilder’s character. The shovel was at his feet and he figured he could slice at least one man’s head open before he went down. He figured that was the best he could hope for.
Plan B, still a work-in-progress…
“Dig,” Sergeyev said.
King shook his head. “You risk never finding your wife and child.”
“I’ll pay the price for showing strength,” Sergeyev smirked. “But it will not come to that. You will give me what I want to know.”
“Don’t count on it,” King said.
“Who are you?”
King smiled. “Is that it? You think you’re getting shit out of me? I told you – I have been told to kill you to free my fiancé. I gave you the chance to keep your family safe and for you to lay low while I sort this out. And you do this?” King gestured at the forest clearing. “There’s no deal anymore.”
“What did you want to deal?” Sergeyev frowned. “You captured my wife and daughter.”
“Well, 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.
