by A P Bateman
He was sweating profusely, and he doused his armpits and chest, let the water run down his back. He had stripped off the black trousers and shirt and had crammed them into a bin sack, along with the shoes and the empty water bottle. He had drunk his fill of the tepid water when he reached the car, as thirsty as he had ever been. He knew he had been dehydrated, his vision and balance were off by the time he had reached the vehicle, but the water soon revived him.
He had driven away from the area, found a hunter’s track and parked up, his heart pounding and his pulse thudding in his ears. He was wearing khaki cargoes, and once the water dripped from him enough, he slung on a loose-fitting blue cotton shirt and slipped on a pair of trainers that bordered on boat shoes. He put the flick-knife into one of the pockets on his right leg and tucked the sheath knife into the door pocket of the car. He still had the two 9mm bullets and was about to toss them away, when he thought of his old instructor, Peter Stewart and the man’s insistence on utilising everything. It isn’t over until you check your bags at the airport, the man would say. The bullets still had a use outside of ammunition. Melted lead could set a broken knife blade back into the hilt, the powder could start a fire, purify dirty water enough to drink, cauterise a wound, lower a heart arrhythmia – the brass could be flattened to form a makeshift blade. He tucked the two bullets back into his pocket and checked his reflection in the window. He looked like every other tourist, and nothing like the man he had been up at the vineyard and mansion. He donned a pair of black wraparound Oakley sunglasses, tossed the bag into the car and got back behind the wheel.
He did not see any of Luca Fortez’s cars on the drive to Monteverdi Marittimo and when he reached the outskirts of the town, he pulled into a pine-clustered layby where there was a bank of general waste and recycling bins. He left the engine running while he got out and tossed the bag into the general waste bin and got back inside the vehicle. He paused on the side of the road, allowed the convoy of vehicles to drive past. He tensed, every fibre of his body on edge for no more than a second, as he realised the cars were Fortez’s. Two red Alfa Romeos led the way, Luca’s Maserati followed, with a new Lamborghini SUV and a Porsche Cayenne following closely, and another red Alfa Romeo bringing up the rear. All the cars had tinted windows, the darkest tint possible, verging on black. King had no way of knowing how many men there were, but he figured each car was rammed full of Italian muscle and a whole lot of guns.
He eased out behind them and followed. He was out-powered and had to work the gearbox and accelerator hard as the convoy snaked through the corners and into the town at over twice the speed limit. They veered off left on a mountain road King had not noticed during his time here, and the road was both narrow and twisted around a deep canyon descending rapidly. King realised he was down to just knives, and there would be enough firepower ahead of him to start and finish a small war. He kept his distance, tried to estimate from the satnav where the convoy was heading. He realised it was an alternative route that would snake around the mountain and come up onto the Russian’s rented villa from what looked to be a series of tracks from the south.
King pulled to a halt. If the Italians were going to attack the Russians, then they would be doing so from the low ground. Tactically, a poor move. He scrolled on the screen and brought up the Russian’s track that led off the road from Canneto to Monteverdi Marittimo. He had used the high ground to perform a reconnaissance on the Russian’s villa. He needed to see what was happening and he needed to place himself somewhere with a tactical retreat. If the Italians were not heading for the Russians, then he would just have to take his chance. He wasn’t about to blindly follow the Italians into a killing ground, and he wasn’t going to chance detection as he followed them on their devious route.
He drove back to Monteverdi Marittimo and headed straight through, barely pausing for the pedestrians. He was tired, still hot and thirsty, as he threaded the car through the series of bends and steady incline. He got caught behind a slow-moving hatchback and cursed as he did not have enough power or road to overtake, but he wanted to get close to the villa and get himself into position before the Italians got there. Eventually, the car turned off sharply for Canneto, and King floored the accelerator and broached the hill affording a glorious view of the sea with the sun low on the horizon. It was almost dusk. The perfect time for Luca’s men to attack.
King found the track he had used earlier and grounded the car over the rough lane, dropping harshly into the potholes and scraping the fronds of thorny bushes and the outspread branches of pine trees. He manoeuvred the vehicle around, so he was facing back out the way he had come, then switched off the engine. The silence was total, bar the ticking of the cooling engine. King got out and was instantly set upon by midges and the same type of horseflies that had terrorised him in the pool. He swiped them away, the best he could, but he was hot and perspiring and the insects had homed in on the only meal in the area. King rolled down his sleeves and reached back inside the car for the sheath knife. He slipped it onto his belt and checked he could draw it quietly. He then slipped the car keys under the driver’s-side front wheel arch and stepped out into the thick brush, taking careful steps down the steep mountain slope.
It was five-hundred metres to the edge of the ledge, which dropped vertically three-hundred feet or so to the bottom, and the start of another steep slope. The villa was clearly visible to the right of the slope on a plateau below. King could see the rutted track running parallel. Uphill would eventually meet the road to Canneto, and King could only assume that the track ran downhill to the road that the Italians had taken, just outside the town of Monteverdi Marittimo. As if to confirm this, King saw the first man edging uphill. Another appeared behind him. Both carried what King could only identify as ‘longs’. Too far away to see if they were assault rifles, hunting rifles or shotguns. A third, and then a fourth followed. They made their way up the track, edging closer but tentatively watching the ground either side of them.
King watched, voyeur to the assault from the sanctuary of the cliff edge. He felt strangely nervous. He had put a lot of stock into the personalities and traits of the two sides. He had the Russians down as professionals, and judging from their close protection performance, they had been far more switched on than the Italians. The Russians were ex-military, provided muscle and resources for enterprises like Luca Fortez had planned for the rival mafia families. And he had the Italians down as hot-headed, impetuous and able to muster resources at a moment’s notice. He just hoped he’d not read too much into what he had seen in the town earlier that morning.
Any doubt King had over the Russian’s professionalism was ruled out in a burst of automatic gunfire. He ducked down instinctively and watched as the first two men in the line dropped to the ground and lay still. The rear of the line was joined by more men, and they now dodged and darted their way across the lane and into the brush for cover. There were a few single shots, voices in Russian, returned shouts in Italian and then all hell broke loose. The two SUVs thundered up the track with men firing out of the windows towards the villa. More men came out of the trees. King could only assume that Luca Fortez’s men had picked up friends or family, because there were now dozens of men breaking out from the trees. There was the sound of heavy-calibre hunting rifles, the sharp crack they made and the echo of sonic boom resonating off the cliffs. The pistols clattered away, short and sharp and far quieter but, what they lacked in noise they made up for in sheer quantity, as men paused beside trees and fired up to ten rounds at the house in one go, then dropped down to reload. King could hear shotguns as well, and then the crack of military-style assault rifles as they fired in bursts of three or four rounds, the men behind them more disciplined. King had these down as Luca’s bodyguards. He tried to count the men, but he simply had to estimate as the men were moving fast and had amassed to thirty or more.
The Russians were fighting back hard. King could see them on all points of the house, on all levels. They had obviously
managed to secure weapons for their excursion, most probably proving to Luca that they could put their hands on the hardware required to take out the other mafia families. King could hear the unmistakable clatter of the AK47 rifles, see the three-foot-long flashes from the muzzle in the dim light. He watched the men stay in formation, keeping cover using both the building and now upturned wooden dining furniture which featured on each of the patios and sundecks. King could not count them, which was a good thing for the Russians, as it showed they were disciplined and they were also using the windows of the villa to remain inside. They were defending a building, and they had the high ground. They could afford odds of 6 to 1.
There was a change in pace. In battle there usually is. But King couldn’t work out what was happening in the sudden lull. The Italians had regrouped, mainly into groups of four and five, which gave King a chance to count them. He almost got it done but had reached forty when the men started to fire again upon the house. King could see it was going to go the Italian’s way, when a vehicle bounced its way down the track, and five men spilled out. They took up position in the trees above the villa and started to fire on the house with hunting rifles. King had no idea what calibre the men were using, but they were powerful rifles, knocking great chunks of concrete out of the villa, which was no longer affording the Russian’s protection. The new arrivals acted like a sniper unit, keeping the Russian’s in place and unable to return fire as the main bulk of men approached the villa in a pincer movement on both sides. They were getting the hang of it too, if a little Napoleonic in their tactics, but they were getting the job done. Men would advance, drop to their knees and fire, more men would dash around them, drop and fire, and by the time they had rained shotgun lead or pistol bullets at the windows or the cowering men behind the solid oak furniture, the manoeuvre was repeated, and ground was constantly gained. All the time, Luca’s security core was on the periphery laying down fire with automatic weapons and the snipers were either picking off Russians who attempted to return fire or keeping their enemy’s heads down.
King was almost transfixed at the sight. He watched with a mixture of emotions. His plan was working. He had seen the Russian’s as the more difficult target, been aware that he was operating without either the equipment of backup he would have needed for such a task. He had no friendlies to call on, no help on the ground to provide him with intelligence or weapons. The Italians seemed to him to be the easier target. And now, whatever the result of the pitched battle below, he could kill his quarry while they were battle weary, or Luca’s men would have already done it for him. Like the wolf circling two fighting contenders to become the alpha male but striking the weary victor with a deadly attack when he had no fight left in him.
The sound of the battle changed. There were less gunshots, less automatic fire. King recognised this as reaching a conclusion. The Russian’s were suffering from either personnel losses or were running low on ammunition. King had been both sides of that fence, and he knew the mental effect it could have. He knew the attackers would see the end in sight, but he also knew that the defenders could go two ways. Peter-out and think of surrender or go out with glory. Now was the time it could change and more often than not, for the unexpected.
The surge came from the house and three men exited, back to back. A Hail-Mary. They covered three points of a triangle and rained a hail of lead onto a three-hundred and sixty-degree field of fire. King saw many of the Italians drop, and the Russians kept up their shuffle towards the line of vehicles, which surprisingly, the Italians had failed to disable. Two more Russian guards followed giving one-hundred and eighty-degree arcs of fire, with Nicolai being firmly manhandled by a third guard. King saw the lights flash on the lead car, and one of the forward guards drop. They had a great deal of firepower and the advancing Italians were caught out, but not for long. The snipers were hunters and they were good. By the time Nicolai reached the car, only one guard remained, and he was struggling to get into the driver’s seat. Another Russian bolted out of the villa and fired a pistol at the snipers’ positions, but he was dead meat before his third shot and went down fast, bullets still hitting him and rocking his body after he was on the ground. The snipers then turned their attention to the car and shot out the tyres and front grille. King knew that enough lead and copper had hit the engine for it to be going nowhere. Luca’s men made their way up on the Mercedes, and his personal security came out of the trees with their automatic weapons shouldered. There was a lot of shouting, but no more gunshots. At the villa there was movement at the doors and windows, and weapons were being tossed outside. Moments later, five Russians stepped hesitantly out of the building, their hands placed firmly on top of their heads. They were circled by three-times as many Italians. King knew what would happen next, and sure enough, the beating started.
Relentless, cruel and without mercy.
29
King had pulled back from the cliff edge, worked his way to the east two-hundred metres or so, pushing through thick scrub and dense pine. The slope was so steep, that it was almost sheer. He used the pine trees for footing, and slid down to the next tree, working his way down two-hundred feet or more to where the slope became less sheer. It was challenging work, and he was thirsty and hot, despite the noticeable drop in temperature as dusk gave way to night. A sanguine moon filled the sky, giving a dull, yellow hue by which, he could make his way through the trees.
He could hear voices, loud and commanding. They were Italian, and King had no ear for the language. But he got the gist of it. Pissed off was pissed off in any language.
He reached the wire boar fence, slid over carefully and made his way to the fringe of trees surrounding the property. When he found a suitable place to survey the scene, he almost wished he had stayed at the top of the cliff. But he needed to confirm, or at least control the outcome. He had come this far, it was imperative he see it through.
Nikolai was on his knees, a rope tied around his neck. A tough-looking man had a firm hold of each of his shoulders and a third held the rope as if the Russian were a stubborn mule. He was at the edge of the swimming pool. King judged it to be the deep end by the look of the metal ladder steps to the Russian’s right and the scalloped Romanesque steps at the other end. King felt an ominous sinking in his gut. His plan had been to force the less professional side into overcoming the pros by numbers. He had forgotten, or rather neglected to think about what evil men can do when they were out for revenge. That, and had the elation inside that only the victorious in battle would experience.
King moved to his right, not for a better view, but to the body of an Italian heavy who had been killed during the last stages of the battle. The win was still fresh and the desire for vengeance was still coursing through their veins. They had yet to mop up their dead, dealing only fleetingly with the injured who could call out for help. Three men lay upon the steps of the villa’s main entrance, but King could see that the two men tasked with attending to them were craning their necks towards the pool and intent on seeing what would happen next.
The man would have been around twenty-years-old and had died from a bullet to the chest. It was dead centre and had most probably hit the man’s spine. His eyes were open, giving an indication of a swift demise. King bent down and picked up the man’s pistol. It was a compact 9mm Beretta. He checked the magazine, but it was empty. The slide had not sprung back and held on the empty chamber, indicating that there was still a chambered round. He slid the slide open a touch and saw the flash of brass in the dull light. He smiled, thought of his old mentor, as he took out the two 9mm bullets and fed them into the magazine.
Old warriors got old for a reason.
King felt better for having the weapon, even if it only held three bullets. He edged his way through the treeline and looked back at the pool. Events had transpired, even in the brief time it had taken King to find the weapon, into a scene of torture. The Russians had been placed in a sitting position on the edge of the pool, their hands bound behind
their backs, their legs facing away from the pool edge. One of the Italians had waded into the water, while two men pressed down on the prisoner’s legs. King knew what would happen next, and he watched as the man in the water pulled backwards on the first Russian in the line and forced the man’s head and shoulders under the water. The men on the legs had their work cut out as the Russian struggled and bucked under their weight but was at the mercy of the man in the water.
King’s heart raced, knowing he was ultimately the instigator of this scene, but he soon checked his emotions, feeling a rage towards the Russian bitch who had set him on this course, held the woman he loved as his stake in her wicked game. He edged out of the treeline, kept within the shadows and moved behind the shot-up Mercedes. One of the Russian’s lay dead at his feet, and he tucked the pistol into his waistband and picked up the AK47. He crouched low, listened. The Italians and Russians only shared one common language, spoke English in thick accents, one slowly, commanding, the other desperate. King edged out, saw the mafia boss towering above the kneeling Russian. A coat draped over his shoulders, like a mafia Don from the fifties.
“Where is your man who attacked me? Where is the dog who did this?” Luca Fortez asked, his tone cold and impatient. He wore a sling on his arm, his shirt ripped open, a large dressing taped over the bullet wound and clearly visible underneath.
“Again, I know nothing of any attack!” Nikolai spat at him.
Fortez looked at the man who had been looking at him for confirmation. He shook his head at the man holding the prisoner’s head under the water. He watched as the struggling Russian slowed his movements, then ceased altogether. The mafia boss walked to the prisoners. He nodded to the man in the water and he dutifully pulled the next terrified man under. Fortez looked down at the man beside him. “You will be next. After your friend has died, you will feel his pain, feel his loss. You will breathe the water through your lungs as if it were air, your life will play out before your eyes and you will wish you told me everything. Do you understand? Now, tell me,” he paused. “Where is the man your pig of a boss sent to kill me?”
