by A P Bateman
The man was panicked, could not get his words out quickly enough. “I… know… nothing… of… an… attack!” He looked at the struggling man beside him, then back at the man above him. “Please! Bring him up!”
“Then tell me about the attack!” Luca barked at him. “Tell me what you know!”
The man slowed, and like his colleague, stopped moving altogether. The man looked at Luca Fortez desperately.
“Please!”
“Tell me!”
“I don’t know of any attack!” he screamed. “You had a deal with my boss! We were going to work for you on something! I don’t know of any attack, it doesn’t make sense!”
Luca nodded, and the man was pulled backwards. The men at his feet gripped tightly, making themselves ready.
“No! No…” the man’s screams were cut off by a deep gargle and the thrashing of his limbs in the water.
Luca turned to Nikolai, unconcerned for the dying man and his struggle. “Tell me, tell me now.”
“You stupid fucking wop! You have been told! There was no attack!” he screamed at him. “Not by us!”
Luca turned and watched the struggle until the man lay as still as the other two bodies. He stared at the scene for a moment, then looked at the man in the water. He said something in Italian and the man pulled both remaining guards into the water, catching the men holding their legs by surprise. They held on tightly as the men struggled and splashed and fought desperately, but futilely for their lives.
King looked on. He edged backwards, another body behind him, another AK lying on the ground. This time the weapon was an AK74. It fired a lighter 5.45x39mm round, technically less powerful than the AK47, but designed to be so, as the bullet was designed not to deform or fragment, but to yaw and create cavitation, or simply put: would tumble after penetration and cause more damage than a through and through shot from the 7.62x39mm round. He preferred the weapon, because it had less recoil and was easier to control. He looked back at the pool, the gathering of relaxed men watching the grisly scene, their leader undefeated, invulnerable in battle, merciless in his victory. The snipers, such as they were, rested on their rifles. King had felt anger at being pushed into this, rage at being used as a pawn in another person’s game, but as he looked on, he felt contempt for the woman he now served. He had lost sight of what he was doing. He was so busy doing her bidding effectively, he had not stopped to ask himself why. Why? Why did she want these Russian mafia men dead? He thought back to the forest in France, the dead man’s wife at the farmhouse. Helena Milankovitch wasn’t just someone out for revenge for something in her past, she was working towards a future.
A future with these men removed from it.
King couldn’t check the magazine of either weapon without making a noise. The AK rifle was a tool. A reliable tool you could count on, but it wasn’t a supremely manufactured firearm intended for the range and competitions. For civilian shooters to coo over and upgrade with match-grade precision parts. It was hardy and rustic and worked. It was noisy and metallic in its operation, and that was without even firing it. King looked on. The men were drowning, and there wasn’t anything he could do for them, and nor did he want to. They were men of the sword. They knew the score. But as he looked at the Russian brotherhood boss on his knees, he saw then a man who was merely a target.
He saw a link.
A link to the woman who had come crashing into his life and torn it apart.
King backed away, gave himself a better field of vision. He hoped the two weapons held enough rounds to do the job. He brought the AK47 up to his shoulder and tightened his finger on the trigger.
30
Georgia
She was exhausted. She had tried to keep her eyes open, but there was no fighting it. The coffee hadn’t seemed to help. She knew she was tired and had had little more than naps for the past few days as she had travelled. The journey, adrenalin and fear had taken their toll. Her body needed rest. Her head lolled, her chin touching her chest, waking her with a start. Each time she raised her head, she almost dropped back to sleep.
Caroline slapped herself across the cheek. Hard. She felt the sting, but the sensation was nulled, quickly overcome. She could not succumb to this. It felt so unnatural, like no bout of tiredness she had ever experienced. She knew what had happened. Knew that the coffee had been spiked, contained a barbiturate of some description. Perhaps ground-down sleeping tablets, possibly something stronger. She slapped herself again, powered through her lethargy and rolled off the bed. She clawed at the floor, her fingernails digging into the gaps between the unfinished wooden floorboards, breaking and tearing away as they provided little purchase. She did not feel any pain, dug her toes in and pressed on, the bathroom offering sanctuary from the fate of what she believed would happen next.
She could hear the solid footsteps on the landing outside. She crawled onwards. Used the edge of the open door to pull herself inside the bathroom. Her eyelids were closing, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, something to hurt her, to snap her consciousness back, put her equilibrium back under her control. She could hear the rattle of the lock outside. The key in the padlock, the rasp of the bolt. She rolled onto her back, heaved her leaden legs up and kicked the door closed. She could not rest there. She could feel the darkness washing over her, her eyelids heavy and unforgiving.
“Hey?” The voice whispered, muffled. She envisioned him peering through the darkness, his frame illuminated by the light behind him. “Hey, you?” Sharper now, louder.
Testing.
She knew what he wanted from her. She kept her feet pressed firmly against the door, arched her back, but had nothing to press against, provide purchase against the door. If he barged the door, she would simply slide backwards. She fought with all her might, battled the ebb in consciousness. Her eyelids heavy. She looked in the gloom, looked for something she could use, but he had taken all the wash things from her. If only she had something she could use… a wedge, something to jam the door with…
“Hey!” Loud, followed by a footstep as he entered the room. “What are you doing in there?”
She had it. The large wingnut she had removed from the leg of the dresser. She had anticipated its use as a knuckleduster. But now, it just might…
She slipped her hand under the linen dress, hooked it out from her bra. She could barely keep awake, let alone sit up straight, but she fought through it, bit at her cheek again and then at her lip to shock her system, to stem the drift downhill towards sleep. She half rolled, half sat up, pressed the wingnut under the gap, close to the door jamb. She pressed hard, part of the wingnut digging into a thin gap between two floorboards, the other half digging into the underside of the door. She fell back down, her head knocking on the floor. Her eyes, heavy now, no more resistance possible, caught sight of the handle moving, the door edging marginally inwards. It caught. She heard a curse; the sound of the door being kicked at. The door resisted, she prayed it would hold, but could do no more, as she entered a still, dreamless sleep.
31
King prioritised the targets. The hunters-come-snipers each leaned on their bolt-action hunting rifles. They would be slow to reload, their powerful scopes would be too close to fire accurately back at King, and in the low-light conditions afforded by the yellow moon, they may not make out King at all. The rest of the men had formed into two groups. The events in the pool were gruesome, and men thrown into this conclusion as voyeurs tended to watch shoulder to shoulder, rather than stand alone. Whether they took comfort or shared bravado watching such things in company, King did not know. But he had witnessed behaviour such as this in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. Even from the most battle-hardened ISIS fighters. Likewise, the perpetrators of these acts found both the will and the desire to continue the brutality, possibly feeding off the audience.
Men were always bigger men when weaker men looked on.
King glanced at the selector lever. It was all the way down to single-fire mode. That woul
d do. The trigger was light, and he would fire once at each target. For they were targets now, not living, breathing men. He aimed, breathed steadily, then fired.
The first three men dropped without so much as a single man looking at the source of the noise. King switched his aim and dropped two of the snipers for good measure, then turned back to the remainder of the group. He fired twice more, missing one man and hitting another. He moved to his right, just as someone managed to fire a pistol back at him. King fired at the muzzle flash, saw the man drop and then cursed himself as he remembered the three men tending to the casualties. He spun around and fired at the two figures on the edge of the patio. A double tap at one, a single shot at the other. The weapon dry-fired and King threw the AK47 down and reached for the AK74 on his back. He flicked the selector down and brought the weapon back on the main body of men. They had reached the point where they would either stand and fight, or scatter. King hoped they would stick around. He wouldn’t have enough rounds for a pitched battle over various arcs of fire. He kept the weapon’s sights low and fired at the men’s stomachs. Gut wounds dropped men fast, they also gave room for an off-centre shot. King threw himself down across the bonnet of the Mercedes and rested the magazine. He aimed, fired, aimed, fired…
He was taking fire himself, but he maintained his onslaught, bringing down the last of the hunters, and turning his aim on the exposed men on the other side of the pool, illuminated in the pool lights in front of them and the moon behind. He reached Luca Fortez, who was frozen, transfixed at the muzzle flashes and commotion. He hesitated, thought of the woman he had used as a shield, the two children who had shredded their feet on the broken glass. King broke aim, sighted on the last of his guards and fired three shots. The next pull on the trigger yielded a click and King dropped the rifle and drew the pistol from his waistband. He broke cover, fired at a man in front of him, then a man to his left. He was being shot at from a gunman twenty-metres away. King fired, dropped the pistol and dived towards the man he had just killed in front of him. He snatched the dead man’s pistol, brought it up on the last two guards standing and double tapped each of them in the chest.
Luca Fortez stared at King, now only ten-feet away from him. “It’s you…” he said, bewildered and confused. “You’re the man from town. The tourist…”
King levelled the pistol. He glanced around, aware there would be wounded men from the fight, and wounded men were extremely dangerous. “Live or die?” he said. “Your choice. I know where you live, where your family are. You walk away when I’m gone and it’s over. I have no fight with you. No reason to return.” He glanced down at Nikolai, then back at the Italian. “But he’s coming with me.”
Luca opened his mouth, but he struggled to process what was happening, and how quickly it had happened.
King crouched, picked up a dead guard’s machine pistol. Another Uzi. He dipped the mag, knew by the weight it was more than half-full. He pressed it back in, saw the exposed round on the open chamber, the open bolt ready to fire. He switched weapons, tucking the pistol into his waistband, keeping the Uzi on Luca. “This is happening now,” he said and stepped forwards, struck Luca in the throat with rigid fingertips. The Italian dropped to the ground, clutching his throat and fighting for breath. King grabbed Nikolai by his collar and heaved him up. He dragged him forward, man-handled him away. King glanced back, saw the mafia boss crawling towards a weapon on the ground.
“Leave it!” he shouted. “Lick your wounds and live for another day!” King reached the row of cars and saw two men advancing. He fired a short burst from the Uzi and both men fell. He turned toward Luca Fortez. The man had a pistol in his hand. King pushed the Russian to the ground and he fell onto his face, unable to break his fall with his hands still bound behind his back.
The mafia boss looked around him. The bodies were scattered, some having fallen onto their comrades and resting still. Others were wounded, but the 5.45x39mm was an evil little bullet, and they weren’t getting up soon. Maybe never.
“I’ll hunt you down, you bastard…” Luca shouted.
King fired a short burst and the man dropped, rolled forward and fell into the pool. The water started to turn crimson and Luca’s body sunk to the bottom, his hands outstretched, gently clawing for the surface but going nowhere.
King watched, then said quietly, “No, you won’t…” He had enough on his plate, couldn’t afford a war on more than one front. He had taken enough risks and chances with his own life, knew he needed to remain alive to buy Caroline time. He’d given the man a chance to go and live a life with his family. King looked at the five drowned Russians as they drifted, neither floating nor entirely sunk, in the pool. King had felt for the man’s family, given him a chance, but in truth, he hadn’t deserved it. He’d got the end he deserved now, floating with the men he’d callously had tortured and killed. His wife and children would grieve, but they would eventually be better off without him.
King pulled the Russian to his feet and pushed him forwards without another thought of the scene of carnage behind him. He kept the Uzi aiming in front of him, the muzzle close to the Russian’s head. He saw a man cowering in the bushes. His back was to King, his hands cradling his head. The three wounded men were nearby. It looked as though they had tried to crawl away at the sound of the gunshots but had frozen as King walked past.
“Stay down!” King said clearly and confidently. “Stay where you are. All the heroes are dead. Stay down and you will live to go back to your families…” He kept the weapon trained on them, right up until he reached the Lamborghini SUV. He opened the door, saw the control device on the centre console. King opened the rear door and pushed the Russian inside. He fell, slipped down between the front seat and jammed in the footwell. He wasn’t going anywhere. King slammed the door behind him and got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He dropped the Uzi on the seat beside him as he selected drive and floored the accelerator. He had never felt acceleration like it, as the twin-turbo diesel V8 dumped its six-hundred-plus horsepower onto the gravel track and shot forwards in a storm of thunderous engine and exhaust noise with a hail of gravel thrown onto everything behind it for twenty-metres. King almost lost control of the vehicle in a straight line, but he lifted his foot, brought the vehicle back towards the realms of sanity and aimed for the track ahead of him. He took the track fast, with little care for the potholes in the ruts or the boulders along the edges. The Lamborghini flew over the ruts, taking off occasionally and thudding down hard, Nikolai grunting as he was tossed and thrown in the rear. King roared up the incline and after a mile, which was taken in under a minute, King hit the tarmac and threaded the vehicle through a series of bends. He floored the accelerator on the straight and held on. The large vehicle was other-worldly fast. King daren’t take his eyes off the road ahead to check his speed, but the bends ahead forced him to slow, even though the four-wheel-drive system seemed to grip as if the SUV was on rails. Once he had cleared the bends, King slammed on the brakes and hammered the vehicle down the lane where he had parked his hire car. The Lamborghini would only attract the wrong type of attention, so King would leave it behind. Cars like this were always fitted with a tracker. Usually a stipulation from the insurers or lease companies. But for mafia bosses, because they would want to find the person who stole their newest toy.
King killed the engine and got out of the vehicle. He opened the rear door and pulled Nikolai out. He pushed him ahead and into the rear of the car. He went back for the Uzi and slipped it under the driver’s seat as he got in.
“Who are you?” Nikolai asked incredulously.
“I am life,” King said. “Or I can be death.” He started the car’s tiny engine and by contrast to the premium SUV, their progress up the track was almost comically slow.
“And which will you be to me?”
“That depends on you,” said King. He turned out onto the road, drove steadily and carefully. His lights were on, and he was just a tourist on an evening drive.
No place to be, no agenda.
“Why? Why have you done this?”
“Helena Milankovitch,” King said. “Do you know her?” He looked in the rear-view mirror, caught sight of the man’s expression in the moonlight.
Nikolai nodded slowly. “I thought I’d never hear of her again,” he said. He sat back in the seat, as much as his bound hands would allow. He looked up at the ceiling, his shoulders had sagged. “I thought it would never catch up with me…”
32
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” said King. “You’ve seen what happens tonight when people don’t get the answers they want.”
“It was you,” Nikolai sneered at him. “You did something to Luca Fortez. Something that drove him crazy. Crazy enough to wage war on us. Kill my men…”
King shrugged. “You ply your trade, make your living from bringing misery on others. You had it coming.”
“Bullshit,” the Russian paused. “You and I are one and the same. You are a man who has done many terrible things. I can see it. See it in your eyes. You are no different to me.”
“I’m nothing like you.”
Nikolai scoffed. “As I said, you are no different.” He tried to sit up, but struggled in the deep sofa, his bindings restraining his hands and the use of his arms. He slumped back down. “Who do you work for? Helena Milankovitch?”
“Tell me more about her,” said King. “It sounds like she has finally caught up with you. Why?”
