by A P Bateman
King had worked his way down the mountainside and made out more men flanking the house. Each man was placed at intervals of fifty-feet. If King couldn’t make his way between two men at fifty-feet, he wouldn’t be doing this. He had trained as a sniper and could use his surroundings to remain invisible. He had lain in wait for a target for four days, not thirty-feet from a manned Taliban observation post in Afghanistan. When the target had finally presented himself, King had taken the shot, waited another day and exfiltrated without being seen. But that was then, and this was now. He had had time on his side back then. With these men of Romanovitch’s waiting for him, King knew it was now or never. He either got Catherine Milankovitch out as a bargaining chip, or he killed Romanovitch to appease Helena.
There was no turning back.
King could see that the men had assumed that any attack would be coming from the front, with the men at the sides of the house being a backup to any attack, or perhaps a security cordon for Romanovitch inside. King neared the perimeter where the scrub met shrubs. In this case, a belt of privet. He shuffled forward on his belly, raised the binoculars and breathed steadily as he scanned the ground ahead of him. The binoculars gave him the low-light illumination, so he wound down the magnification to increase his field of view. The men were closer now, and he could see the slight movements which had alerted him further up the mountainside. The men were fidgeting. Weapons were moving. Eyes were on the driveway. King was sure that with this amount of men within the grounds, there couldn’t have been any motion sensors, and nor would the cameras be much use, unless they were all focused on the perimeter. He felt in the bag for the first IED and planted one of the electrical timer charges on the ground behind the belt of privet. He set the timer for fifteen-minutes and crawled steadily down the line of the perimeter, towing the bag behind him on a length of paracord. When he was opposite the largest group of men, he took out another electrical charge, checked the luminous dials of his watch, then set the second IED for ten-minutes. Against his normal SOP, or standard operating procedure, he made his way back along the line and crossed past the first IED with eight-minutes showing on his watch. He used his elbows and toes, keeping lizard-low as he reached the end of the garden and where the mountain slope extended upwards at ninety-degrees. The ground was difficult to cross quietly here, gravel had washed down, and the area was patchy grass and scrub, along with planted shrubs that hadn’t quite had the tending they needed. A buffer between the manicured ground and the wild mountainside. King took advantage of the cover and untied the rucksack, slipping it quietly over his shoulders. He tucked up into a crouch, his eyes on the last man in the line, who was watching the garden ahead. King tucked the pistol and its bulky silencer under his left armpit, then slipped the knife out of its sheath and held it down by his side as he made his way silently across the edge of exposed ground. He got within two paces of the first guard, checked his breathing to steady himself, then hesitated as a second guard stepped away from the edge of the house and came into view three-paces in front of the first guard. King slipped the knife silently back into its sheaf. The second guard turned to say something to his colleague, but King already had the Makarov in his hand and took the shot before the man could mutter a warning. The man took the shot in the forehead and dropped in a heap. King ripped the modified silencer off the pistol and stepped in close, the hot muzzle burning the man’s throat, his left hand clutching his mouth and nose closed. He whispered in Russian, “Don’t move. Don’t resist…” He removed his left hand and took the machine carbine out of the man’s hands, then walked the man backwards and around the side of the house and pushed him face-first against the wall. He said, “Show me the staff entrance.” He slung the weapon over his left shoulder and let it hang loosely from its strap.
“He knows you’re coming,” the man drawled quietly in English. “You don’t have a chance…”
King pressed the pistol in hard, stifling the man’s artery. It was enough to get his attention, the blood pounding up his neck, but going no further. He released it and the man sagged. “Do you have a key to the staff entrance?”
“There is no staff entrance,” he croaked.
“The kitchen then. Romanovitch doesn’t cook his own meals. He has people to do that. Show me.”
“The key is in my pocket,” he said.
He slipped his hand inside and before King could say anything, he snapped his head backwards, catching King on the bridge of the nose. King recoiled, dropping the pistol, his eyes watering, not yet feeling the pain that went along with the light-headedness. The man spun around, a spring-loaded knife in his hand. He shouted a warning to his comrades but was drowned out by the first of the IEDs.
The night sky lit up and the noise was deafening. King darted forwards and jabbed his knife at the man’s throat, but he blocked the attack, taking the length of King’s blade across his wrist. Blood spurted a long way and the man stared at the wound, grimacing as King’s second strike plunged deep into his liver. King switched his left hand, cupping the blunt top edge of the knife’s blade, and in a powerful downward motion, he yanked both hands and engaged his core for extra strength, driving his legs down into a squat. The man dropped onto his knees, his torso opened-up and spilling his steaming bowels onto the ground. King stood back up and turned away, taking the man’s machine carbine off his back. He could hear the screaming of the group of men caught in the IED’s blast. He knew how it would have gone down – the heat of the blast, the thud in their chests from the shockwave, the ringing in their ears as they tried to make sense of what had just happened, the pain from the shrapnel – the fear and indignity at having been felled by an unseen enemy. There were shouts of instruction and King envisioned braver men going to their comrade’s aid. He was in too deep. Too personal. More committed than he had ever been in what felt like a lifetime in these situations. Which was why he didn’t feel the same level of guilt when the second IED lit up the sky and it happened all over again for the men in front of the house.
67
There were shouts and commotion and King knew what would be happening. Most of the men would have hunkered down, not chancing being caught in a third explosion. Weapons would be trained impotently on unseen threats, shadows playing eerily across the scorched earth as stubborn flames licked the grass. Ringing ears and shouts of both fear and concern was enough opportunity for King to place a single 5.45x39mm round through the door lock. He shoulder-barged the door open, then closed it behind him and took off the rucksack. He could hear multiple gunshots outside, the men taking no chances and firing into the treeline at would-be attackers. He used two wooden wedges tapering from two inches to a thin tip, both carved from a piece of wood bought from the builder’s merchants. He dropped them down on the floor, positioned them away from the hinges and kicked them in place with his size-twelve boot. He kicked again for good measure, then slung the rucksack back over his shoulders and picked up the AKU machine carbine – essentially a smaller version of the infamous AK47 but chambered for a lighter, faster bullet. The result was a weapon which effectively took down the enemy, its bullets creating a more devastating wound than the old AK47’s 7.62x39mm rounds, but not over-penetrating walls and chancing collateral damage. The short design was both light to handle and easy to use in close quarter combat scenarios.
The kitchen was dark, but light emitted from the next room, which King could already see was a large hall. He shouldered the rifle and stepped cautiously out. Lights were flicking on upstairs. King saw the first guard, a tall man carrying a semi-automatic pistol. King dispatched him with a double tap, moved onwards and up the stairs. He assumed Romanovitch would be inside and leave the dirty work to his men. King was going in blind and had no plans of the building, nor information regarding its occupants. He knew that Romanovitch was married, but he did not know if there were children in the house. He hoped not, but he wouldn’t let that affect him now. Caroline was his priority. Romanovitch was a ruthless mafia boss who had lived his l
ife, built his riches on other people’s defeat and misery. He didn’t care if the man was a father or not. He had already decided that Catherine was his best chance of seeing Caroline again, but it would cover all his bases if Romanovitch was taken out of the picture.
King reached the landing and could see the chaos below him through the window. He could hear gunfire, and now he could see men firing their weapons at the mountainside and the treeline beyond the perimeter. The were convinced that the IEDs had been grenades, fired or thrown from the top of the first slope. King checked behind him, then slipped off the rucksack and took out two of the taper-fuse IEDs. He used a cheap disposable lighter he had bought in a service station and lit both fuses. They burned fiercely, and King worked the catch to open the window, but it was stuck firm. He cursed his stupidity, should have opened the window first. He used the butt of the rifle to smash out the glass, but the glass was toughened. Cursing again, he fired two shots through the glass and used the butt of the rifle again. The glass gave way, but a few of the men had turned and were looking up at the window. King was cursing a little more fluidly as he lobbed both IEDs out of the window amongst the men. They looked at the burning water bottles, but the first exploded before anybody worked out what was going on. Mud, shrapnel and debris blew high in the air and two of the men were thrown backwards, the third man was obliterated by the blast. The explosion had sent the second IED high into the air, and when it detonated, it showered molten-hot screws across the garden, felling men and sending shrapnel into the side of the house. King ducked and felt the wave of heat, glass blowing over his back. When he looked back up the man was standing firm, the pistol aimed at his head. King dodged left and the gun fired. He dropped low, clawed for the AKU and got a couple of rounds off, both hitting the top tread of the stairs. The man fired twice more as he ducked back around the landing. King fired three more shots, smashing the banister spindles and taking chunks of plaster out of the wall. He had a better hold on the rifle, a better aim and he shouldered it and took the stairs two at a time. The man ducked out, the pistol held in a two-handed grip, he fired at the same time as King and went down squirming. King took another step, aimed and fired. The man’s head rocked backwards, and he didn’t have to stick around to know he was dead. He took a step forwards, turned the weapon sideways and reached to detach the magazine to check how many rounds he had left. His left arm wouldn’t move as fast as it should, and he felt a stab of pain. He looked down, saw the blood on his sleeve. He’d killed the man at the top of the stairs, but he’d gone down fighting. King had been hit by one of the 9mm bullets. He checked the magazine, wincing at the pain and pushing through the barrier to get the task done. He pivoted the awkward backward alignment of the Kalashnikov’s magazine and clicked it back in place. He estimated twenty-rounds remaining. He moved on, but as he passed the largest of the windows, a bay window with an area that had been turned into a reading corner with leather sofas and books piled high on antique wooden sideboards, he caught sight of lights and gunfire at the main gate. He watched as a digger, a JCB, he thought, crashed through the gates and drove up the driveway, part on the grass and part on the road, tearing up a line of privet hedge on its front grille. It lowered its front bucket and rammed hard into the Ferrari, smashing it into the Rolls Royce. As it met resistance, the Ferrari went further into the bucket, which was already rising. The digger swung out and then braked suddenly, and the Ferrari carried on, landing in front of the men who were lining up and firing at the digger. The wrecked Ferrari smashed onto the ground and rolled into some of them as they dodged in all directions trying to avoid it. The digger swung around, the bucket lowering and drove into the security hub, taking out a complete wall and making the roof collapse.
King shot out the glass and crouched down. He took out the last two electrical-timer IEDs and set them for one-minute a piece. He counted down in his head, then threw them both out, one left and one right, when he estimated fifteen seconds remaining. He did not wait to see what effect they had on the men down below as he headed for the first of many doors along the south wing of the building.
68
Rashid hadn’t driven a digger before, but the three-mile drive to Romanovitch’s property had given him plenty of scope. He wasn’t about to consider a second career, but he could make it move – much like any heavy vehicle – with gears and brakes and throttle, although the throttle was steering wheel mounted and he discovered the brakes could be split to turn on a coin. The front bucket went down and up and tilted accordingly by use of another lever. He hadn’t had the time to study the back-hoe, which required revolving the seat, but he didn’t think he’d be digging a trench anytime soon. In his opinion, he’d done a pretty good job, raising the bucket as a bullet trap, and destroying the security hub as well as the two cars, but he was starting to take fire and the glass all around him had either completely shattered, or was strewn with individual bullet holes.
After leaving King, Rashid had deliberated for some time and had eventually responded to Neil Ramsay’s text message, when he had seen the subject matter. King no longer had to either kill the Russian, or snatch Catherine Milankovitch. Caroline was safe and well. Ramsay was demanding a regroup and debrief. As far as Rashid was concerned, his friend had crossed the line. He wanted to help, but he could only see the odds as a suicide mission. If King had reached the point where he couldn’t see reason, then Rashid had wanted no further part of it. He had driven near, hoping to catch King before his assault. He had texted him, and then, when he received no response, he had called. Straight to voicemail. He knew King would have switched off his phone. It was then that he had heard a thud and echo across the mountainside. The first of King’s IEDs.
Rashid had acted quickly, remembering the road building equipment parked up in the layby. He had no weapon, and his hire car would be torn to shreds if he tried to drive in. He had driven at breakneck speed and decided to steal the massive digger. Hereford had taught him many things, not least how to hotwire enemy vehicles. A skill he had already deployed in Syria many times. The drive back to Romanovitch’s property was a fraught one - the digger could only reach forty-miles-per-hour and Rashid imagined King cornered and taking fire, or worse.
Now he was taking fire of his own. He had heard ricochets in the cab, had pressed his chin to his chest as a fragment zinged past his ear. He had just tossed the mangled Ferrari at the group of men and taken a few out with the wreckage. He slipped his foot on the right brake pedal and spun the wheel clockwise as he pulled hard back on the throttle. The digger span quickly and Rashid lowered the front loader bucket, scything through the air and catching two men who were thrown twenty-metres into the wall of the house. They wouldn’t be getting up.
To counter the nauseous feeling from the inertia of the spinning cab, Rashid swung the wheel the other way and depressed the other brake pedal. The digger practically rotated on the spot, its bucket midway and spinning quickly. The men were starting to gather on the lawn. They were reloading or swapping magazines with each other or picking up scattered weapons from the men killed or injured in the IED blasts. Rashid didn’t give them time. He straightened up and the giant machine lurched forwards towards them. His main concern was a man getting level or behind him and leaping either onto the side ladders or the rear-mounted back-hoe. From there, they would be able to take a shot at their leisure. He countered this by swinging the machine in a zig-zag. The men scattered, some firing, others fleeing. But all the time, Rashid drove like he was demented. The digger turned so severely that it looked as if it may well keel over. Rashid stopped suddenly and reversed. He soon had fifty-metres between himself and the remaining men. He swung the vehicle around and faced off the men he had first engaged at the entrance to the drive. They had regrouped and were advancing. Rashid lowered the bucket and repeated his zig-zag as he neared them. Again, the men reacted in the same way, dodging but failing to anticipate how erratic ten-tonnes of metal could be. Rashid heard the thuds as bodies hit the metal but
felt nothing as he kept the digger moving at maximum speed through the grounds. He drove a wide circle, the headlights lighting up the vast area of lawn. As he came around towards the house, he could see that he had allowed too much time for the men to regroup and he saw the muzzle flashes a split second before he heard the bullets hitting the body of the digger. He turned and raised the bucket so that it completely blocked his view, and the bullet strikes as they impacted on the toughened steel of the bucket changed two octaves higher.
Wishing he had gone along with King’s plan of a diversion, Rashid steeled himself momentarily, then yanked back the throttle for a final charge. He bounced out of his seat as he drove over a line of flower beds, then crashed through a water feature and was left with fifty-metres of sparking, pinging bullet strikes over the front loader arms and the bucket. He was closing fast, but the bucket suddenly dropped without warning and hit the ground. The hydraulic cylinder had been hit and hydraulic fluid sprayed over what was left of the windscreen and into Rashid’s face. A mound of neatly manicured lawn was pushing up over the already full bucket and he felt the vehicle halve in speed. Rashid hit the breaks and slammed the machine into reverse. He moved backwards at full speed, the bullets pinging off the grille and bonnet. The range was increasing with every second, and Rashid kept the machine reversing hard all the way towards the front wall. He could already see men at the gates. Some were injured and crawling, others were kneeling and getting ready to fire. Rashid nailed the brake and swung the wheel hard. The digger spun, throwing up huge clods of earth. He was twenty-five metres from the wall when he changed gear and pulled back the throttle. The digger lurched forwards and he had just enough time to change into second and brace himself for impact. The bucket smashed through the wall and the digger hit the rubble and became airborne, crashing down onto the road. Rashid was thrown out of his seat and through the shattered windscreen. He slid onto the hot bonnet, scrambled off the side and limped off the road and into the brush. Gunshots echoed, and bullets sparked and pinged off the digger, but already Rashid was well out of their line of fire, picking his way through the treeline and making his way back towards the entrance, parallel to the road.
