by A P Bateman
69
There were many rooms upstairs, but King already knew which one he wanted. But as he made his way down the corridor he kept the weapon trained on every doorway he passed nonetheless. The door he was heading for was a double oak door, approximately eight-feet high. It had to indicate a master bedroom. It seemed the most fitting. And the facing end of the building featured a large balcony, which spanned the entire façade. King imagined the southwest-facing balcony soaked up the sun for much of the day. It seemed the obvious choice for the master suite to benefit from such a feature.
King edged to the side as he drew near. He unslung the rucksack and dropped it on the floor before reaching across and testing the handle. Splinters of wood burst out, the bullets punching ragged holes through and spitting out across the landing. He snatched his arm back and the door continued to take a pummelling, the sharp report of a pistol filling his already ringing ears, the lead hammering the solid oak door and careening at all angles down the corridor as it penetrated the thick wood. He raised the rifle, but the thought of Catherine being caught in a crossfire at this stage, made him lower it. He had come too far to lose his bargaining chip now. And he had no idea who else could be inside the room, and although he knew Romanovitch was married, he still didn’t know if the man had any children.
The gunfire ceased, and King raised the rifle, the butt held out from his shoulder and high in the air, the barrel aimed mere inches from the door handles. He was at such an acute angle as to do nothing more than put his rounds through the floor a foot or so inside the room. He took the chance and fired six rapid rounds across the door locks. The powerful 5.45x39mm bullets smashed the locks out and took one of the round gold-plated doorknobs clean off, leaving a six-inch hole, the doors opening a few inches.
The wood splintered, three gunshots filling the air. King reversed a hook kick, keeping his body away from the door, but sending his heel powering into both doors. They sprung back, and as King pulled back his foot, he swung the rifle out one-handed, like a pistol and lined the sights up on the man standing between two facing leather chairs.
Only it wasn’t just a man standing there.
And he no longer aimed the pistol at the door.
Romanovitch was tall and thin, but broad. Like a coat hanger. He reminded King of a scarecrow. The dossier that King had read on him mentioned a period of five-years spent in a Russian gulag. Five years in the baking, mosquito-ridden swamps of a Siberian summer, and one of the coldest, most unforgiving places on the planet in winter. King could see that the man had done hard time. It showed in his eyes. They were dead. His features were chiselled and gaunt. He looked like a man who had starved to the bone. There was never a full recovery from that sort of existence. No matter what luxury he had in his life now, the damage had been done. Like holocaust victims. There was no leaving the camps behind.
The woman was tall, her long hair dark and glossy. Standard Russian or east European trash. She had the looks and the figure to have model pretensions, but there was no warmth in her eyes. No sparkle. She was a predator. She had hooked up. Paid a price she thought worth paying. She was another Anna.
Another Helena.
Romanovitch held a pistol to her head. He was a whole foot taller, but he hid well behind her not inconsiderable height. King had the short rifle held loosely in his hands, the sights hovering somewhere between Romanovitch’s face and the woman’s shoulder. He couldn’t get a clear shot at the man, and through his mind was running with the notion of clipping her shoulder to reach his face. But the round from the AKU wasn’t like the 9mm Romanovitch was holding. It could slice straight through, or it could clip bone, tumble and take her entire arm off. The 5.45x39mm had been solely designed to take personnel off the battlefield. It was a savage round and King would rather go for a clean shot.
King could see the woman shared features with Helena Milankovitch. He saw Helena a thousand times a day. He pictured her staring at him as he investigated her husband’s murder. Her long-time lover standing at her side, seething at his interference. But it was the way she had looked at him that haunted him at night. She had been staring at him impassively, but King knew now that she had been planning how best to hurt him. How to destroy him. Now King saw that same look in this woman’s eyes.
She wasn’t scared.
She was planning.
Catherine moved her arm a touch and King saw the pistol too late. She fired, and King ducked to his right, but this took Romanovitch out of his line of fire. He squeezed off two rounds in front of them, the noise and muzzle flash shocking them and ruining their follow-up measure. King swung the rifle and the barrel hit Catherine in the jaw. She yelped and fell, between the two armchairs. Romanovitch was bringing the pistol around on King, but the swing of the rifle now meant he was way off target, so he swung back and caught the pistol with the muzzle of the AKU as it went off.
Romanovitch kicked out and King felt the rifle wrench out of his hands. He ducked his head and powered into the Russian, headbutting the man in his diaphragm. King could feel the bone and as he got his arms up and gripped the man’s shirt with both hands, he could feel the sinewy muscle and thin wrap of skin around his ribs.
Romanovitch was no stranger to fighting and used his elbows to strike down on King’s broad back. It was a large target and the Russian was using it well. Not blindly beating him but aiming his blows into the vertebrae. He was working his way up between King’s shoulder blades, trying to get them down onto the base of his neck. He had invested in the strategy, knew that a well-placed blow would take King out of the fight, so he gripped King around his chest with his left arm, wrapping him in a bear-hug, as he used more force and precision to deliver his blows. King was taken by surprise at the man’s strength. He pulled backwards but met resistance. King always countered resistance and used it to his benefit. He pushed instead, but Romanovitch had been waiting for this and ran backwards with him, keeping up his savage attack on King’s spine.
King was breathless now, and knew he needed to get out of the man’s grasp. He dropped lower but caught a well-placed knee in his eye as Romanovitch countered. He now took successive blows from above and below, but he blocked the knee as best he could with his forearms, feeling the rawness of the bullet wound more now that it was taking a pummelling from Romanovitch’s knee. The man’s knee was undoubtedly stronger and harder than King’s arms, but the power of the blows was being drained enough to have minimal effect on his face. King drew a deep breath, then dropped lower and powered up through his legs like a weightlifter. He drove both fists up into Romanovitch’s stomach in a double blow but carried on through as he straightened his legs. The Russian’s eleven-stone or so was taken clear from the ground and King kept on lifting until Romanovitch teetered and was thrown clear over King’s back and onto the parquet wooden floor. King heaved for breath but was quick turning around to meet his opponent. Romanovitch was stunned, but he knew - or rather had a well-tuned animalistic instinct – the importance of getting off the ground. He rolled onto his side, and when he glanced back up at King, he rolled twice more and put a favourable distance between them. King took a step forwards, but was wrenched backwards, the wind sucking from his lungs as a hard, slim forearm wrapped around his throat and Catherine pulled backwards with all her might.
The parameters of King’s mind were being warped. He had entered the room and found a clear hostage situation but was now being attacked by two people. Both equally hell-bent on killing him. He couldn’t process it, couldn’t compute what was happening. But he had two enemies in this fight and that was all he could focus on right now. He countered Catherine the same as he would anyone else attacking in such a manner, and snapped his head backwards, his cranium impacting on the woman’s nose. Her clasp released, and King felt welcome air rush into his lungs. He saw Romanovitch watching the scene, temporarily transfixed on the woman. Rage filled his eyes as she fell backwards, and he pushed himself up and charged at him, screaming in Russian and lowering h
is head. King dropped into a wide fighting stance, and when the man closed the gap enough, he swept his left hand onto the back of Romanovitch’s neck and drew him further downwards until the man’s head was far lower than he was meaning it to be and he lost balance. King caught hold of the Russian’s collar and dragged him closer, then guided him through and sandwiched his head between his legs, gripping as if he were a rodeo rider out of the gate. He wrapped both hands around the man’s waist, bear hugged and heaved until Romanovitch’s legs were clear of the ground and he was upside down. King gripped the man’s head like a vice. And then he kicked out both legs and dropped onto his backside. The man’s head met the parquet flooring first, King’s entire weight driving the blow to an impact with no give or mercy.
One hundred percent compression.
King released his grip and glanced over at Catherine’s unconscious body as he got back to his feet. He picked up Romanovitch’s pistol and checked it over. It was a 9mm CZ85. A reliable and handy tool. It had five rounds remaining and King tucked it into his pocket as he stepped over the contents of Romanovitch’s shattered skull and over to Catherine. He could hear gunfire, but it was distant and sporadic. He realised he had outstayed his luck.
It was time to get moving.
70
Darkness was his friend, his ally. He could use darkness, turn it against his enemy. He had done so many times before.
Rashid kept to the mantra of the five S’s. He was wearing dark navy trousers and jacket, with a light blue open collared shirt. The navy wasn’t a problem, but he turned up his collar and buttoned up the jacket to eliminate the lighter shade underneath. He shadowed the trees until he reached the gate. The road was single lane, and he could already tell from the ruts and potholes, that it wasn’t a main route to anywhere. He eased out slowly from the trees, crouching in the dried-up drainage ditch. He could see two guards milling around in the smashed-open gateway. By the looks of them, both had been injured when Rashid had rampaged through the gates. One was limping, favouring a leg, the other was rubbing his shoulder and nursing a cigarette. He carried an assault rifle and was holding its muzzle towards the ground. Both men were watching as several men approached the stationary digger. The had off-loaded enough ammunition for a small war and were tactically advancing as if the person inside might still pose a threat.
Rashid turned his attention further up the driveway. He could see clusters of men regrouping. His thoughts were of King and whether he had reached his objective. He had undoubtedly created a diversion, but now he needed to buy King some time.
Rashid stood up and crept across the road. He had twenty-metres to go when one of the men started to turn. Rashid sprinted, suddenly realising he was favouring an injury of his own. His knee was stiffening with swelling; he must have clouted it on the dash as he was thrown through the windscreen. He powered onwards, the man completing his turn when he was five paces away. The barrel of the AK74 started to rise, and Rashid could see the fear in the man’s eyes as he closed the gap and barrelled into him at alarming rate. Both men hit the ground and sprawled at the other man’s feet. Rashid knew the man he had taken down was less of a threat than the other, and he kicked him in the knee. It wasn’t enough to take him down, but it was the injured leg and it bought him enough time to scramble for the rifle. He caught hold of the barrel and swung it like a baseball bat, the man taking the wooden stock to the side of his head. He was out cold and falling before Rashid finished the swing. He elbowed the other man in the face, then got up onto his knees and straddled him as he hammered down a flurry of fists into the man’s face. They weren’t killer blows, but they were fast and there were so many of them that the man was soon unconscious.
Rashid got up and limped over to the rifle. He checked it over, then took three spare magazines from one of the inert men. He noticed the other rifle on the ground. A Russian AK15. This was a modern version of the famous AK47. Designed to take on the west’s silky-smooth assault rifles, it was a short-ranged sniper weapon for the urban environment. Good for six-hundred metres, chambered for the 7.62x39mm cartridge and equipped with a chunky suppressor for quiet operation, and a handy x6 magnification wide-angle scope. It covered a multitude of bases and was possibly a more complete package than what many NATO countries were using. Rashid had never been so close to one, and he checked the magazine and slung the weapon over his shoulder. If he could get it to the British embassy, he knew the boys at Hereford would want to take a look at it.
Rashid turned his attention back to the forty-year-old design of the AK74. He tucked the spare magazines into his waistband and took cover against the wall. He started to take single shots at the men at the house, then turned to the men advancing on the digger and fired several rounds at them, before turning his aim back on the men who were scattering at the house. He repeated the process until there was all-out gun battles ensuing. He changed magazines and switched to rapid fire sending volleys the three-hundred metres or so to the house, then short burst to the men in the open and those who were now using the digger as cover. He was soon out of ammunition and he dropped the rifle onto the ground. He unslung the AK15 and held it ready but did not fire. He could see the pandemonium at the house, and the men at the digger were firing off rounds ineffectively at the wall that Rashid hid behind.
He backed out of the gateway, his eyes on the house. “Well, my friend, I’ve got to get going now,” he said. “I hope that bought you enough time…”
71
“Are you going to kill me?”
King couldn’t answer that. He looked down at the blood on his stomach. He felt weak. He had made the call: I have what you want, he had said. He gave the location and told her not to be late. Get here if you want to see her alive…
He looked down at the Black Sea. It wasn’t living up to its name today. It was glistening like the med, the sun turning it a hue of gold in places. The pine trees across the mountainside were rich in scent and shimmied in the gentle breeze. He ran a hand down to his stomach and looked at the blood on his fingers. He tore a strip off the lining of his jacket and felt under his shirt, tucking the strip inside the wound like packing wad. He grimaced, his face bruised and swelling from the fight.
The fight of all fights.
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said, looking at his stomach.
“You loved him?”
She shrugged. “He treated me well,” she said solemnly.
“He was married.”
She nodded. “To me.”
“But Anna Sergeyev said you had been recently abducted.”
“And you trusted her?” Catherine smirked. “More fool you…”
King stared at her coldly. “Then why does Helena want you? Surely she would know you and Romanovitch were together?”
Catherine looked back at him. From inside the boot of the car. It was the coldest expression he could recall. “Because she hates him. Hates him more than she loves me…” she paused. “Perhaps she genuinely thought I needed help,” she said, but she did not sound all that convincing. “But she will have seen me as a way to get to him. Helena is always five moves ahead of everyone else.”
“We’ll see,” said King. But he had already called her and set her on her way. He was wounded and needed medical attention. He took out his phone and made two calls. When he had finished, he closed the boot-lid, hearing Catherine’s screaming become quieter as he walked away.
72
Helena Milankovitch was seething. She had been attempting to contact King, but he had not replied to either texts or calls. She had put her plans into escape and evasion. She had lost. She knew it. She had shut down the farm, paid off her workers and hastily sent the girls destined for the sex industry to her contacts, accepting a reduced rate for the inconvenience of the short notice. The baby-farming enterprise had been moved to another location, with several of her workforce assuming the role in her absence. Helena, meanwhile would be relocating and organising by phone until she was satisfied the heat had died dow
n, and that she could regroup with her contacts and organise a base from which to work. She was planning a period of laying low in Chechnya. Nobody bothered with Chechnya.
But King’s call had halted that. With Romanovitch dead and his organisation in chaos, she had what she wanted. She could assume her role as head of the Bratva and had paid off – with money or promises of power and influence – enough people who could otherwise have stood in her way.
And now she had the key.
Catherine.
The bitch sister who had ignored her efforts to keep her away from that life and married her tormentor and rapist and pimp instead. But also, the same sister who knew Romanovitch’s most intimate secrets. His accounts, his holdings, his inner workings. Catherine would come around. And if she didn’t, then she would tell Helena anyway. Helena knew the sort of people who could get anybody talking.
