Reaper

by A P Bateman

  “Please, if it’s not too painful for you?” King ventured. “Tell me about that night.”

  Anna scoffed. “It was nothing,” she said. “Or it was everything.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You are a man,” she sneered. She felt her breasts, squeezed them and lifted them upwards. “You see these?” She slid her hand lower, pulled the swim robe apart revealing herself fully. “That?” She stared at King as he did his best not to look either interested or too uncomfortable. “That is for me to give someone or to deny them. There is no in between. Some people don’t think it is possible to rape a whore. But let me tell you; it is. I could sleep with a dozen men in a day. But if someone did not stop when I wanted them to, then it is rape. As much as it would be if I were a nun.”

  King nodded. “I get that.”

  “Do you? Because few men do,” she sneered. “Those Bratva bastards, my husband included, they took what they wanted. That night was wild and crazy and changed my life. Pyotr decided he wanted me for himself, swore off the others. It was madness. Too much champagne and vodka, too many drugs. Line upon line of coke. They were snorting it out of the girl’s parts, off their boobs… madness. There was Viagra too. As if they needed it with all the cocaine and ecstasy. Helena had cost them a lot of time and money. She had whisked her sister out of there, took some money to do so. They were mad. Pretty soon I was just laying down on a sofa and they were just concentrating on Helena. There was nothing they didn’t put that woman through. Nothing.” She drank the remnants of coffee and looked thoughtfully past King and out across the meadowland. “I hooked up with Pyotr after that night. I did it for survival. I figured if I had to fuck, I would rather it was just one man. Whether I liked him or not. He was on the cusp of making it big, so I took my chance.”

  King said nothing. He had shot the man in the head, a simple sorry wasn’t going to sit well with her. It was another world. He had seen most of the evil in it, but it never ceased to amaze him how life could be.

  Anna looked back at King and smiled. “I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “It’s weird, you know? I feel numb to it. I will not see him again, but I don’t feel happy about that. I have money, plenty stashed away here and there. I need to be able to get to it. I went down to Bayonne and bought clothes yesterday. A prepaid phone. And you said I could keep the car, right?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I mean, put some false plates on it when you can, but yeah, keep it.”

  She nodded. “I can’t thank you enough for letting us use this place,” she said. She smiled, smoothed her hands over her breasts and stomach. “Or I could thank you in another way?”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Perhaps I want to?”

  King smiled. “Those days are behind you.”

  “I still have needs,” she said sharply.

  “Then find someone who loves you, love them back and forget the past.”

  She laughed. “You are a kind man,” she said. She stood up, showing King everything he had passed up on. “I will get us some coffee,” she said.

  King didn’t stop her. He didn’t drink coffee as a rule, but he doubted she had tea. He hadn’t come for breakfast anyway. He leaned back in the chair, watched the glow of the sunrise across the hills of grass and orchards. It was a beautiful place, and he wished he could have been there with Caroline. The thought made him anxious again, and he fought hard to control his emotions. He looked up as Anna returned with a pot of coffee and another cup. She poured him a cup with no offer of sugar or cream, then topped up her own cup.

  “Tell me about Catherine.”

  Anna nodded. “Helena’s little sister. I suppose by now she’d be twenty-four or twenty-five, so not that little,” she paused. “She looked a lot like Helena, so beautiful, beguiling even. Helena knew that she would end up in the same situation, knew she would be sought after. That is why she got her out. The money she stole from the Bratva was given to her to give her a start someplace.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Anna hesitated, then said, “No.”

  King stared at her but said nothing. He tapped his fingers on the table, watched her grow uncomfortable and look away from him. “I think you do,” he said.

  She sighed, and King noticed her hand was shaking. She caught him looking, moved it to her thigh and rested it there. “And what will you do?”

  King shrugged. “My fiancé is being held. I don’t know where, I don’t even know if she’s still alive,” he said, his voice wobbling a little. He took a breath, steadied himself. “I want a bargaining chip. I want like for like. I want to find Catherine Milankovitch and trade her for the woman I love.”

  Anna smirked. “And for this woman, you have killed my husband, and who else?”

  “The man called Sergeyev. He is dead too.”

  “And Romanovitch?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  Anna looked at him. “I know where he is,” she said.

  King nodded. “And you’ll tell me?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “But I know more than this. I know where Catherine Milankovitch is.”

  “But you have a price,” King stated flatly.

  “There is a price for everything,” she said.

  “I thought you had money.”

  “I do.”

  “So how about giving me the information for free?”

  She laughed. “Oh, my dear, nothing is free.”

  “I doubt I can afford it then.”

  “You are a government man,” she said. “I know the type.”

  “Okay…”

  “Anonymity. That is my price. For my daughter and myself,” she paused. “A new name, social security details, British identity… that is all. I do not need money, I just want to disappear.”

  King had tried to disappear once, and it hadn’t worked. A man had found him, brought him back into the fold. A new role, but life felt very much the same right now.

  He nodded. “Go on,” he said.

  “You can do this for me? For my daughter?”

  “Yes.” He knew that Amherst would be able to swing it. What was a name, a national insurance number and a passport? What price was that for getting their MI5 agent back? “But time is sensitive,” he said. “I don’t break my word, but I need you to tell me. I need you to trust me, and I will make arrangements for both you and your daughter.”

  She considered this for a moment, then stood up and nodded. “Okay. We will go inside, and I will write it down.”

  King followed her, the swim robe covering little of her backside as she took the three stone steps up into the house. The room was a large, open-plan living area where a lounge, dining room and kitchen merged into one. Anna found a pad and started to write down an address. King could see she was drawing a map as well. “My husband spoke with Romanovitch the day before you killed him,” she said neutrally. “He always goaded Pyotr, delighted in emasculating him whenever he could. Dick measuring, I suppose. Romanovitch had wised up to Helena being on the scene. She had made some moves, paying mercenary types to build a platform from which to operate. He suspected what she was going to do, or at least that she could be after revenge. He took out certain insurances and goaded my husband. Pyotr said he would never hide or cower from her like some damned dog. I suppose that was Pyotr trying to out-dick Romanovitch.”

  “What insurances?” King asked, taking the note off her and studying it before folding it and placing it in his pocket.

  “Romanovitch found Catherine and took her.”

  “Took her?”

  “Yes,” she paused. “I don’t know where he took her, or even if she is still alive. But all I know is that Romanovitch is a merciless bastard and he will use her in any way he can to protect himself.”

  “And this address, it is his main home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why help me?”

  The question seemed to stun her for a moment, she shrugged and said, “
Maybe Helena needs to end this, maybe things will be better for me if she does. She will not like the fact that I got together with Pyotr. She will have seen that as me siding with him, gaining from that night.”

  “And if Romanovitch dies, well that’s one less person to come after you for the secrets you know about your husband’s business affairs.”

  Again, she shrugged like it meant nothing. “Win, win.”

  King nodded, was about to thank her for her cooperation, but something outside caught his eye. He moved to the edge of the window, keeping far enough back to remain unseen. A large black Mercedes and a black Range Rover Sport had pulled up and parked on the road opposite the house. “Your husband’s men… would you recognise them all?”

  “Most of them,” she said. She walked up to King and stood at his shoulder. “Those cars are his, I’m certain of it.”

  King stepped back and looked at her. “You said you bought things yesterday,” he paused. “How did you purchase them?”

  “On my credit card…” she trailed off, realising her mistake.

  “And the phone?”

  “Card,” she said. “I bought two of them. My daughter was missing her friends. The phones should be fine, they’re pay as you go.”

  King frowned. “But if your daughter called somebody and they got hold of that person’s phone, they could use the find my phone feature.”

  Anna covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh god! They’ve probably gone to Anushka’s house, Dina’s best friend from the international school. Another Russian family living in Biarritz.”

  “Go upstairs and get your daughter,” he paused. “And get some clothes on. Don’t pack, just be ready to move. And leave both of those phones upstairs.”

  He returned to the window, saw the passenger door of the Range Rover open and the man get out. He had to be six-feet-six and two-hundred and fifty pounds, and he looked like he lived in the gym. Another man got out of the rear door and stood beside him as they both surveyed the house. He was five-six and wiry. A stark contrast to the giant, but by the look of him, no less dangerous. King could see that both men were armed – the contours of their leather jackets indicated sizeable firearms of some description.

  King checked the lock on the door, then hurried over to the door the two of them had come in through and locked that also. He could see that the windows were closed as he crossed the kitchen and went into a utility room that branched off it. There were shelves with washing powder and liquids, ant-killer, slug-pellets and drain-cleaner. Below were stacks of newspaper and magazines, and alongside the shelving were recycling bins filled with glass bottles, and another two with tins and plastic. At the far end of the twelve-by-fifteen utility were domestic appliances and a small generator. Next to the generator was a five-litre can of petrol.

  King went back to the kitchen, saw the large man in the middle of the road, his eyes on the upstairs of the house. The smaller man was opening the gate, about to step into the garden. He didn’t have much time, but he already had a plan. Of sorts.

  Petrol is an evaporate. Once spilt it will not last long in a flammable state. It has a low flash-point, high burn-rate and because of this, it expels its energy quickly. King took three glass bottles out of the recycling bin. One had previously contained wine, another vodka and the third still had remnants of orange juice at the bottom. King placed them on the ironing board and picked up the tub of slug pellets. He glanced at the back of the box, then opened it and scooped out handfuls, dropping them into the bottles until they were around one-third full. King then picked up the stack of newspapers and tore the sheets off, rolling stacks of ten or twelve sheets into tight tubes. He put them to one side, picked up the petrol can and poured the petrol into each bottle, leaving a gap of about three inches from the top. He had spilt some petrol, but it would soon evaporate. He then pushed the paper tubes into the bottles, where they soaked up the fuel almost instantly. The pellets were soluble and had already started to turn into a purply mush at the bottom of the bottles. King peered around the doorway, before he eased out, carrying the three bottles carefully. He could no longer see the men, but he knew they would be checking the back of the house.

  Anna appeared at the top of the steps, her face ashen and her eyes wide. She had changed into jeans and a shirt and wore a pair of pumps with sequins all over them. “They are here,” she said. “They are trying to get in one of the windows!”

  “Where?”

  “Come with me,” she said. “You will see them.” She looked at him, precariously carrying the three bottles. “What are those?”

  “Something your motherland came up with,” he said. “Molotov Cocktails…” He placed two of them on the kitchen counter, carried the larger of the three – the vodka bottle – with him as he bounded up the stairs. “Show me,” he said to her.

  There were four large bedrooms upstairs and a mezzanine area set aside as a cosy-corner with a selection of paperbacks on the windowsill acting as a mini library. Anna veered to the right, stepped past one of two double beds and stopped just short of the window. “Down there,” she said.

  King peered down, saw the larger man prising the shutter with a large screwdriver, the smaller man standing back a few paces with a mini-Uzi machine pistol held at the ready. He placed the bottle on the floor, then reached for the locks.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting us out of here.”

  “But you’ll kill them both!”

  “They have guns,” King said. “Machine guns. They’ll cut us to shreds.”

  “But while they’re round the back, we could get out the front way!”

  King looked at her. “Yes. You’re right,” he said. “Get your daughter and wait for me downstairs.”

  He watched her go, then turned back to the window and eased the catch. It was stiff, and he applied enough dynamic tension to avoid it giving suddenly and making a noise. He got it undone and started to ease the window outwards when the smaller man looked up, his eyes on the window to the room next door. He then looked directly at King, brought the mini-Uzi up to aim.

  King ducked backwards, the window shattering and a trail of bullets slamming into the ceiling. Plaster dust fell and debris from the ceiling and shards of glass scattered across the wooden floor. King reached for the lighter in his pocket, got it lit and dabbed the flame on the petrol-soaked paper wad. It flamed instantly, and he grabbed the bottle and threw it down hard in their general direction. He did not know if the men had moved, but he guessed they hadn’t when he heard the screams above the woof of the petrol igniting. He got to his feet, chanced a look and saw the smaller man on his back, his feet on fire as he scrabbled backwards on his backside. He had dropped the machine pistol and was looking horrified as the giant clawed the air, staggering onto the lawn, leaving a sticky trail of burning fuel that singed the grass in his wake. The addition of the slug-pellets, largely consisting of Methiocarb - a substance which liquifies at 114°c and turns to syrup - meant that the fuel stuck in place and allowed the petrol vapour to burn for longer and more intensely than it normally would have, like an improvised napalm.

  The giant’s blood-curdling screams started to die down but were replaced by those of the smaller man. King peeked out, saw he was patting his feet with his hands, but the sticky fuel merely stuck and burned. The man leapt up, staggered the twenty-metres or so to the pool and threw himself in.

  King bolted down the stairs, barging Anna out of the way as he reached the bottom. She was in shock, her expression one of terror as she shielded her daughter.

  “I’m sorry…”

  King silenced her with a right jab to her jaw and she fell to the floor, already unconscious. Dina screamed, and King glared at her. “Stay there!” he shouted.

  He dashed over to the window, saw two men at the Range Rover. They were taking cover behind, aiming pistols at the house, unsure what to do next. They had heard the gunfire, the screams, but it took a lot to run towards that, and these men were not
that type.

  King unlocked the door, lit one of the tapers of newspaper, and picked up the bottle. He took a deep breath to ready himself, then opened the door and darted outside.

  The men froze for a second, enough time to get the bottle airborne and travelling in a gentle arc across the road. He ducked down, as they opened fire. One man had a fully-automatic Glock and wasted his twenty-rounds on the house, the garden wall and the open doorway. King hoped that the girl had stayed put. He heard the vehicle engulf with flames, the woof that petrol makes in large quantities when it ignites. He ducked back into the house, used the doorframe for cover as he peered back outside. The bottle had landed just short of the Range Rover, but the liquid had spilt underneath and engulfed the vehicle in flames. The men were on fire, stumbling into the fence and unable to escape the horror of the flames. Everywhere they trod started to burn, the syrupy fuel sticking to and burning whatever it encountered. The Mercedes had started up and was reversing erratically away. It had caught some of the burning fuel, its front wheels burning fiercely.

  King turned and walked along the side of the house. He could see the man in the pool. He was clinging to the side, breathing erratically, fighting the pain. He looked up at King as he walked past. The giant was dead, but still burning. King never ate roast pork, something he had learned many years before whilst operating in areas where war had been fought from the air, or rebels had ethnically cleansed entire villages. The smell would always stay with him – the smell of fuel, of rendered fat, of burned meat. It clung inside the nostrils, the sweet and sickly essence of death. There was a distinct likeness to over-done pork that always took King back to those hellish scenes.