by A P Bateman
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 his 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 down, 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.
She had ordered King to bring Catherine to her, but King had said no and told her to listen. He had told her where and when and he had hung up on her when she had refused. He had not answered her call when she returned it. Twice more she had rung the number before he eventually picked up. He had told her how it would work and reiterated both where and when. And then he had hung up again.
But he had told her to bring Caroline.
She was still in with a chance.
King had not been aware of Caroline’s escape. She still had a card to play, and she would bluff her hand until she won.
Because she always won.
73
“I can’t let him go through with this,” Caroline said emphatically. “We can’t let him go through with this.”
Ramsay glanced at his watch. He took the next winding section of mountain road, slowed for the hairpin bend, and accelerated the modest Skoda as he exited the corner, and the section of road unfolded to another long straight. “Try him again,” he said, concentrating on the road ahead.
Caroline knew that King would hear her first voice message and return her call. There was no question about that. But she no longer had a mobile phone of her own and was calling from Ramsay’s number. Better to text, hope he saw the opening message on the locked screen. The annoyance of iPhone’s lack of privacy feature - often a curse for leaving the phone in front of her at meetings to have King text an intimate or downright rude message - may actually play into her hands. She couldn’t think what else to text, having sent a handful of messages already, but decided on:
Caroline is with us! – call ASAP – danger ahead!
She pressed the send icon then cursed loudly.
“What?” Ramsay snapped.
“No signal.”
“Wait one,” Marnie said, holding onto the hand-loop in the rear seat, bracing herself for another hairpin. She rummaged through her bag, retrieved a satellite phone with an antenna that looked like a child had fashioned it out of thirty Lego bricks. She twisted the antenna and handed it to her. “You’ll have to program in his number.”
“Bugger!” Caroline snapped. She looked back at her phone and saw that the message had not been sent. She re-sent it, watched the blue line trundle slowly across the screen, the signal indicator hover around one to two bars. She watched the blue line get close to the end and the signal bar dropped to no service. She cursed again, snatched the large phone off Marnie and set about typing in the number.
Ramsay wound the car around the bend, then slammed on the brakes, a lorry in their path and nowhere to go. The car skidded, then gripped as the traction control cut in and the ABS did its thing, but too late. He swung the car into the mountain face, sparks raining on the windows as the car scraped down the rock. Caroline screamed and Marnie, who had been leaning forwards, ended up thrown between the seats and head first into Caroline’s footwell. The lorry impacted on the front quarter with a glancing blow, but enough to fire off the airbags, throwing Marnie back the way she had come, where she slumped onto the rear seat. The lorry scraped down the side and the glass shattered. Caroline dropped the phones and rested back in her seat, shocked and confused. Her ears were ringing from the explosion of the airbags and the car had stalled, its hot and overworked engine ticking in the silence.
The lorry had carried on around the bend as if nothing had happened and was out of sight.
74
King watched the Audi approaching. He had chosen the stretch of road for its long approach in both directions. He hadn’t known which direction Helena would come from, but he knew the car. He had been adamant she tell him that. And so far, she was obeying his instructions. The Audi stopped. The lights flashed twice, and then it moved on slowly and steadily. No sudden movements or change in speed or direction. It entered the dusty and rocky layby and stopped. The road wound entirely around the top third of the mountain affording an uninterrupted view of the Black Sea. The layby would have made a wonderful vista stop. But not at this time of the morning. The rising sun was reaching the lower peaks, casting its golden hue on the sea and the town below. It was Sunday. And apart from two dedicated cyclists, intent on testing themselves against the challenges of the mountain pass, King had yet to see anyone else.
Helena got out of the car and as instructed, placed the keys on the ground. She took a step forward.
“That’s far enough!” King shouted. He held Romanovitch’s pistol by his side.
Helena kept on walking.
King raised the pistol.
“I said; that’s far enough!”
“Show me my sister.”
“Let me see Caroline.”
Helena swept a hand towards the car. It’s windows heavily tinted, and the windscreen taking the full glare of the rising sun. “See her for yourself…”
“That’s not how this works.”
“Don’t tell me how this works! I tell you how this works!”
“Go back to the car and bring her to me.”
“The same,” Helena replied. “I want to see my sister before this goes any further.”
Helena was fifty-metres from King and ten-metres from her car. King kept the pistol on her, but she was entirely unfazed.
King had never felt fear, nor anticipation like this. He was so close to getting Caroline back safely. He just had to remember he was dealing with Helena. It was like petting a cobra.
“Don’t move,” said King.
He edged backwards to the car and opened the boot-lid. Catherine was still bound at the wrists and cramped from the confined space. King could care less. She had tricked him, shot him and tried to strangle him.
He was past compassion.
Catherine limped with stiff legs in front of King, with him guiding her by the shoulder. She was wincing at the daylight, blinking and straining to see her sister. She said nothing. It wasn’t much of a reunion.
“Now get Caroline.”
Helena looked at her sister and smiled. It was a sly and impassive expression, like a weary and tormented older sibling gave when their tormentor was getting the punishment for something they hadn’t done.
“She’s not here…”
King pushed Catherine to the ground and raised the pistol. He could see there was no love lost between the two women. She wasn’t going to make a human shield, she was more likely to get in his way.
“You think I would come up here, with the directions and instru
ctions you gave me and not take a counter measure?”
King said nothing, but he saw a flicker in her eye. Her expression changed slowly, recognition dawning. She looked past King, but he wasn’t new to this. He wasn’t going to turn around. And open himself up to a look behind you pantomime trick.
Helena was ashen. She took a step backwards. She was a hell of an actress. But King knew even she wasn’t a good enough actress to drain the colour in her face.
“Alex!”
King couldn’t help himself, spun around to see Caroline running down the edge of the road. She looked exhausted and was favouring a leg. She was soaked in sweat and encrusted with dust. There was blood smeared across her face where she had wiped it away from her nose. She was holding a small pistol in her right hand.
He turned back to Helena, but she already had a gun in her hand. A stainless steel snub-nosed revolver, glistening in the morning sun.
King had his pistol half-raised. Or fully raised, if he were to shoot her knee. But she was close, and the revolver looked steady.
“Counter measure…” King said quietly.
“Not even close,” she said.
She looked up at the mountainside and held up her hand. She made a chopping motion and pointed to Caroline, who had almost reached King. Helena scowled, looked at the mountainside again and repeated the chopping motion. She turned back to King, uncertainty in her eyes. He could tell it was an emotion she wasn’t used to.
“Counter measure,” King said. “My guy beat your guy,” he paused, stared at her intently and smiled. A cruel, mirthless smile. He added, “Again.”
