The Alex King Series, A BATEMAN [good books for high schoolers .TXT] 📗

being filmed. Some even stopped and watched. A few knowing locals walked on. Some would know Luca Fortez, and that would be enough to keep walking.

King watched, waiting to see what would happen next. He had noticed two men loitering at the piazza, and they sauntered over and joined the Italian ranks. Two more walked up the street from behind the Russian and his entourage. The Italians outnumbered the Russians now. The street was full and people walking in and out of a nearby bakery had to side-step the display of muscle. King sipped his beer, ate more nuts and adjusted his seat to put his face in the sun and his back to the show. He could not take in much from his occasional glances, but he would see everything he needed to when he played it back at his convenience. Hear everything too, as the camera was equipped with an amplified directional microphone, what the surveillance world called parabolic.

King was amused. The text had told him the premise. The Russian competitors to Sergeyev’s brotherhood, a splinter group from the hostile takeover Sergeyev had made, was linking with one of three mafia’s who held almost half of Italy. An uneasy balance, soon to be struck a deadly blow with the help of Russian resources. King could not see the end being a sweet and rosy one. With one brotherhood controlling the territory, surely the partnership would be in the sole hands of whoever did not blink first? When he studied the text message, along with internet links and a data download from iCloud, it was only obvious that Luca Fortez would find himself involved in another powerplay. Perhaps the Italian mafia boss would have that covered. But he would bet his life that the Russians would too.

The Russian was a forty-three-year-old named Nikolai. King had no more details, but he could see that the man was cast from the same mould as other men in his game. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes under his sunglasses, and the photo he had been supplied with had not been in high quality detail, but he could see the outline of the man, the shape of his face. All King knew of the man was that Helena had vengeance in mind. The man was his primary target.

King had hit the ground running in Sweden, flown straight in from Scotland, where he had received news of his fiancé. Until then, he had suffered the purgatory of her being a missing person. The half-life, if only for three weeks, of not knowing the fate of the woman he loved. That letter had been delivered by his immediate boss, Simon Mereweather, now director of operations for MI5. King did not dislike the man, but he was sure that in going to Sweden alone, without being part of the Security Service’s operation to get their agent back, he would find few friends within MI5. But the letter had been clear, and King knew it had been intended all along for him to work off Caroline’s freedom, and not negotiate her release. He had tried to search Helena Milankovitch’s past, but had come up with a blank. There had been some online articles about Helena Snell, the Russian wife of Sir Ian Snell, the British billionaire assassinated by the terrorist group, Anarchy to Recreate Society. Her background as a model – glossing over her time lap dancing and pole dancing in the Black Sea resorts – with the focus on her charitable work and her failing fashion label. There had been hastily-written articles of her disappearance after her husband’s death, but she was clearly old news. What King found difficult was finding details of her past prior to her marriage. She had clearly crossed paths with Pyotr Sergeyev and his wife Anna. And now, ordering King to kill the head of the Bratva - or Brotherhood’s - competition meant that her Russian mafia connection went further than with Sergeyev.

King risked a glance, smiled to himself when he saw the attention the two high-profile entourages had made on the people of Monteverde Marittimo. He decided to make a move before they did. He dropped a ten-Euro note on the table and used the empty saucer to secure it in place. He gathered up his bag of groceries, tore a piece off the end of the bread and ate it casually as he checked his phone and ambled past the group of Italian heavies. He looked at the two men, engrossed in conversation and nursing two glasses of grappa, tripped and fell towards Nikolai. He didn’t get very far. One of the men flanking him caught hold of King, ripping his shirt and stopping him in his tracks. Another had his hand on the grip of a hefty pistol, not quite drawing it from its holster.

“Sorry,” King said meekly. “Thanks. I almost went there.” He patted the largest of the two men on the shoulder. “Too many beers,” he said.

“You took your time over that one,” the man replied.

“I’m taking in the sights, stopping at each bar,” King countered quickly. He was back upright now, easing himself away. “Are these guys famous?” he asked.

He was being moved past the two men. They had barely noticed, Nikolai barely pausing for breath. King noticed the man helping him on his way had been replaced by another equally large guard.

“Just businessmen,” the man said, his voice almost devoid of any accent. He backed away without another word, re-joined the ranks.

King walked down the steep cobbles, negotiated the steps and crossed over the road to where his basic Skoda hatchback was parked. He had hired the car at Pisa airport. A generic hire car, devoid of character, and therefore invisible. Which was far from what he could see further down the road and on the other side of the road behind him. He guessed the Italians had the black Maserati Quattroporte and