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

from this distance, King could tell it was a boy and a girl from their swimming attire. The boy was dive-bombing the girl and she was splashing him in the face as he returned to the surface. A woman and a man walked out from the patio doors, the woman looking in King’s direction. King froze, worried that his costume jewellery would give him away, but he was aware of his surroundings, knew the sun was on his back. The woman pointed at a sun-lounger to the man and he obliged, dragging it to where she was now pointing. She had wanted the chair aligned with the sun, her feet acting as a pointer. She sat down, then reclined, her hands by her side, her face taking the full glare. The man walked away and sat at a chair and table in the shade. King could see that the man was one of Luca’s men. The clothes, the body language. He was what every bodyguard eventually became to the rich and indifferent – an assistant. The man was an armed butler. He would not be switched on and alert. He had melded into his role. And a target.

King backed into the treeline twenty-feet or so. Enough to keep the property in view below him, but also enough to keep his profile interrupted by the trees. The ground was steep, steeper than he had found on the hike up. His pace was rapid, occasionally he would slip and needed to correct himself or he would be on his backside. After he had dropped down five-hundred feet in elevation, and around two-thousand feet in distance, he stopped and tentatively made his way back out to the treeline. He was beside the fence. At eight-feet high and topped with razor wire, he wasn’t looking to get over it anytime soon. He looked around, found what he wanted at the base of a large pine. A clump of dried grass. He picked a blade of the grass, wet his fingers with spit, and rubbed the grass between his fingers. He then walked to the fence, rested the blade of grass against the wire. There was no noise, no tingle. He tried again, further up, then rested the grass on the stanchions fixing the wire to the posts. Nothing. A practical defence against rampaging wild boar, and a deterrent for someone to climb, but not an impenetrable barrier. Not in keeping with one of the wealthiest men in Italy, soon to be one of the most powerful crime bosses in Europe.

King studied the layout of the mansion. There was an array of cars parked in the lee of the building, and King could now see a series of outbuildings which had been redesigned or renovated into tiny villas. He thought they could be accommodation for both security and the vineyard workers. Or maybe they were offices and day quarters for the criminal operation. The cars ranged from hatchbacks through to the three Italian saloons King had seen at Monteverdi Marittimo. The hatchbacks would suggest domestic staff, gardeners or vineyard workers. The security personnel would be on higher salaries, would express themselves with more expensive vehicles. The collection of cars looked large and shiny, and King supposed they belonged to Luca’s bodyguards. It was a large operation, and the fence seemed at odds with what lay behind it. It didn’t seem a big enough deterrent.

King took another few steps, then froze. He waited, chanced it, pulled back into the treeline and hurriedly made the crossbow ready. If he hadn’t thought the mafia boss had enough security on the perimeter, he had changed his mind now.

21

 

Caroline worked on the wingnut, hard to move at first, but now turning slowly and stubbornly on the bolt which had been carelessly painted during its haphazard restoration. The dressing table had been given a new lease of life by someone, a coat or two of eggshell white, fashionable in a New England beach house way. It was one of the rear legs, and if she could remove the leg, complete with the three-inch bolt embedded deep within the wood, then it would be a formidable weapon at close quarters. Finally, the wingnut cleared, and with a little force, breaking the seal of two coats of paint, she got the leg out. She examined it closely, then replaced it, carefully pushing the dressing table to the wall to keep the leg in place. She held the wingnut in her palm, turned it over, then wedged it between her fingers. One end of the wingnut pressed firmly into her palm as she made a fist, and the other end protruded almost an inch. It would make a decent knuckleduster. Something to give her an edge.

She hadn’t seen Michael since. She had drunk some water from the bathroom tap but was feeling hungry still. The sun was going down now, edging its way west. She felt the chill already and had kept the bedsheet near, planning to use it as a shawl. To go to bed, tuck herself under the covers and chance a sleep felt too submissive somehow. Like she had given into her fate. She couldn’t take that step. Not while she still had fight left in her.

Caroline had a sinking feeling, knew that taking these steps was a morale boost. She had thought back on Michael, he seemed different to her captors so far. Certainly, a different man to The Beast. What was his role? A house keeper, perhaps. But he had said he had to get food for the others. Those words had played on her mind. Were the others her captors? Were there other captives here? And who were they? Women like her? She hoped not. Not only for their fate, but for her own. Because if there were others, then Caroline knew that she was close to her destination. And more worryingly, the reason she was here.