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

the Russian’s professionalism was ruled out in a burst of automatic gunfire. He ducked down instinctively and watched as the first two men in the line dropped to the ground and lay still. The rear of the line was joined by more men, and they now dodged and darted their way across the lane and into the brush for cover. There were a few single shots, voices in Russian, returned shouts in Italian and then all hell broke loose. The two SUVs thundered up the track with men firing out of the windows towards the villa. More men came out of the trees. King could only assume that Luca Fortez’s men had picked up friends or family, because there were now dozens of men breaking out from the trees. There was the sound of heavy-calibre hunting rifles, the sharp crack they made and the echo of sonic boom resonating off the cliffs. The pistols clattered away, short and sharp and far quieter but, what they lacked in noise they made up for in sheer quantity, as men paused beside trees and fired up to ten rounds at the house in one go, then dropped down to reload. King could hear shotguns as well, and then the crack of military-style assault rifles as they fired in bursts of three or four rounds, the men behind them more disciplined. King had these down as Luca’s bodyguards. He tried to count the men, but he simply had to estimate as the men were moving fast and had amassed to thirty or more.

The Russians were fighting back hard. King could see them on all points of the house, on all levels. They had obviously managed to secure weapons for their excursion, most probably proving to Luca that they could put their hands on the hardware required to take out the other mafia families. King could hear the unmistakable clatter of the AK47 rifles, see the three-foot-long flashes from the muzzle in the dim light. He watched the men stay in formation, keeping cover using both the building and now upturned wooden dining furniture which featured on each of the patios and sundecks. King could not count them, which was a good thing for the Russians, as it showed they were disciplined and they were also using the windows of the villa to remain inside. They were defending a building, and they had the high ground. They could afford odds of 6 to 1.

There was a change in pace. In battle there usually is. But King couldn’t work out what was happening in the sudden lull. The Italians had regrouped, mainly into groups of four and five, which gave King a chance to count them. He almost got it done but had reached forty when the men started to fire again upon the house. King could see it was going to go the Italian’s way, when a vehicle bounced its way down the track, and five men spilled out. They took up position in the trees above the villa and started to fire on the house with hunting rifles. King had no idea what calibre the men were using, but they were powerful rifles, knocking great chunks of concrete out of the villa, which was no longer affording the Russian’s protection. The new arrivals acted like a sniper unit, keeping the Russian’s in place and unable to return fire as the main bulk of men approached the villa in a pincer movement on both sides. They were getting the hang of it too, if a little Napoleonic in their tactics, but they were getting the job done. Men would advance, drop to their knees and fire, more men would dash around them, drop and fire, and by the time they had rained shotgun lead or pistol bullets at the windows or the cowering men behind the solid oak furniture, the manoeuvre was repeated, and ground was constantly gained. All the time, Luca’s security core was on the periphery laying down fire with automatic weapons and the snipers were either picking off Russians who attempted to return fire or keeping their enemy’s heads down.

King was almost transfixed at the sight. He watched with a mixture of emotions. His plan was working. He had seen the Russian’s as the more difficult target, been aware that he was operating without either the equipment of backup he would have needed for such a task. He had no friendlies to call on, no help on the ground to provide him with intelligence or weapons. The Italians seemed to him to be the easier target. And now, whatever the result of the pitched battle below, he could kill his quarry while they were battle weary, or Luca’s men would have already done it for him. Like the wolf circling two fighting contenders to become the alpha male but striking the weary victor with a deadly attack when he had no fight left in him.

The sound of the battle changed. There were less gunshots, less automatic fire. King recognised this as reaching a conclusion. The Russian’s were suffering from either personnel losses or were running low on ammunition. King had been both sides of that fence, and he knew the mental effect it could have. He knew the attackers would see the end in sight, but he also knew that the defenders could go two ways. Peter-out and think of surrender or go out with glory. Now was the time it could change and more often than not, for the unexpected.

The surge came from the house and three men exited, back to back. A Hail-Mary. They covered three points of a triangle and rained a hail of lead onto a three-hundred and sixty-degree field of fire. King saw many of the Italians drop, and the Russians kept up their shuffle towards the line of vehicles, which surprisingly, the Italians had failed to disable. Two more Russian guards followed giving one-hundred and eighty-degree arcs of fire, with