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

Nicolai being firmly manhandled by a third guard. King saw the lights flash on the lead car, and one of the forward guards drop. They had a great deal of firepower and the advancing Italians were caught out, but not for long. The snipers were hunters and they were good. By the time Nicolai reached the car, only one guard remained, and he was struggling to get into the driver’s seat. Another Russian bolted out of the villa and fired a pistol at the snipers’ positions, but he was dead meat before his third shot and went down fast, bullets still hitting him and rocking his body after he was on the ground. The snipers then turned their attention to the car and shot out the tyres and front grille. King knew that enough lead and copper had hit the engine for it to be going nowhere. Luca’s men made their way up on the Mercedes, and his personal security came out of the trees with their automatic weapons shouldered. There was a lot of shouting, but no more gunshots. At the villa there was movement at the doors and windows, and weapons were being tossed outside. Moments later, five Russians stepped hesitantly out of the building, their hands placed firmly on top of their heads. They were circled by three-times as many Italians. King knew what would happen next, and sure enough, the beating started.

Relentless, cruel and without mercy.

29

 

King had pulled back from the cliff edge, worked his way to the east two-hundred metres or so, pushing through thick scrub and dense pine. The slope was so steep, that it was almost sheer. He used the pine trees for footing, and slid down to the next tree, working his way down two-hundred feet or more to where the slope became less sheer. It was challenging work, and he was thirsty and hot, despite the noticeable drop in temperature as dusk gave way to night. A sanguine moon filled the sky, giving a dull, yellow hue by which, he could make his way through the trees.

He could hear voices, loud and commanding. They were Italian, and King had no ear for the language. But he got the gist of it. Pissed off was pissed off in any language.

He reached the wire boar fence, slid over carefully and made his way to the fringe of trees surrounding the property. When he found a suitable place to survey the scene, he almost wished he had stayed at the top of the cliff. But he needed to confirm, or at least control the outcome. He had come this far, it was imperative he see it through.

Nikolai was on his knees, a rope tied around his neck. A tough-looking man had a firm hold of each of his shoulders and a third held the rope as if the Russian were a stubborn mule. He was at the edge of the swimming pool. King judged it to be the deep end by the look of the metal ladder steps to the Russian’s right and the scalloped Romanesque steps at the other end. King felt an ominous sinking in his gut. His plan had been to force the less professional side into overcoming the pros by numbers. He had forgotten, or rather neglected to think about what evil men can do when they were out for revenge. That, and had the elation inside that only the victorious in battle would experience.

King moved to his right, not for a better view, but to the body of an Italian heavy who had been killed during the last stages of the battle. The win was still fresh and the desire for vengeance was still coursing through their veins. They had yet to mop up their dead, dealing only fleetingly with the injured who could call out for help. Three men lay upon the steps of the villa’s main entrance, but King could see that the two men tasked with attending to them were craning their necks towards the pool and intent on seeing what would happen next.

The man would have been around twenty-years-old and had died from a bullet to the chest. It was dead centre and had most probably hit the man’s spine. His eyes were open, giving an indication of a swift demise. King bent down and picked up the man’s pistol. It was a compact 9mm Beretta. He checked the magazine, but it was empty. The slide had not sprung back and held on the empty chamber, indicating that there was still a chambered round. He slid the slide open a touch and saw the flash of brass in the dull light. He smiled, thought of his old mentor, as he took out the two 9mm bullets and fed them into the magazine.

Old warriors got old for a reason.

King felt better for having the weapon, even if it only held three bullets. He edged his way through the treeline and looked back at the pool. Events had transpired, even in the brief time it had taken King to find the weapon, into a scene of torture. The Russians had been placed in a sitting position on the edge of the pool, their hands bound behind their backs, their legs facing away from the pool edge. One of the Italians had waded into the water, while two men pressed down on the prisoner’s legs. King knew what would happen next, and he watched as the man in the water pulled backwards on the first Russian in the line and forced the man’s head and shoulders under the water. The men on the legs had their work cut out as the Russian struggled and bucked under their weight but was at the mercy of the man in the water.

King’s heart raced, knowing he was ultimately the instigator of this scene, but he soon checked his emotions, feeling a rage towards the Russian bitch