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

control of the vehicle in a straight line, but he lifted his foot, brought the vehicle back towards the realms of sanity and aimed for the track ahead of him. He took the track fast, with little care for the potholes in the ruts or the boulders along the edges. The Lamborghini flew over the ruts, taking off occasionally and thudding down hard, Nikolai grunting as he was tossed and thrown in the rear. King roared up the incline and after a mile, which was taken in under a minute, King hit the tarmac and threaded the vehicle through a series of bends. He floored the accelerator on the straight and held on. The large vehicle was other-worldly fast. King daren’t take his eyes off the road ahead to check his speed, but the bends ahead forced him to slow, even though the four-wheel-drive system seemed to grip as if the SUV was on rails. Once he had cleared the bends, King slammed on the brakes and hammered the vehicle down the lane where he had parked his hire car. The Lamborghini would only attract the wrong type of attention, so King would leave it behind. Cars like this were always fitted with a tracker. Usually a stipulation from the insurers or lease companies. But for mafia bosses, because they would want to find the person who stole their newest toy.

King killed the engine and got out of the vehicle. He opened the rear door and pulled Nikolai out. He pushed him ahead and into the rear of the car. He went back for the Uzi and slipped it under the driver’s seat as he got in.

“Who are you?” Nikolai asked incredulously.

“I am life,” King said. “Or I can be death.” He started the car’s tiny engine and by contrast to the premium SUV, their progress up the track was almost comically slow.

“And which will you be to me?”

“That depends on you,” said King. He turned out onto the road, drove steadily and carefully. His lights were on, and he was just a tourist on an evening drive. No place to be, no agenda.

“Why? Why have you done this?”

“Helena Milankovitch,” King said. “Do you know her?” He looked in the rear-view mirror, caught sight of the man’s expression in the moonlight.

Nikolai nodded slowly. “I thought I’d never hear of her again,” he said. He sat back in the seat, as much as his bound hands would allow. He looked up at the ceiling, his shoulders had sagged. “I thought it would never catch up with me…”

32

 

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” said King. “You’ve seen what happens tonight when people don’t get the answers they want.”

“It was you,” Nikolai sneered at him. “You did something to Luca Fortez. Something that drove him crazy. Crazy enough to wage war on us. Kill my men…”

King shrugged. “You ply your trade, make your living from bringing misery on others. You had it coming.”

“Bullshit,” the Russian paused. “You and I are one and the same. You are a man who has done many terrible things. I can see it. See it in your eyes. You are no different to me.”

“I’m nothing like you.”

Nikolai scoffed. “As I said, you are no different.” He tried to sit up, but struggled in the deep sofa, his bindings restraining his hands and the use of his arms. He slumped back down. “Who do you work for? Helena Milankovitch?”

“Tell me more about her,” said King. “It sounds like she has finally caught up with you. Why?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m not telling.”

“Want to bet?”

“I won’t talk,” Nikolai said defiantly. “Tougher men than you have tried before. They are all dead. You will be no different.”

King took out the sheath knife. He unfastened his belt, removed the sheath and buckled back up again. The Russian watched. He stared at the blade, followed it as King placed it on the table.

“I don’t really go in for torture,” said King.

“Then what?”

“Maybe I’ll appeal to your better nature?”

Nikolai smiled. “What is your name?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“What, I don’t get to know who you are?”

“Always for the best.”

“You’re not hired help,” he commented. “Who are you really working for?”

King walked out to the open-plan kitchen and picked up the kettle. He filled it with water, turned the dial and waited for the gas to ignite. He put the kettle on the gas jet and then turned around and stared at the Russian. “It won’t take long.”

“What? The hot water? What are you going to do with that?” he asked. His brow was perspiring, and his eyes were wide. He stared past King, his eyes transfixed on the kettle.

“I’m making a cup of tea,” he said. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

Nikolai switched his eyes to King. He looked incredulously at him, his eyes flitting between him and the kettle, which was starting to steam from its spout. “Are you kidding?”

King took out two cups. He put a teabag in one and spooned some instant coffee into the other. He’d never met a Russian yet who drank tea, didn’t assume for a moment that Nikolai would be any different. He poured on the water, replaced the kettle and switched off the gas ring. Again, he assumed black. Poured a little milk into his own. He had forgotten to buy sugar. But he had once been forced to make a brew with his own piss, so he’d cope.

He took the two cups into the lounge, placed them on the glass coffee table.

“How am I meant to drink that?”

King sipped his tea. He stared down at the Russian. “Helena Milankovitch.”

Nikolai shrugged. “Trash. Married well.”

“Didn’t she just,” King commented.

“Her husband died. She will be a wealthy woman.”

“She had