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

in the chair. “Helena had done another one of her disappearing tricks. Her sister turned up in town…”

“She has a sister?”

“Yes. A fine-looking girl. She must have been about fifteen or sixteen. A good age. Ripe for the picking, but innocent enough to appeal to men with enough money. Helena went crazy when she turned up…”

“What was her name?”

“Catherine. Once seen, never forgotten. A real peach…”

“Get on with it!” King snapped.

“Helena got her out of town. Gave her a ton of money and sent her away,” he paused, shaking his head. “A ton of the brotherhood’s money. It didn’t go down well. We decided to teach her a lesson. Bring her back to heel. Like a disloyal dog. We had some drinks, too much vodka, a little cocaine, then a lot of the stuff… It all got a bit out of hand.”

King frowned.

“We had ourselves a little party. A sex party…”

“You raped her…”

“It wasn’t like that! Just a gangbang. We all took a go, she didn’t complain. But the drink, the drugs, it kind of went on all night. You know, for some people watching that keeps the mood up, a guy takes a turn, you drink, snort a line of coke, take your turn… The cocaine just keeps you going for hours.”

“You fucking gang raped her!” King raised the machine pistol. “You raped her, and now she wants revenge! You and Sergeyev…”

“Hey, it wasn’t just us! There were others…”

“Who?”

“Other enforcers.”

“Their names!” King snapped.

“It can’t have been so bad. There was another girl there. Sergeyev sort of kept her to himself. He ended up seeing her after that. They married a few years later.”

“Anna?”

“Yes. Hey, what’s it all to you anyway?”

“Because Helena Milankovitch is all out of options! She’s on the run, waging a vendetta that started with you! I figured she wanted you out of the way, so she could make a claim on your business empire. Sergeyev, too. But this is revenge. If you hadn’t done what you did, if you hadn’t raped her, then my fiancé wouldn’t be…”

King couldn’t finish his sentence. The glass doors behind him smashed, sending thousands of shards of glass into the room along with a heavy oak sun-lounger that had been used as a battering ram. King dived to his left as his chair took the brunt of gunfire from something distinctly Kalashnikov. King swung the Uzi wide and fired, but the weapon had been set to single-fire and the effect was less dramatic than the attacker’s. By the time he had realised and fired twice more, he was on the floor and Nikolai was on his feet and had kicked the glass coffee table into him, sending him sprawling into the kitchen. King rolled onto his back to see the muscle-bound bodyguard who had stopped him falling into his charge in the town earlier that day. The man was taking aim. King kicked his own chair into the man’s legs and fired a short burst from the Uzi. The man wobbled as he returned fire, enough for King’s bullets to miss him, but also enough for his own to pepper the floor to King’s right. The AK was clicking as he dry-fired on an empty chamber. King took aim, was about to fire again, but the weapon was kicked out of his hand. He turned to see Nikolai lining up another kick and shunted himself backwards, the Russian’s kick missing his face by inches. He looked back at the bodyguard, who had switched the assault rifle to hold it by the barrel. He raised it behind his head and threw it at him with considerable force. The rifle clattered into King’s face and chest and he fell back down onto his back. He could feel wetness on his face, stinging in his right eye, and knew he was bleeding. He pushed himself up, but was kicked again by Nikolai, who had now given himself more room and was standing to his right. King was tightly confined by the coffee table, and now his own chair, which the bodyguard had kicked his way again. Nikolai went for another kick, but King punched out hard and struck the man’s kneecap. He screamed as it dislodged, and he fell backwards onto the coffee table, falling through the broken glass and found himself caught up in the metal frame. The screaming did not stop, but the cuts and impalement of glass was nothing compared to the damaged joint.

The bodyguard was breathing hard, but he bent down and retrieved the knife which had fallen to the floor, and he smiled back at King. “Transmitter, asshole. In the watch. It’s a Breitling and transmits to a dedicated receiver. That’s how I found you. I guess you gave him the chance to activate it. Amateur.”

“Didn’t see you down at the villa,” King said, as he got unsteadily to his feet. “You may have the knife, but you haven’t got the fight. Run off into the woods, did you?”

“Fuck you!” He twisted the knife in his hand. “Looks sharp. And now I’m going to cut you up before you die.”

King took a step forward. “Done talking?” He had dropped into a fighting stance, much like a boxer, but instead of waiting for the Russian, he lunged forward, like a sprinter off the blocks, and kicked the chair into the man’s legs, but when it crashed into the man, he carried on, stepped onto the base of the chair with his right foot, and stepped up to the back of the chair with his left. At fourteen stone, even with a distinct size disadvantage against the muscle-bound bodyguard, King rode the chair right over the man. The bodyguard swiped with the knife but missed as he was driven downwards. King already had the flick-knife in his hand. He pressed the stud button and the four-inch blade