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

Mountain rising out of the rock before her, or the glistening ocean to her right.

“You don’t want to catch this guy who was happy to have your agent killed?” Rashid studied him closely, looked the man directly in the eye. He wasn’t trained in such techniques, but he knew a liar when he saw them. He would soon tell. “Were you expecting somebody else?”

Ryan Beard shrugged. “The Reaper, I suppose.”

“Reaper?” Ramsay frowned.

“King.”

“You know him?”

“Our paths crossed when I first took the job.”

“And what job is that?”

“Embassy man. I help our workers with anything they may need.”

“So, you get the kit, help with transport, that sort of thing?” Rashid clarified. He’d met a few in his time. One such man had helped him in Turkey getting through to Syria.

Beard nodded. “But not with The Reaper, no. I just greeted him. He did everything else.”

“So, when was this?” Ramsay asked.

“Ten years ago, a couple of times since.”

Ramsay frowned. “But King wasn’t with MI6, he worked as an unofficial with MI5. He was our late Deputy Director, Charles Forester’s man.”

Ryan Beard looked adamant. “No, he was definitely an MI6 agent.”

Ramsay considered this for a moment. Beard was silent. Rashid said nothing. He knew enough about King’s nature not to have probed. The man was an enigma, and it was King’s completion of the SAS selection course, not once but multiple times, that had cemented their friendship. Rashid had seen King once at Hereford. MI6 had a poor sense of humour, used the toughest selection process in the world to keep their agents both fit and on their toes.

“Okay,” said Ramsay quietly. “So, what? Merely out of solidarity to the Firm?”

Beard shrugged. “Caroline and King are together. I figured he would show up sooner or later, I wanted to call the shots, offer the information before he chose to seek it for himself.”

“And the Reaper tag?”

“Folklore,” replied Beard. “Caroline rebuked some of it, but it was said that King was seated near an MI6 traitor in Switzerland. He was drinking coffee. When the guy looked over and spotted King, he went back to his hotel and killed himself,” he paused. “Shit, it sounded better when I told it to Caroline…”

“Can’t beat The Reaper…” Rashid mused quietly.

Ramsay nodded. “Okay, Mister Beard. Thank you for your cooperation. Where is this SASS traitor?”

“He has a place in vineyard country. Just outside Franschhoek.”

“Is he under surveillance?” asked Rashid.

“Not yet. A contact inside the secret service has granted me forty-eight hours before he calls it.”

“Meaning?” Ramsay prompted.

Beard shrugged. “Hey, I thought King would come.”

“They want him dead?” Ramsay baulked. He glanced at Rashid, then looked back at the MI6 officer. “Really?”

“Look, this is bandit country,” Beard paused. “They have the guy banged to rights. He has an account with a lot more money in it than he would ever be able to explain. He has taken payments, made the contacts and there is a trail to all four dead men left here in your agent’s wake. My contact has granted me carte blanch. They want the information we glean from him, then they want him out of the picture. That’s the price for a free lunch.”

“Well, it’s not exactly free, is it…” Ramsay said sardonically. He looked at Rashid. “Are you okay with that?”

“Am I fuck?”

“But…”

“I think I’m due a raise.”

“You’ve worked for MI5 for two days.”

“A big raise. I think I remember you mentioning it earlier.”

Beard smiled. “Look, sort it out amongst yourselves. This is my little gift for you. MI6 will know nothing about it. MI5 get a link to that sniper and his paymasters who took out all the rich people last month.”

“And in return?” Ramsay asked. It was quid-pro-quo. Nothing came for free.

“I have helped. King doesn’t come around here cutting all the loose ends.”

“Crikey,” Ramsay paused while he considered it. “That man certainly does have a reputation.” He looked at Rashid. “We can sort this out, yeah?”

Rashid shrugged. “I suppose.”

Ramsay turned to Ryan Beard. “Okay. Lead the way. Rashid will travel with you, I’ll follow in the Mercedes. Pull up a few miles short and we’ll work out the order of things.”

41

 

Caroline heard the footsteps, heavy and deliberate. She could tell they were not Michael’s. They belonged to somebody heavier, and altogether more confident. She slid off the bed, waited near the dresser, close to her makeshift club with the big bolt protruding from the end.

The padlock clicked and grated, and the bolt slid cleanly through. Caroline watched the handle turn and the door open steadily. She could not see anyone until it was nudged wider, then she shivered when she stared into the face of the man who had touched her, felt her when she had been so vulnerable.

The Beast.

She was scared, and she knew the man could see it in her eyes. She shivered involuntarily.

The Beast reached behind his back and pulled out a small automatic. A 9mm Makarov. He smiled at her as he pulled out a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and threw them onto the bed. “Put these on,” he drawled, his Russian accent thick and guttural. “No funny business, or you get a bullet. Okay?”

Caroline picked up the handcuffs and begrudgingly clipped them over each wrist. The Beast raised the pistol and walked over to her. He reached out and gripped her left wrist, squeezed the cuff and it ratcheted tightly. He smiled as she winced, repeated it again with her right wrist. He let go, reached for her hair and yanked hard, bringing the pistol up into her neck.

“No funny business,” he said, then pushed her ahead of him, out of the bedroom and into the dark corridor.

Caroline’s heart was pounding. She tried