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

computer technician. She would stay in the car and had no aspirations to do anything different. It had been over twenty-four hours and she was still seething towards Rashid for suggesting she come to South Africa with them, even more so each time he gave her a cheeky wink.

Not a trained or experienced field agent, but flexible and willing to give most things a go, Neil Ramsay had slipped around the house and positioned himself at the back door. He had simply shrugged when Rashid had told him what to do, replying that he had been a useful Rugby fly-half at school and university and could throw himself around the legs of any man who ran from him, and wasn’t scared to either.

That left Beard and Rashid to go in the front. Rashid would hang back, let Beard do the talking. He was an experienced hand on the continent and had been in South Africa a few years. He looked at ease, and although the tan was not a factor with Rashid, he didn’t have the most welcoming of appearances. Something that had helped him blend into his infiltration with ISIS, but not somebody you’d want to turn up on your doorstep. For that reason, he would hang back out of sight. They had decided against a hard entrance. If Botha was a man who had sold secrets and sacrificed one of his colleagues, then the chances are he would take his own well-being seriously enough to have security in place. That may simply be a heavy series of door locks, or a loaded shotgun in the hallway. Botha was unmarried and had no immediate family. A loaded gun close to hand was of no consequence to the safety of a child or family member. South Africa was a country dominated by violent crime, most houses would have a firearm of some description.

Ryan Beard hesitated at the front door, glanced at Rashid, who glared at him and signalled him with the muzzle of the pistol to get on with it. He knocked firmly and stood back a pace. There was no reply. He waited twenty-seconds, knocked again. A few seconds later there was a faint and muffled voice through the door.

“Who is it?”

“Police,” Beard said. He glanced at Rashid, who was staring at him blankly. Beard shrugged. It had been agreed to simply ask for assistance using Botha’s phone to call a tow-truck, in lieu of his dead mobile phone battery. He’d gone off-piste, had little choice but to go with it. “There was an accident on the road between here and Coopertown yesterday, I’m following up with witness statements,” he paused. “I’d like to ask some questions, see if we can build a picture.”

Rashid flexed his fingers around the butt of the pistol, tightened his grip. He was glaring at Beard.

“I didn’t leave the house yesterday,” came the muffled reply.

“If you could just open the door, please.”

“Show me your ID.”

And there it is, thought Rashid. All gone to shit…

He edged forwards, keeping his body against the wall. He then suddenly seemed to realise that the wall was constructed from timber, hesitated for a moment then crouched low.

Beard took out a wallet, thumbed through and held it up to the peephole quickly. All he had was his MI6 ID, but it did not say MI6 anywhere on it, and simply had a photo and small print. The MI6, or Secret Intelligence Service insignia was small. He hoped a quick flash would be ok. He glanced at Rashid, flustered and flushed red. He knew he’d messed up. He dropped the wallet on the decking and hurriedly bent down to retrieve it.

The door splintered at the same time as the almighty boom resonated and splinters of wood and lead shot that had slowed through the thick wooden door covered Beard’s back. Beard stood back up, shocked at the noise, but realised his mistake. He tried to dodge both left and right but was frozen and hampered by indecision. There was a loud and metallic ‘click-clack’ from behind the door.

Rashid was moving. He barrelled into Beard and fell onto his right side as Beard was thrown clear of the doorway and landed in a heap out of range. The second shotgun blast opened-up another eight-inch diameter hole next to the first. Rashid was already firing, putting three shots through the holes and another just clipping the wood a few inches to the right. He knew he was firing from a low enough angle for the bullets to have sailed cleanly in front of a man standing three-feet back from the door. And Botha would have to be to accommodate the length of a shotgun, and the size of the spread pattern which had punched cleanly through as complete holes, rather than like Swiss cheese.

Another ‘click-clack’ of the pump-action and another blast powered through, connecting the two holes. Rashid felt the splinters hit his face, but he was already up and had jammed the pistol through the group of holes. He heard: ‘click’ as Botha worked the action back, ejecting the .12-gauge cartridge, and Rashid fired four shots into the unknown. There was a yelp and a thud, and the sound of the shotgun hitting a hard, wooden floor. Rashid had already pulled back, putting himself behind the door-jamb. He swung around, aimed a kick at the door.

Nothing.

He kicked again, and again.

Nothing.

Ramsay appeared around the edge of the house. He caught sight of Beard on the ground, of Rashid kicking the door. He glanced at a heavy planter, caught hold of it and heaved it through the window. The glass gave, as did the clay planter and Ramsay punched out the remaining pieces of glass.

“Rashid!” he shouted.

Rashid was already moving and bounded across the decking, throwing himself cleanly through the window. He landed unceremoniously on the floor but got himself back up and