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

Botha was sliding himself backwards on the polished wood floor, pushing with his feet. He had the shotgun in his hands, pushed the pump-action forwards with a ‘clack’ and brought the weapon around on Rashid.

Rashid aimed, but did not have time to try and wound Botha, so double-tapped and stepped back into the lounge as the two 9mm bullets slammed through the man’s mid-drift and into the floor behind him. He ducked his head back out and saw that Botha wasn’t going anywhere. He stepped forwards, kicked the shotgun away and headed for the door. There were three serious-looking deadbolts and a five-lever lock. Rashid undid them, turned the key and pulled the door inwards.

  Beard was dazed, but on his feet. Ramsay was breathless, his shirt-tails had come out and his white shirt was covered in red earth from the planter. Rashid looked past them, saw Marnie standing beside the Mercedes. She looked indecisive, had got out of the vehicle but was not sure if she should come and assist. Rashid beckoned her over. It would be better to keep together. He doubted whether the three shotgun blasts from inside the house would have been heard in the neighbourhood, but the volley of 9mm outside certainly would have. But this was South Africa, and people seemed to shoot regularly at the road signs. A semi-rural suburb like this may just absorb the sound. Or, the police could already be on the way.

“Containment,” Ramsay said. He looked up at Beard and tossed him the keys to the Mercedes. “Bring both cars off the road and park them nose out.” He turned to Marnie, who was staring at the blood on the floor, and Botha, who was not looking in the best of health. “Find the man’s computer and get into it. We want to see banking history. And drain his files.”

Marnie nodded and fished in her handbag for some USB sticks and an algorithm stick, which had been designed by GCHQ to find what she was interested in. A simple plug and play piece of hardware. She hesitated, then realised it was down to her to find Botha’s computer. She walked across the hall, slipped in some blood and righted herself quickly. She grimaced, glared again at Rashid as she walked past. She was not enjoying her introduction to working in the field.

“Right, get him into the kitchen,” said Ramsay.

Rashid was about to question him but shrugged and tucked the pistol into his waistband and bent down and caught hold of Botha by his shoulders. Ramsay took the legs and between them, they padded across the hall and by deduction, walked across the hall and into a large and well-appointed kitchen and diner.

“Pull out the chair,” he said to Rashid.

Botha was in and out, groaning and on the cusp of unconsciousness. Ramsay dropped the man’s legs when Rashid positioned him on the chair. Rashid stepped back, wiped his brow with his sleeve and watched as Ramsay took his mobile phone out and fiddled with the screen. He set the voice memo function and placed it down carefully on the kitchen table. Next, he removed a small graphite box from his pocket. Rashid could see that the box was marked: Insulin. Not that Ramsay was a diabetic – it was merely a ruse for airport authorities and customs officers. It was complete with a doctor’s letter outlining Ramsay’s medical needs.

Ramsay opened the box and picked up the first syringe. He twisted off the cap and revealed an enormously thick needle approximately four-inches long.

“We’re way past a thorough interrogation,” he explained. “A shot of adrenalin to stop him going down the drain, and then straight into sodium panthenol.” He looked at Rashid, who looked puzzled. “Truth serum, I suppose. A large dose could cause brain damage, but I don’t think that will be of any consequence, considering his condition and the brief.” Rashid didn’t speak. He’d killed many times, especially on the battlefield, but this all seemed quite clinical. He watched as Ramsay prepared the needle, wouldn’t be so quick to discount the man’s field abilities in future.

“Right, open up his shirt,” Ramsay told him.

Rashid got back in the game, decisively catching hold of both sides of the shirt and ripping the buttons off. There were four bullet holes in his chest and stomach, one was bleeding badly, but the other three seemed to have sealed closed. He stepped back, wiped his hands on a tea towel and noticed the two exit wounds in the man’s back. He could see Botha wasn’t going anywhere. He doubted the man would live more than ten-minutes. There would be untold damage inside him.

Ramsay held the syringe like a knife, then pushed the man’s chin back and stabbed him in the centre of his chest, straight through the wall of his chest cavity and into the heart. Botha wrenched himself upright and inhaled deeply. His legs kicked out wildly then went rigid, almost forcing himself backwards, had the chair not banged into the table and stopped him from going any further. Botha looked at them, grimaced then started to chatter.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” He looked down at his stomach, then back at Ramsay. “Get me a doctor!”

“All in due course,” Ramsay said, as he prepared the next vial. This time, the needle was far smaller. He looked at Rashid. “Get a vein up.”

Rashid had done paramedicine training in the SAS. He snapped to, unfastened Botha’s belt and pulled it clear of the loops. He wrapped it tightly around the man’s bicep. Botha attempted to resist, but his new lease of life was in the mental, not the physical presence. His forearm started to change colour, and the veins in the crux of his elbow were more prominent. Ramsay bent down and carefully administered the dose of sodium