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

said. “I bought two of them. My daughter was missing her friends. The phones should be fine, they’re pay as you go.”

King frowned. “But if your daughter called somebody and they got hold of that person’s phone, they could use the find my phone feature.”

Anna covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh god! They’ve probably gone to Anushka’s house, Dina’s best friend from the international school. Another Russian family living in Biarritz.”

“Go upstairs and get your daughter,” he paused. “And get some clothes on. Don’t pack, just be ready to move. And leave both of those phones upstairs.”

He returned to the window, saw the passenger door of the Range Rover open and the man get out. He had to be six-feet-six and two-hundred and fifty pounds, and he looked like he lived in the gym. Another man got out of the rear door and stood beside him as they both surveyed the house. He was five-six and wiry. A stark contrast to the giant, but by the look of him, no less dangerous. King could see that both men were armed – the contours of their leather jackets indicated sizeable firearms of some description.

King checked the lock on the door, then hurried over to the door the two of them had come in through and locked that also. He could see that the windows were closed as he crossed the kitchen and went into a utility room that branched off it. There were shelves with washing powder and liquids, ant-killer, slug-pellets and drain-cleaner. Below were stacks of newspaper and magazines, and alongside the shelving were recycling bins filled with glass bottles, and another two with tins and plastic. At the far end of the twelve-by-fifteen utility were domestic appliances and a small generator. Next to the generator was a five-litre can of petrol.

King went back to the kitchen, saw the large man in the middle of the road, his eyes on the upstairs of the house. The smaller man was opening the gate, about to step into the garden. He didn’t have much time, but he already had a plan. Of sorts.

Petrol is an evaporate. Once spilt it will not last long in a flammable state. It has a low flash-point, high burn-rate and because of this, it expels its energy quickly. King took three glass bottles out of the recycling bin. One had previously contained wine, another vodka and the third still had remnants of orange juice at the bottom. King placed them on the ironing board and picked up the tub of slug pellets. He glanced at the back of the box, then opened it and scooped out handfuls, dropping them into the bottles until they were around one-third full. King then picked up the stack of newspapers and tore the sheets off, rolling stacks of ten or twelve sheets into tight tubes. He put them to one side, picked up the petrol can and poured the petrol into each bottle, leaving a gap of about three inches from the top. He had spilt some petrol, but it would soon evaporate. He then pushed the paper tubes into the bottles, where they soaked up the fuel almost instantly. The pellets were soluble and had already started to turn into a purply mush at the bottom of the bottles. King peered around the doorway, before he eased out, carrying the three bottles carefully. He could no longer see the men, but he knew they would be checking the back of the house.

Anna appeared at the top of the steps, her face ashen and her eyes wide. She had changed into jeans and a shirt and wore a pair of pumps with sequins all over them. “They are here,” she said. “They are trying to get in one of the windows!”

“Where?”

“Come with me,” she said. “You will see them.” She looked at him, precariously carrying the three bottles. “What are those?”

“Something your motherland came up with,” he said. “Molotov Cocktails…” He placed two of them on the kitchen counter, carried the larger of the three – the vodka bottle – with him as he bounded up the stairs. “Show me,” he said to her.

There were four large bedrooms upstairs and a mezzanine area set aside as a cosy-corner with a selection of paperbacks on the windowsill acting as a mini library. Anna veered to the right, stepped past one of two double beds and stopped just short of the window. “Down there,” she said.

King peered down, saw the larger man prising the shutter with a large screwdriver, the smaller man standing back a few paces with a mini-Uzi machine pistol held at the ready. He placed the bottle on the floor, then reached for the locks.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting us out of here.”

“But you’ll kill them both!”

“They have guns,” King said. “Machine guns. They’ll cut us to shreds.”

“But while they’re round the back, we could get out the front way!”

King looked at her. “Yes. You’re right,” he said. “Get your daughter and wait for me downstairs.”

He watched her go, then turned back to the window and eased the catch. It was stiff, and he applied enough dynamic tension to avoid it giving suddenly and making a noise. He got it undone and started to ease the window outwards when the smaller man looked up, his eyes on the window to the room next door. He then looked directly at King, brought the mini-Uzi up to aim.

King ducked backwards, the window shattering and a trail of bullets slamming into the ceiling. Plaster dust fell and debris from the ceiling and shards of glass scattered across the wooden floor. King reached for the lighter in his pocket, got it lit and dabbed the flame on the petrol-soaked paper wad. It flamed instantly, and he grabbed the bottle and threw it down hard in their general direction. He did not know if