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

into the alleyway. It was like a smooth-running restaurant – front of house, dining staff and chef. A drug chain that could easily be broken if the police happened by. Each heading their separate ways.

King started the car and drove past the bar, then turned first right, and then again. He parked the car near some dumpster bins and looked around. The car was a new model Dacia. A nothing car, but everything to somebody living here. He doubted it would be long before somebody tried to steal it, but he had taken out the insurance and he had noticed an Avis and Eurocar in the business centre of Batumi. It was only a short walk to the seafront and its lighthouse and Ferris wheel, he would head that way and work his way in on better streets.

He got out and opened the boot. He rummaged underneath the carpet and retrieved a single head tyre iron. He slipped it up his sleeve and closed the boot lid. The alley was open-ended, and King figured he’d found it as he crossed the road and glanced around, keeping alert, but making himself seem alert too. Trouble rarely looked for trouble, and with his broad shoulders and chest, athletic waist, close-cropped hair and pugilist’s brow, he looked like a serious opponent. The cat-like grace with which he crossed the road, hopped the pavement, his fists ready and his motions fluid, he could well have been heading through the crowd to a boxing ring.

King best-guessed the building – now on his left – and stepped into the doorway on his right. He had a good eyes-on for both the entrance of the tenement block and the youth who would come with the money and take back the drugs. It was now only a matter of time.

The alley smelled of urine and damp over domestic waste. It was closely hemmed in by buildings built in the Soviet era, where thought was only towards housing the masses and ensuring workers of certain demographics had accommodation and were close to work. In this case, most probably the port for which Batumi had once been a crucial link for the Soviet empire. King guessed the place had seen better days. Most of it appeared empty now. Since it broke away from the Soviet Union, Georgia had become a hub for travellers, people looking for the next best thing. The beach resorts of the Black Sea were never going to compete against the Costas or the south of France, but they were no worse than much of Italy’s or Cyprus’, and holidays on the Black Sea could cost half the price as those destinations. The money put into Batumi’s seafront and new town showed that commerce was set to grow. Places like this, the rotten, degraded pockets of poverty would be gone before long. And the drug dealers would have to ply their trade elsewhere.

King could see a garish yellow Range Rover slow and pull up outside the bar. It was an old model vogue lowered and kitted out to loosely represent a Range Rover Sport. The windows were blacked out, and already King could hear some R&B coming out hard. A moment later, the boy ran down the alleyway towards him. The boy shouted when he reached the entrance and thirty seconds later the man appeared. King could see him clearly now. Shaved head, bearded, tattooed and muscular. He snapped at the boy as he took the money. King could see he had a pistol tucked into the back of his waistband. He disappeared, came back moments later with the package. The boy ran back towards the bar and King stepped out of the doorway and crossed the alleyway.

The entrance was dark, and a cage door was propped open, the man almost through when King stepped inside. He let the tyre iron drop down his sleeve. He was only two paces behind the man when he turned around. King swung the iron, but the man was quick. He dodged left, drew backwards and went for the pistol. King swung again, the iron swiping an inch in front of the man’s face. He kicked out, caught the man in the groin. The man dropped, but caught hold of King’s shirt as he fell, and he pulled King downward. King smashed the iron down on the man’s back and he cried out as he let go and fell. He had fight training, and as he curled into a ball, his hands held in a tight boxer’s guard, he kicked wildly and repeatedly, stopping King from attacking further. King kicked downwards, keeping his eyes on the man’s hands. There was still a firearm in the mix, but it was ok until the man reached for it, which he would do if King did not keep up the momentum of the assault. He struck the man’s shin with the tyre iron, then went to take a better swing when he felt himself pulled from behind. Both the frontman and the boy were grabbing at him, and it was enough time for the man on the ground to get into a better position. The frontman was reaching for a blade. King had left the flick-knife in France, without hold luggage, he couldn’t risk it in his carry-on. King kicked backwards, keeping the man on the ground busy. He caught him in the face, heard the crunch of bone, keeping his eyes on the knife. The frontman swung, as King caught hold of the boy by his shirt collar and met the attack head on, using him as a shield. The boy was slightly built, and after his back took the swipe of the blade – a grimace on his face – King smashed the youth back into the frontman, putting distance between himself and the blade. The back of the boy’s head was in front of the frontman’s face, and King cupped his face with the palm