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

of his hand and smashed his head backwards into the frontman’s jaw. Once, twice, three times… By the fourth time, the man had slumped enough for the boy’s head to smash his nose flat. He slid down the wall and King let the youth go, where he fell and joined him. As he turned, the man on the floor was reaching for the pistol. King darted forward and punched the man with a right-cross to his jaw. He was out cold before he fell backwards onto the urine-soaked concrete.

King was heaving for breath. It hadn’t gone like he had wanted it to. But things seldom ever did. He took the pistol out of the man’s jeans. And tucked it into his own. He turned to the boy, who although wasn’t out cold, was lying down, clearly shocked. He was holding the back of his head, tears in his eyes and panting for breath. King caught hold of him and pulled him forwards to check the wound. His head was swelling, but not bleeding. His back had taken a slash, but it wasn’t deep. The knife had been blunt and had pulled across the boy’s shirt, cutting in places, scratching for the most-part. The blade was most likely dirty, and the boy would need medical attention. But it was the swelling to his head that King was most concerned about. He had taken quite a battering. He cursed quietly to himself. But he pushed the boy back down onto the unconscious body of the frontman and went about checking the other man’s pockets. There was a spare magazine for the 9mm Makarov pistol which King took, along with the roll of banknotes from the drugs transaction.

He looked back at the boy. “You speak English?”

The boy nodded.

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

King could see a wispy moustache beginning to poke through, but he was a long way off shaving. He looked the boy up and down. He didn’t feel guilty, worse things had happened to him by that age. But he felt compassion, because he knew when these men woke up, the boy would be ferrying drugs and money and would not be going anywhere near a hospital.

“I’m sorry you got hurt,” he said. “Come with me, and I’ll drop you outside the medical centre. I’ve seen one in the new town.”

The boy looked hesitant, but he removed his hand from the back of his head, checked his fingers for blood and shrugged.

“Your head needs a cold pack,” King explained. “And you may need a stitch or two in your back, but you definitely need it cleaned and perhaps some antibiotics in case it gets infected.” King looked at the state of the floor, was certain it was most likely infected already.

“Okay,” the boy shrugged, like it was an everyday occurrence.

King led the way and the boy followed. He had no idea why the boy did not run, but as he stepped out into the light upon leaving the alleyway, he wondered if the boy had any choice in the work he did.

Thankfully the car had been left alone, and King opened the door, let the boy slide gingerly into the front seat.

“Who are those men?” King asked.

The boy shrugged again. “Just men,” he said. “My mother died, my father went to work in the Ukraine last year, picking flowers. He hasn’t been in touch since…”

King nodded. He should have been back between the growing season. He knew that tulips, poppies, orchids and roses were grown in the Ukraine. It was seasonal work relying on migrant workers. He doubted the boy would see him again.

“Those men, they pay you?”

“Some.”

King drove quickly, threaded his way through the streets until he found himself on the seafront. He passed the lighthouse, then followed the road around to the left, away from the seafront and towards the new town. He fished out the wad of banknotes, around a thousand Lari worth approximately three-hundred pounds. He tossed it into the boy’s lap. “Take this,” he said. “Maybe it will be enough to get away from here. You have relatives?”

“An aunt and cousins in Tbilisi.”

“Go there. Don’t go back to those men. They’re using you and no good will come from it. I know. I started dealing drugs for people like that, pretty soon I was handing out beatings and in and out of prison.” He pulled up in front of the medical centre and took out his wallet, retrieved a stack of Lari, around fifty-pounds Stirling. “Get yourself patched up. Get the wound cleaned, stitched and ask for anti-biotics. And get a cold pack on that head bump.”

The boy opened the door, went to thank him, but King pulled away and the door shut of its own accord once he got up to about thirty-miles-per-hour. He checked his watch. He had made good time. He had a gun and ammunition, and he had an hour’s drive ahead of him before he had to use it.

59

 

King had stopped at a builder’s merchants, having been unable to find an extensive DIY store. He had found most of the things he needed, paying in cash, but had also stopped at a pharmacy, a supermarket and a service station for the rest of the things he would need. A military surplus store located on the side of the road which had been advertised by a Soviet T-62 tank, provided him with the last of his purchases. Although the store did not sell firearms, it still provided King with a sturdy combat knife, a gas stove, some mess-tins and a dozen aluminium water bottles in canvas sleeves. He picked out some olive cargo trousers to go with his grey T-shirt and tan leather jacket, and a pair of surplus boots to help him blend into the landscape and provide solid foot-ware for the rocky terrain. He wore