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

over his shoulders. He tucked up into a crouch, his eyes on the last man in the line, who was watching the garden ahead. King tucked the pistol and its bulky silencer under his left armpit, then slipped the knife out of its sheath and held it down by his side as he made his way silently across the edge of exposed ground. He got within two paces of the first guard, checked his breathing to steady himself, then hesitated as a second guard stepped away from the edge of the house and came into view three-paces in front of the first guard. King slipped the knife silently back into its sheaf. The second guard turned to say something to his colleague, but King already had the Makarov in his hand and took the shot before the man could mutter a warning. The man took the shot in the forehead and dropped in a heap. King ripped the modified silencer off the pistol and stepped in close, the hot muzzle burning the man’s throat, his left hand clutching his mouth and nose closed. He whispered in Russian, “Don’t move. Don’t resist…” He removed his left hand and took the machine carbine out of the man’s hands, then walked the man backwards and around the side of the house and pushed him face-first against the wall. He said, “Show me the staff entrance.” He slung the weapon over his left shoulder and let it hang loosely from its strap.

“He knows you’re coming,” the man drawled quietly in English. “You don’t have a chance…”

King pressed the pistol in hard, stifling the man’s artery. It was enough to get his attention, the blood pounding up his neck, but going no further. He released it and the man sagged. “Do you have a key to the staff entrance?”

“There is no staff entrance,” he croaked.

“The kitchen then. Romanovitch doesn’t cook his own meals. He has people to do that. Show me.”

“The key is in my pocket,” he said.

He slipped his hand inside and before King could say anything, he snapped his head backwards, catching King on the bridge of the nose. King recoiled, dropping the pistol, his eyes watering, not yet feeling the pain that went along with the light-headedness. The man spun around, a spring-loaded knife in his hand. He shouted a warning to his comrades but was drowned out by the first of the IEDs.

The night sky lit up and the noise was deafening. King darted forwards and jabbed his knife at the man’s throat, but he blocked the attack, taking the length of King’s blade across his wrist. Blood spurted a long way and the man stared at the wound, grimacing as King’s second strike plunged deep into his liver. King switched his left hand, cupping the blunt top edge of the knife’s blade, and in a powerful downward motion, he yanked both hands and engaged his core for extra strength, driving his legs down into a squat. The man dropped onto his knees, his torso opened-up and spilling his steaming bowels onto the ground. King stood back up and turned away, taking the man’s machine carbine off his back. He could hear the screaming of the group of men caught in the IED’s blast. He knew how it would have gone down – the heat of the blast, the thud in their chests from the shockwave, the ringing in their ears as they tried to make sense of what had just happened, the pain from the shrapnel – the fear and indignity at having been felled by an unseen enemy. There were shouts of instruction and King envisioned braver men going to their comrade’s aid. He was in too deep. Too personal. More committed than he had ever been in what felt like a lifetime in these situations. Which was why he didn’t feel the same level of guilt when the second IED lit up the sky and it happened all over again for the men in front of the house.

67

 

There were shouts and commotion and King knew what would be happening. Most of the men would have hunkered down, not chancing being caught in a third explosion. Weapons would be trained impotently on unseen threats, shadows playing eerily across the scorched earth as stubborn flames licked the grass. Ringing ears and shouts of both fear and concern was enough opportunity for King to place a single 5.45x39mm round through the door lock. He shoulder-barged the door open, then closed it behind him and took off the rucksack. He could hear multiple gunshots outside, the men taking no chances and firing into the treeline at would-be attackers. He used two wooden wedges tapering from two inches to a thin tip, both carved from a piece of wood bought from the builder’s merchants. He dropped them down on the floor, positioned them away from the hinges and kicked them in place with his size-twelve boot. He kicked again for good measure, then slung the rucksack back over his shoulders and picked up the AKU machine carbine – essentially a smaller version of the infamous AK47 but chambered for a lighter, faster bullet. The result was a weapon which effectively took down the enemy, its bullets creating a more devastating wound than the old AK47’s 7.62x39mm rounds, but not over-penetrating walls and chancing collateral damage. The short design was both light to handle and easy to use in close quarter combat scenarios.

The kitchen was dark, but light emitted from the next room, which King could already see was a large hall. He shouldered the rifle and stepped cautiously out. Lights were flicking on upstairs. King saw the first guard, a tall man carrying a semi-automatic pistol. King dispatched him with a double tap, moved onwards and up the stairs. He assumed Romanovitch would be inside and leave the dirty work to his men. King was going in blind and had