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

enough time to change into second and brace himself for impact. The bucket smashed through the wall and the digger hit the rubble and became airborne, crashing down onto the road. Rashid was thrown out of his seat and through the shattered windscreen. He slid onto the hot bonnet, scrambled off the side and limped off the road and into the brush. Gunshots echoed, and bullets sparked and pinged off the digger, but already Rashid was well out of their line of fire, picking his way through the treeline and making his way back towards the entrance, parallel to the road.

69

 

There were many rooms upstairs, but King already knew which one he wanted.  But as he made his way down the corridor he kept the weapon trained on every doorway he passed nonetheless. The door he was heading for was a double oak door, approximately eight-feet high. It had to indicate a master bedroom. It seemed the most fitting. And the facing end of the building featured a large balcony, which spanned the entire façade. King imagined the southwest-facing balcony soaked up the sun for much of the day. It seemed the obvious choice for the master suite to benefit from such a feature.

King edged to the side as he drew near. He unslung the rucksack and dropped it on the floor before reaching across and testing the handle. Splinters of wood burst out, the bullets punching ragged holes through and spitting out across the landing. He snatched his arm back and the door continued to take a pummelling, the sharp report of a pistol filling his already ringing ears, the lead hammering the solid oak door and careening at all angles down the corridor as it penetrated the thick wood. He raised the rifle, but the thought of Catherine being caught in a crossfire at this stage, made him lower it. He had come too far to lose his bargaining chip now. And he had no idea who else could be inside the room, and although he knew Romanovitch was married, he still didn’t know if the man had any children.

The gunfire ceased, and King raised the rifle, the butt held out from his shoulder and high in the air, the barrel aimed mere inches from the door handles. He was at such an acute angle as to do nothing more than put his rounds through the floor a foot or so inside the room. He took the chance and fired six rapid rounds across the door locks. The powerful 5.45x39mm bullets smashed the locks out and took one of the round gold-plated doorknobs clean off, leaving a six-inch hole, the doors opening a few inches.

The wood splintered, three gunshots filling the air. King reversed a hook kick, keeping his body away from the door, but sending his heel powering into both doors. They sprung back, and as King pulled back his foot, he swung the rifle out one-handed, like a pistol and lined the sights up on the man standing between two facing leather chairs.

Only it wasn’t just a man standing there.

And he no longer aimed the pistol at the door.

Romanovitch was tall and thin, but broad. Like a coat hanger. He reminded King of a scarecrow. The dossier that King had read on him mentioned a period of five-years spent in a Russian gulag. Five years in the baking, mosquito-ridden swamps of a Siberian summer, and one of the coldest, most unforgiving places on the planet in winter. King could see that the man had done hard time. It showed in his eyes. They were dead. His features were chiselled and gaunt. He looked like a man who had starved to the bone. There was never a full recovery from that sort of existence. No matter what luxury he had in his life now, the damage had been done. Like holocaust victims. There was no leaving the camps behind.

The woman was tall, her long hair dark and glossy. Standard Russian or east European trash. She had the looks and the figure to have model pretensions, but there was no warmth in her eyes. No sparkle. She was a predator. She had hooked up. Paid a price she thought worth paying. She was another Anna.

Another Helena.

Romanovitch held a pistol to her head. He was a whole foot taller, but he hid well behind her not inconsiderable height. King had the short rifle held loosely in his hands, the sights hovering somewhere between Romanovitch’s face and the woman’s shoulder. He couldn’t get a clear shot at the man, and through his mind was running with the notion of clipping her shoulder to reach his face. But the round from the AKU wasn’t like the 9mm Romanovitch was holding. It could slice straight through, or it could clip bone, tumble and take her entire arm off. The 5.45x39mm had been solely designed to take personnel off the battlefield. It was a savage round and King would rather go for a clean shot.

King could see the woman shared features with Helena Milankovitch. He saw Helena a thousand times a day. He pictured her staring at him as he investigated her husband’s murder. Her long-time lover standing at her side, seething at his interference. But it was the way she had looked at him that haunted him at night. She had been staring at him impassively, but King knew now that she had been planning how best to hurt him. How to destroy him. Now King saw that same look in this woman’s eyes.

She wasn’t scared.

She was planning.

Catherine moved her arm a touch and King saw the pistol too late. She fired, and King ducked to his right, but this took Romanovitch out of his line of fire. He squeezed off two rounds in front of them, the noise and muzzle flash shocking them and ruining their follow-up measure. King swung the rifle