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

to weed, but good for drainage. But primarily, he had laid them as a warning to footsteps. He could hear anybody making their way down the side of the house.

King eased the door inwards and listened. Nothing. He took one step across the thick gravel and pushed himself up onto the wall of the raised ground beside the cottage. He wouldn’t have called it a garden – it was far too overgrown for that – but it had been once, and the bushes and shrubs were so big and bushy, that they provided perfect cover. He moved slowly until he reached the front of the property, crouched low and kept the handgun out in front of him.

The night was still. A little breeze, but most of the trees were still in bud, not yet thick with leaves, so the ambient noise was at a minimum. No leaves rustling. King heard the first tentative step on the gravel at the front of the cottage. The attacker would have fired his first few shots from the fallow field in front of the property. Far enough back from King’s headlights to remain undetected.

The fence was broken in places and low. King could imagine them stepping over, the timber slimy and wet, the line of rail wobbling as they teetered with a leg each side. He could hear the direction of the next crunch of gravel, aimed the handgun, waited for the figure to merge into silhouette in the darkness, his eyes needed to catch up. His night vision was not there yet, certainly not up to the attacker’s. He turned his head and used his peripheral vision. It was sharper in the darkness. The light-sensitive layer of cells at the back of the eyeball, the retina is comprised of two types of cells: rods and cones. The cones require a large amount light to operate and are functional during daylight but are almost useless at night. Simply turning your head and looking a foot or so past what you want to see gives you better vision in the darkness. King had used this technique many times. He remained low, shrouded by the shrubbery.

Another tentative footstep.

King waited.

He figured one more step.

As it was, it was two steps, but when the outside light illuminated, it caught the lone gunman by complete surprise. King saw that the attacker as a man, tall and slim and dressed all in black. He was wearing a black beanie, special forces style. He carried a compact rifle, a bullpup design. There was a moment of indecision, but not on King’s part. The man outgunned King, his weapon was equipped with a scope and the light now gave the man an advantage. He had the range and superior firepower and he had the scope on top of the rifle. But the advantage briefly ran to King too, because the gunman had not seen him. And that meant King had two choices.

Not three.

The first choice was to hide. But hiding was not a definitive action. If he hid, the man would still be there. The other option was to shoot while he had the element of surprise.

King still couldn’t see a third option.

He couldn’t shout and expose himself, and he couldn’t walk out, covering the man with his weapon and apprehend him. That would more likely force a western-style duel. And the man had all the firepower. But King wasn’t one to hide or runaway, so he was left with one choice only.

He fired.

The man went down. The .357 shattered the night-time silence and the flash of yellow-white light from the muzzle briefly lit up the sky as much as the outside light. Centre-mass, large pistol calibre. King doubted the man was wearing body-armour, but it was an option. He stepped out from the shrubbery and walked in a semi-circle, skirting the gravel on the fringe of grass in front of the fence. The prone figure was twenty-metres away with his back to King. There was movement, but King could not see the weapon. He aimed the sights on the man’s back, the red illuminated blade of the foresight steady on the centre of the man’s shoulder blades. King recognised the movement as hampered breathing. And pain. And shock. He knew what the man was going through – he’d been there himself. He’d also been in the man’s predicament. He’d had his back to an approaching enemy before. It worked out that time for King. This guy wasn’t going to be so lucky. King tightened the semi-circle, placing himself at an angle the man would be unable to cover with his own weapon merely by rolling onto his back.

“Hands in the air!” King shouted. “You won’t make it!”

“My back’s busted,” the man wheezed. His accent was East-European, perhaps Russian.

“Let go of the weapon then.” The man moved a little, but the weapon stayed where it was, still clutched in his right hand, the barrel resting on the gravel. King was a dozen paces away now. “Tell me who you are working for!”

“Fuck you!”

“Drop the weapon and raise your hands where I can see them. Roll onto your back,” King paused. “Do it, or you’re a dead man.”

“I’m dead anyway,” the man wheezed. “If you don’t kill me, they will.”

“Who?”

“Fuck you!”

“Tell me. I’ll get you protection.”

“You can’t protect me!”

“Trust me. I’ll get you medical attention and protection. My department…”

“Your department knows shit! Your department hasn’t got a clue!”

“Well tell me!” King snapped. “I work for the British government. I am with MI5.”

“You think I don’t know that?” The man shifted. King was close now, the handgun unwavering. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“No, you don’t,” King said coldly. “Now take your hand off the weapon. Do it or I’ll fire again.”

“Well do it! You’ll be doing me a favour!” He rolled slowly onto his