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

and the barrel hit Catherine in the jaw. She yelped and fell, between the two armchairs. Romanovitch was bringing the pistol around on King, but the swing of the rifle now meant he was way off target, so he swung back and caught the pistol with the muzzle of the AKU as it went off.

Romanovitch kicked out and King felt the rifle wrench out of his hands. He ducked his head and powered into the Russian, headbutting the man in his diaphragm. King could feel the bone and as he got his arms up and gripped the man’s shirt with both hands, he could feel the sinewy muscle and thin wrap of skin around his ribs.

Romanovitch was no stranger to fighting and used his elbows to strike down on King’s broad back. It was a large target and the Russian was using it well. Not blindly beating him but aiming his blows into the vertebrae. He was working his way up between King’s shoulder blades, trying to get them down onto the base of his neck. He had invested in the strategy, knew that a well-placed blow would take King out of the fight, so he gripped King around his chest with his left arm, wrapping him in a bear-hug, as he used more force and precision to deliver his blows. King was taken by surprise at the man’s strength. He pulled backwards but met resistance. King always countered resistance and used it to his benefit. He pushed instead, but Romanovitch had been waiting for this and ran backwards with him, keeping up his savage attack on King’s spine.

King was breathless now, and knew he needed to get out of the man’s grasp. He dropped lower but caught a well-placed knee in his eye as Romanovitch countered. He now took successive blows from above and below, but he blocked the knee as best he could with his forearms, feeling the rawness of the bullet wound more now that it was taking a pummelling from Romanovitch’s knee. The man’s knee was undoubtedly stronger and harder than King’s arms, but the power of the blows was being drained enough to have minimal effect on his face. King drew a deep breath, then dropped lower and powered up through his legs like a weightlifter. He drove both fists up into Romanovitch’s stomach in a double blow but carried on through as he straightened his legs. The Russian’s eleven-stone or so was taken clear from the ground and King kept on lifting until Romanovitch teetered and was thrown clear over King’s back and onto the parquet wooden floor. King heaved for breath but was quick turning around to meet his opponent. Romanovitch was stunned, but he knew - or rather had a well-tuned animalistic instinct – the importance of getting off the ground. He rolled onto his side, and when he glanced back up at King, he rolled twice more and put a favourable distance between them. King took a step forwards, but was wrenched backwards, the wind sucking from his lungs as a hard, slim forearm wrapped around his throat and Catherine pulled backwards with all her might.

The parameters of King’s mind were being warped. He had entered the room and found a clear hostage situation but was now being attacked by two people. Both equally hell-bent on killing him. He couldn’t process it, couldn’t compute what was happening. But he had two enemies in this fight and that was all he could focus on right now. He countered Catherine the same as he would anyone else attacking in such a manner, and snapped his head backwards, his cranium impacting on the woman’s nose. Her clasp released, and King felt welcome air rush into his lungs. He saw Romanovitch watching the scene, temporarily transfixed on the woman. Rage filled his eyes as she fell backwards, and he pushed himself up and charged at him, screaming in Russian and lowering his head. King dropped into a wide fighting stance, and when the man closed the gap enough, he swept his left hand onto the back of Romanovitch’s neck and drew him further downwards until the man’s head was far lower than he was meaning it to be and he lost balance. King caught hold of the Russian’s collar and dragged him closer, then guided him through and sandwiched his head between his legs, gripping as if he were a rodeo rider out of the gate. He wrapped both hands around the man’s waist, bear hugged and heaved until Romanovitch’s legs were clear of the ground and he was upside down. King gripped the man’s head like a vice. And then he kicked out both legs and dropped onto his backside. The man’s head met the parquet flooring first, King’s entire weight driving the blow to an impact with no give or mercy.

One hundred percent compression.

King released his grip and glanced over at Catherine’s unconscious body as he got back to his feet. He picked up Romanovitch’s pistol and checked it over. It was a 9mm CZ85. A reliable and handy tool. It had five rounds remaining and King tucked it into his pocket as he stepped over the contents of Romanovitch’s shattered skull and over to Catherine. He could hear gunfire, but it was distant and sporadic. He realised he had outstayed his luck.

It was time to get moving.

70

Darkness was his friend, his ally. He could use darkness, turn it against his enemy. He had done so many times before.

Rashid kept to the mantra of the five S’s. He was wearing dark navy trousers and jacket, with a light blue open collared shirt. The navy wasn’t a problem, but he turned up his collar and buttoned up the jacket to eliminate the lighter shade underneath. He shadowed the trees until he reached the gate. The road was single lane, and he could already tell from the ruts and potholes, that it