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

back with a grunt, brought the compact rifle around unsteadily. The barrel was tracking across open space. King would soon fill the gap.

King shifted his aim and squeezed the trigger. The man recoiled sharply as the bullet shattered his thigh. But he had let go of the weapon and it clattered onto the gravel. King lurched forwards and kicked it away. The man clutched his thigh, his teeth grit together and his eyes white. He hollered and wailed, twisting on the gravel. “Bastard!”

King stepped around and looked down at him. “True,” he said. “But I’ve gotten over it. Now, tell me, who sent you?”

The man panted for breath. He pulled his hand away from the wound, looked at his palm. It was soaked, looked like it had been dipped into a can of red paint. The wound was spurting blood at an alarming rate. The man put his hand back onto the gunshot wound, then looked up at King and seemed to relax. He took his hand away from the wound, and it pulsed and pumped with blood. He forced a smile. “Nice shooting, shithead.”

King looked at the wound. He hadn’t meant to, but he had hit the femoral artery. There was no telling what fragments and bone splinters would do - the bullet for that matter, all twisted and sharp and misshapen. This guy had been unlucky.

King shrugged. “Those are the breaks, I guess,” he said. “So, are you going to talk, cleanse your soul, that sort of shit? Or do you want a minute alone?”

They always wanted time alone, a moment to prepare.

“Please, leave.” The man started to sob. “I have a wife and child back home…”

King nodded, then picked up the bullpup rifle. It was a French-made FAMAS. The shortened commando version in 5.56mm calibre. He walked back towards the cottage, knowing the man would likely be dead before he got back inside.

14

King had loaded up with some tea. He took it strong and sweet, the same variety that he had found a taste for in Turkey. He had spent a great deal of time in Turkey over the years – the gateway to Iraq, Iran and Syria. It was going to be a long night, so he spooned in a little more of the dark sugar. It was a Fairtrade variety with a hint of vanilla that Caroline had bought, and as much as he had scoffed at the price at the time, he had taken a liking to it.

His first call was to his handler. This was his go-to contact in the operations department of the Security Service, otherwise known as MI5. He had left a message – standard procedure, as it was never answered first time. Simon Mereweather called King back and they spoke in depth. King outlined the attack and Mereweather had said he would call and direct a containment team. From the start the incident would be ‘Section D’d’ under national security. Which meant it as good as never happened. The police would be called after the containment team were in place and the findings would be noted, the investigation handed over to MI5 personnel and a notice put out that there would be no press involvement. The team would use a Home Office coroner, and the body would be moved to a facility in London.

King was curtly reminded of his duties involving the case and instructed to continue with his investigation. Now all he could do was wait. Simon Mereweather was a career MI5 officer with most of his experience in planning, analysing data and acting as go-between with other government departments, the police, MI6 – their sister service dealing mainly in foreign operations – and what the service called ‘damage limitation’ in the field. King didn’t dislike Mereweather, which was unusual for him, but he did dislike the company line the man so often stayed the right side of. He knew Mereweather was in line for the deputy directorship of operations, so King didn’t go out of his way to antagonise the man, but he wasn’t afraid of voicing his opinion when he felt the integrity of an operation was being lost in favour of a smooth ride for the service.

King emptied the two spent cases and four live shells from his revolver and placed them on the hall table, along with the weapon with its cylinder left open. He sipped more of the tea, decided to take it with him upstairs.

In his downtime, King enjoyed painting. During his time with MI6 a department psychotherapist had recommended King take up an artistic outlet and once it became evident that he liked to paint, the psychotherapist had later casually asked to see some of his work. King had known the woman’s motive to get an insight into his psyche, and had set about painting a scene which had made Dante’s Inferno look tame. It had become one of the biggest jokes in the service, and someone had even taken it and had it framed and hung in the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, along with a handwritten note telling the story.

Despite King’s notorious work hanging behind the bar in that most exclusive, members only club, he only painted landscapes. Each room throughout the cottage was adorned with one of his watercolours or oil paintings. He had become most proficient over the years. A favourite of his was of a derelict cottage and watermill he had painted when Jane had been alive. They had picnicked and made love on a sunny afternoon in May in a bed of bluebells within a copse of trees nearby. King had sketched out and photographed the cottage afterwards while Jane had lain back in the grass and teased him about his new-found hobby. It was true, the picture wasn’t that good. Early art never compared to later offerings. It would never get stolen, that was for sure. Which