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

was why he had picked it over the others. King lifted it off its hook to reveal an open recess. A cardboard box containing fifty 9mm bullets and a Glock model 19 pistol filled the space. They had been there a long time, and along with three magazines for the weapon, the only other item was a brown paper-wrapped package. Inside this was a false passport and five-thousand pounds in twenty-pound notes. He deliberated over taking this also, but stopped himself. It was his bug-out package. He had many more around the country. All with a false passport, a weapon, ammunition and a similar amount of money. All taken from operations over the years. There had always been equipment he should have disposed of and expense money, mostly ludicrously over-funded, that was unaccounted for. It was a precaution that belonged to his old life. He hoped it was a part of him, the uncertain life he had once lived, that would remain in the past.

King replaced the painting and set about loading the magazines. They were standard fifteen-round magazines. He preferred them, as they fitted flush and kept the weapon both lighter and a better dimension for concealed carry than the after-market extended capacity varieties. He liked the Glock too – an ergonomically proficient design with no external hammer or safety catches to snag on clothing. A simple flap on the tip of the trigger acted as a safety. If your finger wasn’t near the trigger, the weapon couldn’t fire. Not even if it was dropped. The sights were a simple three dot affair. One luminous white dot on the front ramp sight and one on each side of the squared vee. Simply put all three dots in a line and aim the row of dots on what you wanted to hit. It was a great weapon to use in low light conditions. Over sixty-metres and you simply tilted the weapon to raise the middle dot. King had the discipline down over years of training. Ideally, he liked to use a handgun under fifty-feet from the target, but he was proficient enough to make consistent one-hundred metre hits on man-sized targets with most handguns.

Once the magazines were full, he loaded the weapon with one of them and made it ready. He dropped the five loose rounds into his pocket and placed the two spare magazines into two separate pockets. He tucked the pistol into his belt and pulled his shirt tails out to conceal it. He checked his pocket knife – he always carried one – a small folding lock-knife with a three-inch blade honed to a razor’s edge. It was light and featured a graphite skeleton cut-out body and blackened blade with a thumb-stud for opening with one hand.

He grabbed his travel bag and took it downstairs with him. He wouldn’t be staying the night now the cottage had been compromised. King picked up the assault rifle and walked to the car. He dropped his back on the back seat, then looked out across the field. He shouldered the rifle and checked the sights. They were a low-light set up, illuminating everything he swept over. His view was in a green tint, but in different shades. He swept the rifle over the field, stopping for a moment at clumps of bushes he had allowed to grow through lack of care. He had no livestock, and it was all he could do to keep the cottage dry and mould-free. He rarely had time to work on the grounds as well.

There was movement in the far corner. He tracked the rifle, caught sight of a figure sliding over the hedge. His finger tightened on the trigger and the crosshairs centred briefly on the person’s lower back. He knew he wouldn’t fire, he had no way of knowing if the person was armed or whether they had even posed a threat. People often shot rabbits at night with lamps and .22 rifles, shotguns or air rifles. He had seen them before in neighbouring fields, skirting the hedgerows and climbing the hedges. The figure had disappeared, and King took his finger away from the trigger. A moment later, the red glow of a vehicle’s taillights lit up the other side of the hedge and an engine started and idled. They must have been brake lights as the person started the engine with their foot on the brake. The headlights flicked on and cut a swath of light briefly across the far side of the field. King realised this was where the road curved dramatically, then straightened out after fifty metres or so. The vehicle appeared to stop, its lights dipped and its engine idling.

King was in no doubt this was the dead man’s accomplice. But why hadn’t they waited in the house? Why had they sat back on the side lines? They had proved to be an ineffective back-up, and little use as a getaway driver. King swept across the field once more with the rifle scope. He turned slowly and surveyed the house. Maybe the person had not seen what had transpired. Perhaps this was part of the plan, a secondary rendezvous. He could hear distant sirens. That was it. The driver of the getaway vehicle had pulled ahead out of sight.

King turned in the direction of the sound of sirens. He guessed the police hadn’t listened to the brief. Their blue strobes lit up the night sky as they filed single file down the lane. An ambulance followed. He turned briefly in the direction of the vehicle on the other side of the hedge, but saw that it was driving away, distant tail lights fading out of sight. He looked back at the cottage, where the lights of the first police car illuminated the body on the ground.

King took a few steps towards the cottage. He lowered the weapon, carrying it by its frame in his right hand, barrel backwards and butt first, a