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

“It’s different,” King admitted. He was tired, and he found the extra clothing cumbersome. He was positively over-heating now that the car was well into its stride and the heater was working well. He unzipped his hoodie top and loosened the collar of his shirt.

“What’s your plan, then?”

“You don’t have one?”

“Hey, I’m just the help. The Firm want me to give Box assistance. Or rather, not risk any more of their own personnel now they have something over MI5. I’m taxiing you up to the hotel. What more do you want?”

“Are you kidding?” King scoffed. “There is a defector, an asset, on the way. Nobody knows who they are, or where Fitzpatrick arranged to meet them. I can only assume that The Eagle’s Nest Hotel is the obvious place. It’s all that’s there.”

Stewart glanced at him, a smirk on his lips. “Well then, you have your location.”

“But no clue as to the identity…” King looked ahead, strained his eyes against the whiteness of the horizon “Watch out!” he yelled.

Stewart snapped his attention back to the road, but it was too late.

The storm was upon them.

20

The car stopped like it hit a wall. King was thrown forwards, his seat belt forcing him back in his seat. The inertia reel did not release, and he fought for breath against the restraint. He felt for the belt clip, struggled with the bulk of his jacket. Stewart shouted something, but King did not hear. There was a tremendous pressure inside the car, as if all the air was being squeezed from within.

The front of the Volvo lifted and the rear wheels, without the addition of snow chains, skidded as the car slid backwards. The front of the car dropped back down, and the car pivoted sideways, pushed broadside down the road. The pressure in King’s ears was so intense, he felt as if he were diving too deeply underwater. The sky was black, and the blizzard covered the windscreen with snow and ice, the windows turning the interior into near-darkness. A solid gust spun the car right around, and the pressure gained in intensity until, with a shrill wail, the side windows shattered. King ducked down, the ice crystals peppering his face like birdshot. He clawed in the footwell for his gloves and beanie but could find neither.

The pressure had left his ears, but the intensity of the cold upon his face was unbearable. He fumbled with the hoodie and hood of his jacket, managed to zip it up around his neck. His hands were frozen, already finding the dexterity to complete such a mundane task difficult.

King looked across at Stewart. The man looked panicked. King found himself realising he had never seen the man look like that before. Not even when they had once found themselves hunted by over one-hundred guerrillas in Mali, West Africa. The rebels had wanted the men’s heads on spikes, and they had very nearly got what they wanted. King had been in his late twenties and the man seated beside him, now frozen in fear, had kept him alive. They had fought and fled, hidden and hunted their way to freedom. Those days seemed a thousand years behind Peter Stewart now.

The car pivoted again, lifted, and King grabbed the wheel and heaved it left with both hands. “Get your foot off the brake!” he shouted. Stewart snapped to, did as he was ordered. “Clutch in, now!”

The car went with the wind, tacked over like a sailing boat. The rear came around and the wind bore its brunt upon the square rear windscreen. The manoeuvre cleared the windscreen as the ice was blown clear. The car went with the wind.

Too easily.

“Reverse gear!” shouted King. “Play the clutch, just get a gentle bite!”

Stewart was on it now. He could see what was happening, and what King was trying to achieve. He selected reverse, allowed a little take on the clutch and feathered both the clutch and the accelerator to set some resistance to the wind. King steered, but felt the steering wheel played by Stewart. He released his grip and the Scotsman kept the car straight as they sailed down the road.

King could barely feel his hands. He searched the footwell again, found the gloves under his seat. It was an effort to retrieve them, get them on, but even when he had managed it, he still had no sensation of feeling below his wrists. He started to ball his fingers, fighting through the pain, knowing that it was imperative to get the blood flowing once more.

Stewart heaved the wheel and let out the clutch fully, his foot welded to the accelerator. King looked up, saw the precipice looming. The car had slowed, but the wind and lack of traction was coming out on top.

“Get out!” King shouted. “Now!”

King grabbed at the door handle but could still not feel his fingers. He tried to grip the handle, felt nothing through the thick gloves. Stewart already had his door open. It had been blown wide and bent the hinges, the wind smashing the door into the front quarter panel. He was already rolling away, swallowed by the vortex of ice. King elbowed the remaining glass from the window and pushed himself through. The wind-chill shocked him as he kicked his way out and used the seat as a springboard to get clear of the vehicle. The swirling ice and snow blinded him, and he felt the hard ground beneath him, unable to anticipate his fall. He hunkered down, his arms around his ears and his hands covering his eyes. He felt stable – the wind not blowing him away, but the buffeting was brutal – and he breathed through clenched teeth, doing his best not to inhale the powdery ice.

There was a grinding, crunch as the