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

respect and acceptance. He had been outsmarted. He was a hunter and he understood that sometimes there was no hunting some quarry. They always managed to get away. And that was partly the thrill of the hunt. But he wasn’t a trapped beast that had accepted his fate, though. He studied King, who was so cold he was shaking. The pistol was no longer steady in his hand and the knife was held loosely by his side.

The man saw his chance and took it. He dashed forwards and kicked the knife out of King’s hand but grabbed King’s right wrist with two strong hands and pushed King backwards.

King smarted from the kick to his hand, but by grabbing his other wrist with both hands, the man had left King’s other hand free. King swung a left punch, impacting against the man’s right ear. His hood heavily cushioned the blow and King swung again, catching the man on the chin. It was a glancing blow and the man shook it off. But he drove King’s hand backwards against a tree and the pistol fell onto the ice. King slipped and fell and when he looked up, the man had a knife in his hand and the dull steel was driving downwards towards his stomach. King kicked the man’s kneecap and he yelped, stumbled and redirected his attack. King rolled to gain distance and reached for his own knife. He wasn’t going to make it in time, so he left it and concentrated on defending himself from the wicked-looking curved blade scything towards him.

Stewart was running on the ice, making poor progress and fumbling with his pistol. He dropped the coat like it was an afterthought and steadied himself before stepping over a fallen tree. He still had fifty-feet to go.

King chopped the man’s wrist and he smarted at the pain but kept hold of the blade. He thrust out straight, and that’s when King knew he had him. He side-stepped, grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand, and gripped his elbow with his right. He pushed and pulled simultaneously, and the man’s arm twisted, the knife fell, and he dropped onto his knees.

The gunshot made King flinch, as did the sight of the man’s face disappearing in front of his eyes - brain, bone and blood spraying up into King’s face. He released his grip and stepped backwards, the body dropping onto the ground. King looked at Stewart, who was crouching with the pistol still aimed, held steadily in both hands.

“What the hell?” King said breathlessly. “I had him…”

“Didn’t look much like that to me.”

“I locked his arm, he had dropped the knife…”

“Yeah, well, it looked like he was kicking your arse from where I was standing.” Stewart tucked the pistol back into his pocket. “You know what I always say to my agents…”

“I’m not your agent, anymore.”

“Well, you were for nearly fifteen-years, son. And what did I always say?”

“There’s no rewind…”

“Exactly! No fucking rewind button in life. Especially on a mission. The guy had a knife, you were looking like you needed to get your arse back in the do-jo, or at least the boxing ring…” he paused. “Christ, don’t they keep you field-ready in MI5?”

King bent down and scraped up some ice, he rubbed it into his face and cleaned the mess off. It took a couple of attempts and his face was freezing when he’d finished. He stared down at the body. There was something about blood in the snow. It looked redder somehow, the effect more final. King could see the entry point at the back of the man’s skull. Dead centre in the synapse – the point where the spine met the skull. The old MI6 warrior hadn’t lost his touch.

“Get my jacket,” said King. He was still shivering, despite the recent activity.

“Get it your fucking self,” snapped Stewart. He walked over, bent down and started to check the man over.

King wasn’t going to argue. He needed the jacket and paced over to get it. He swung it over him, zipped and buttoned it tightly, then adjusted his beanie and hood. He looked back at Stewart, who had spun the body over and was checking his pockets. He stood back up and turned around.

“Nothing,” he said. He held out his hand so that King could see the fold of notes. “Two-hundred Euros. No ID, nothing.”

“A ghost,” said King. He picked up the man’s knife. “I’ll keep this,” he said. “Maybe it will have Fitzpatrick’s DNA on it. I’m certain it will.”

Stewart picked up the rifle. It was old and battered, but well oiled. He checked it over, then shouldered it on the sling. “Well, at least we have a ride to the hotel. He must have left the keys in the snowmobile.”

King bent down and started to check the man’s pockets for the keys.

“I’ve already done that,” Stewart commented tersely.

“Missed these, though.” King stood up, the three .308 bullets in his palm. “I’ll check him again. If you missed those, then you may have missed something else…”

Stewart huffed and puffed and turned towards the direction the snowmobile was parked. He trudged away, uninterested in anything else King might find.

King continued to search but found nothing. He stood up and watched Stewart walk away, unable to shake off the nagging feeling that he had missed something. What could the man have possibly achieved in killing them both? And what reception would be waiting for them at The Eagle’s Nest Hotel?

26

 

King checked the numbers as he walked cautiously down the corridor.

Your guest has gone on up…

He hadn’t wanted to cause a scene. His reaction could create suspicion. Would have undoubtedly done just that. The manager had shown no surprise. Like it happened every day. But King knew these things almost never did. The room was