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

where money was overtly on display, where the mega-rich created a façade under which the poor still lived, barely surviving.

Natalia chewed on some of the bread. It was solid to bite but melted as her lips warmed it. After a few attempts, she could get a mouthful off and chew. By the time she was ready to swallow, the bread was defrosted. She helped it down with a handful of snow, which tingled on her tongue. She had read somewhere that you should never eat snow, as it cooled you down too quickly, but she had little choice. Despite the cold, or even because of it, she was as dehydrated as if she were crossing a desert. She craved water, and the snow melted enough to slake her thirst, though never satisfy it fully. She would give anything for a cup of strong, sweet coffee.

Natalia pushed the rest of the bread down her snowsuit. It was cold, but not in the same league as the milk carton. It would be tolerable, and when she stopped next time to rest and eat more of the snow, she was sure it would be easier to chew. She looked around her, the darkness held off only by the snow on the ground reflecting what little moon there was. Enough light to move by, but not enough to see any great distance. It made the forest seem closer, inescapable. She closed her eyes, breathed steadily to assuage her fears. There was nothing to fear here, she told herself. And then, as if fate was privy to her thoughts, the lone cry of a wolf pierced the night air. She tensed, unsure of the distance. There were two more howls and a degree of resonance, of an echo. She stood back up and checked the compass heading. Natalia was scared now, needed to get moving. As if moving would make the threat go away. She started to pray for the first time since her childhood. The praying matched the pace of her footsteps, and she took some comfort in the fact that no more howls sounded, and the night became silent once more.

42

 

They had made love tenderly. Not like earlier where want and passion had created the pace. Desire driving them towards a heady conclusion. This time King had taken control but was ever conscious that there could only ever be one driver. Caroline had started to take the lead and he was more than willing to let her set the pace and direction.

King was now in that state of consciousness where he slipped into a delicious and well-earned sleep, but was aware of Caroline’s warm, damp body on him, the movement of her hand on his torso, her soft breathing against the back of his neck.

There was little King hadn’t experienced. In terms of drama and tragedy at least. He often dreamed of people and places, lives lost, and the wake left behind by battle and conflict, death and despair. He would often wake with a start. A helicopter crash, an ambush, an explosion…

King was on his feet and had the tiny Walther in his hand as he covered the door. Caroline was awake but sat up slowly. She looked at him in the dim light of the room.

“What the hell was that?”

“An explosion,” King said. He pulled on his trousers and hastily buckled his belt. “A grenade, I think…”

Caroline was out of bed now, rummaging through the pile of clothes to find her trousers. “How can you tell?” she asked but didn’t wait for the answer.

King said nothing as he pulled on his shirt and sweatshirt hoodie. Caroline had flicked on the bedside light and he found his socks and boots. He debated whether to get into his snowsuit but decided on his thick ski jacket instead. He made for the door but did not pause at Caroline’s protestations. He worked the lock, and as he opened the door, he could hear shouts and screams coming from the floor below and the other end of the corridor. Caroline caught him up as he reached the staircase. The shouts were growing louder, more frantic.

“It’s an attack!” Caroline exclaimed, her face ashen. She had lost her former fiancé in a terror attack and the noise and shouts of fear and desperation had struck a chord with her.

King didn’t pander to her. He was automaton, absorbed in the situation. He had his pistol in his hand and was edging his way down the stairs. He met the manager head-on, who froze when he saw the gun.

“There has been a bomb, an explosion!” He tried to ignore the pistol, but his eyes still couldn’t quite leave it. “Everybody is to meet outside in the grounds, beside the hot tubs.” He edged past King and ran up the staircase. At the same time, the fire alarm sounded and filled the air with its shrill uncertainty. King had noted the fire alarm meeting point on the list of health and safety initiatives fixed to the back of his room’s door.

King bounded down the rest of the stairs but pocketed the pistol as he reached the lobby. The owner, Huss, was standing behind the desk watching the guests and staff alike make their way outside; some wearing snow clothes, others wrapped in blankets. The man seemed indifferent – neither authoritative and in control, nor caught up in the shock – and his sharp features and narrow eyes made him look hawk-like and predatory against the vulnerability of the terrified guests. To the side of the desk, a tall, thin man with a hooked nose looked on. King had noticed him earlier, noted he had sounded Russian.

Walking past the entrance and to the other side of the foyer, King bypassed the reception desk and made his way towards the entrance to the ice hotel, where staff members were gathering and putting