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

settled into an idle. He then swung his left leg over and stood with both feet on the right side of the machine. He worked the throttle gently and pitched himself out to the right. The snowmobile titled onto its side and he feathered the throttle as he drove it down the hill. Caroline walked beside him. She marvelled at the skill involved but did not say anything. She knew King would simply laugh and say it was luck.

The snowmobile pitched twice. Once back onto its skids and track, the other time it rolled, and King was thrown onto the ground again. He didn’t complain, but Caroline knew he was hurting. The fall at the top of the hill had damaged him. She would only know how much when they got back to the hotel and she could examine him.

Side by side, the two snowmobiles were junk. But they were identical models and as King studied the steering rack and pinion, he realised it was a straightforward nut and bolt job. He wasn’t a particularly skilled mechanic, but he was a practical man. The light was dim, and he had lost all concept of time. Constantly removing his gloves to look at his watch was impractical, but when he saw the time, he felt anticipation and regret. The coach would be leaving the hotel by now. Peter Stewart would be on it. A chapter in his life had closed. But it did not rest easy with him. Like so many pivotal moments in his life, he knew chapters could be rewritten.

53

 

As Vasily Rechencovitch looked down at the body on the ground, the blood frozen solid and the mass of brain and bone and blood that used to be the man’s head, now crystallised in the cold, he couldn’t help thinking he had paid his penance from earlier. From alerting their quarry with his enthusiastic volley of gunfire.

The sniper on his team was laying prone next to the body. He rested in some of the blood, but it did not seem to bother him. As he got to his feet, the blood peeled away from the ice crust like a crimson-coloured pancake. It reminded the Colonel of cloud berry crepes and he realised he was hungry. He watched as the man used his mobile phone to zero in on the angle. An architectural app that measured distances, angles and worked out geometric values.

The sniper stood up and looked at Rechencovitch. “I reckon two-hundred and fifty-metres max.” He pointed to the corpse and shrugged. “Calibre is anyone’s guess, but I’d say from the point of entry it was a thirty. Three-oh-eight or thirty-oh-six, maybe. It was a soft-nosed hunting round for sure.”

That accounted for there being only the fractured forehead in place. Everything else was missing.

“So, a shot uphill from those trees?” Rechencovitch pointed down the hill. “That’s quite a turn of events, considering our man had the high ground.”

“Whoever shot him knew he was coming,” the sniper paused. “Or at least, knew someone would be coming.”

“Why?”

“They put out markers. Like the British did in established battlefields. The American War of Independence, the Zulu uprisings and Arabia.” He pointed to the row of sticks at twenty-metre intervals. “This was a confirmed rendezvous. The sniper had time to set himself up.”

“A pro, then?”

“As good as it gets.”

Rechencovitch nodded. “Well, let’s get down there and see what else we can find.”

54

 

“So, she’s in a room now?”

“Yes. I’ve charged it to your account.”

“Naturally.”

“Don’t worry, it’s too early for the minibar to take a hit.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Ramsay paused. “And I noticed mine is empty.”

“Not the time to talk about your problems.”

Ramsay ignored the quip. “What is she like?”

“About thirty, attractive but had a hard life, I’d bet.”

“I meant; her state of mind.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” replied Rashid. “But I’d say she’s shit-scared. We ran into some problems. She was being hunted. Numbers and specifics unknown, but I got the person shooting at us.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

Ramsay cupped his head in his hands, then rubbed his temples. He looked back at Rashid and said, “Is there a trail?”

“The body is still there. I had the asset and decided to exfiltrate. But I imagine, like Fitzpatrick, the wolves will be on it soon.”

“Lovely,” Ramsay said sardonically. “What about King and Caroline?”

Rashid shrugged. “I phoned King, told him my rendezvous was in play. I cleared out before he could meet me. I imagine he’s on the way back.”

“And Caroline?”

“No idea. But I presume King would have contacted her to reiterate.”

Ramsay picked up his coffee and nursed it in his hands. “Okay, good work. And the asset is secure?”

“They’re old fashioned locks. I showed her to her room, locked the door behind me. She’s secure. But I said I’d return with food and coffee for her. I said she should clean up and expect a meeting with you within the hour.”

“Fair enough,” said Ramsay. “Go and get changed, then wait with her. Send for room service if she wants anything. I’ll contact London, then make my way over. What’s the room number?”

“Three-thirty-three.”

“An omen, perhaps?”

“What do you mean?”

Ramsay looked thoughtfully into his coffee cup. “Times three-three-three by two and it’s the devil’s number. Six-six-six.”

Rashid nodded. “You’re right…” He scoffed, smiling when he saw that Ramsay had taken his reply as enthusiastic agreement. “And if my auntie had a dick, she’d be my uncle…”

55

 

King pulled the snowmobile into the trees and switched off the engine. He kept his eyes on the horizon, a dull and monochrome hue in the distance, surrounded by trees on both sides. They had been travelling down a wide clearing, which he had earlier realised was in fact a river. The water had frozen