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

groin was already flared, and the brain was sending endorphins to numb the area. Another kick to the same place, and the effect would be partially anesthetised. The kick to the knee sparked a whole new experience, and the brain would already be struggling to prioritise. King dropped his heel onto the man’s instep, and Huss went down not knowing where to hold or comfort, his survival instincts overtaken by three areas of excruciating pain. King sat up, picked up the wrench and struggled to his feet. He looked down at Huss, raised the weapon above his head and raked it down onto the man’s knee. There was a crunch of bone shattering and the man wailed, his entire body clenching before he writhed on the floor.

King was angry. He didn’t appreciate somebody trying to kill him, but he had been given enough time to make the decision to wound the man in front of him and not drive the wrench deep into his skull. Timing was everything, and he had been given enough time. He looked around the hut, found a length of rope and snatched it up.

“Who are you working for?” King asked, looping the rope into the start of a slipknot.

Huss grit his teeth and sucked through the pain. “I’m not,” he grimaced. “Not willingly, at least.”

King bent down and slipped the rope around one of the man’s wrists. He pulled him over, yanked the other arm behind his back and fastened both wrists together. He pulled Huss to his knees and pressed him to the floor through his shoulders. The man screamed as his knee took up pressure, and he gave him a moment to counter the pain.

“What do you mean?”

“My family,” Huss winced. “They’ve got them under watch in Helsinki. If I don’t cooperate, they will kill them.”

King hesitated for a moment but looped the rope around the man’s neck and trailed it back to his feet. He cast another slipknot, looped it around the man’s ankles and pulled tightly. Huss grimaced, then sobbed. He was bent unwillingly into the foetal position, before King tested the gap around his throat and neck. Satisfied that the man was going nowhere, and if he tried he would tighten the rope around his own neck, King stepped back and leaned against the desk, his head feeling light and verging on dizziness.

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Huss said. He was clearly in pain, but it would be easing. Well, all but the shattered knee. That would smart for a while yet. The hog-tied situation he found himself in was a more immediate problem for him. “They send pictures of my daughter on her way to school, of my wife when she goes to the gym. I am up here all winter and they have told me to tell my family not to visit, but to stay down in the city.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“In my inside pocket.”

King retrieved it and looked down at him. “Passcode?”

“One-zero-nine-four.”

King got into the phone and studied the texts. There were plenty, but nothing suspicious. He looked at the call lists. One recent in-coming.

“What did you tell them?” King asked.

Huss hesitated. “That the side exit was safe, the front entrance too. That your force numbered five and that my staff were to be spared at all costs.”

An explosion sounded and although they did not feel the rumble of the detonation, the noise was enough to cut out the howling wind for a few seconds.

“And does that sound like they give a shit about your staff?” he asked, picking up the assault rifle.

Huss tried to shake his head. “No,” he said solemnly. “It does not…”

72

Caroline led the way, scanning in front of her through the tiny sights of the Makarov pistol. Marnie was tucked in closely behind her. She carried a can of the bear spray. It was more like a weed-killer gun with a co2 canister screwed into the bottom. The manager had informed them that it had a ten-metre range and was good for four shots. Ramsay followed, the pistol held towards the floor, his finger off the trigger. Rashid stood behind Natalia and brought up the rear. He reached around her and tapped Ramsay on the shoulder and passed him the rifle.

“Sorry, mate, but I’m taking that.” He took the pistol out of Ramsay’s hand and the man took the rifle more out of reaction than choice. “You get behind me and carry that for me.”

“What? I’m your bagman now?”

Rashid smiled. “Bagman, side-kick, that sort of thing…” He eased Ramsay back by his collar and aimed the pistol over Caroline’s right shoulder.

“Consigned to carry your equipment?” Ramsay said indignantly.

“Well, when you’ve put twenty-thousand rounds onto targets in the Killing House at Hereford, or half-million rounds down the range,” Rashid paused. “Or a couple of thousand on the battlefield, then you can argue who carries the most suitable weapon and who carries the spare kit…”

“Boys, boys, boys,” Caroline chided. “Now isn’t the time. Whoever is covering, peel off and check the stairwell as I make my way down.”

Rashid did just that, using the gap between the staircases to take up aim.

Ramsay looked at the rifle in his hands. “Is this ready to fire?”

“Yes, but I’d rather you didn’t. There’s only three rounds left…”

“Oh, I’ll just fling myself in front of the bullets if you like…” He shook the rifle. “Use this as a bloody club!”

“That’s good of you, thanks.” Rashid grinned. He looked past Ramsay and said, “We’ve got company…”

The chef and the waitress were running down the corridor towards them. They had been told to take cover under the beds in a room at the rear of the hotel but had clearly had a moment of panic.

“We’ll come with you!” the chef shouted. “I’d rather take my chances outside than