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

died down, and the cloud was now blocking out the sky to the east which gave some ambient light in which he had been able to view the destruction to the grounds. Many trees had fallen, and the once pristine snow was now covered with a thick layer of pine needles and twigs. King could not see any of the hunter force in the treeline, but the mortar rounds had ceased. King had rounded the ice hotel but would not chance the boobytraps that Rashid had put in place. He had entered the hotel from the main entrance and made his way down the ground floor corridor, where he had picked up the service stairs and started to climb. He had heard an exchange of gunfire and the unmistakable sound of one of Rashid’s IEDs detonating somewhere in the distance, and if he was not mistaken, a grenade from somewhere in the body of the hotel. He had resisted the urge to meet the gunfire head-on and continued to climb. He wanted to find Caroline and the rest of the team and the best place to start would be at the top of the hotel and work his way downwards.

There was no electric upstairs. The mortar rounds had taken out wiring as they had impacted and torn through the floors, taking an entire electrical circuit with them. The air was savagely cold, a blustery sixty-mile-per-hour wind still blowing ice crystals and debris through the corridor, the glass having blown out in most of the rooms. Some doors had been left open, and the wind cut through the corridor with savage effect. King paused, took a knee and pulled the snowsuit over his arms and shoulders. His perspiration had almost frozen in the fifty or so paces he had taken from the sealed service stairway. He stood back up, semi-shouldered the rifle. He had passed three rooms, the doors all blown off their hinges. The ceiling was hanging down in front of him, and the floor beneath was creaking under every footstep. He listened for movement, but the wind made that too difficult. Shards of glass dropped from the frames, shattered as they hit the debris on the floor.

King stopped as he reached a service door on his left. He stared at the floor, the discoloration on the carpet visible in the half-light. He stepped aside, checked the handle but it was locked. He bent down, touched the stain. It had frozen, but he could tell it was congealed blood. His heart started to race as he thought about Caroline. Then the same pang of guilt as he thought about the rest of the team. He stood back up and aimed a well-placed kick with the sole of his boot at the door beside the lock. It didn’t give, but after two more, the frame started to splinter. King stopped, caught his breath and checked both ways down the corridor. Satisfied it was clear, he lunged in for another kick and the door gave and crashed inwards. He brought the weapon up to aim but knew he wouldn’t need it. He relaxed his guard but was far from comfortable at the sight. He had seen worse, but that wasn’t something he’d never brag about. That was for him alone to live with, and the longest hours before dawn was when he thought about those things and sleep was a lost companion.

The Russian barman and waiter had been trussed tightly. Seated on the floor, back to back, their hands bound in front of them, their ankles tied together tightly as well. To stop them working their way free, they had a long length of rope wrapped around them, cutting tightly into their elbows and stomachs. They had been gagged, too.

The manager was sprawled on his back, unbound and frozen in the horror of his last moments. Most of his head was missing and had splattered on the Russians behind. King could see a ragged hole in the manager’s right hand. He could see how it had gone down. The Russians had already been captured and contained. The manager had been thrown inside the room. He would have been scared and panicked, unable to comprehend what was happening. Possibly more so when he saw the two men already imprisoned. But whoever had killed them had aimed the gun at the manager first and out of reflex the man had shielded himself with his hands, most likely begging for mercy. The bullet had travelled through the man’s hand and into his forehead. The Russians would have been terrified now, knowing their fate. A single gunshot to each man’s temple had turned this prison into a tomb and as the bodies ticked and twitched their way to stillness, that same person had calmly closed the door behind them.

King pulled the door to, leaving it open just a crack on stretched hinges and a broken lock. He drew a deep breath and shouldered the weapon again. Further along the corridor, the gallery walkway ended, and the north-facing rooms started. King couldn’t kick in every door he came across, but he stopped at the first open doorway and could see where Rashid had made his firing point. The bench, cushions and ejected brass on the floor. Four rooms on, and it was much the same. Another ejected bullet case, cushions propped up on a sideboard in the middle of the room. King hoped Rashid had found his targets. The man’s sniper skills were legendary in the SAS. Although not committed to paper, his antics were exaggerated in the mess and bar, not even Rashid knowing the proper distances anymore.

As King neared the stairwell, he heard a noise. Distant, but consistent. Footsteps on carpet, getting closer. He swung himself out onto the landing and lowered himself in a crouch with his weapon trained on the woman at the bottom of the flight of stairs. He recognised her as the waitress, and the