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

action. If he managed to hit the hull, then it would sink to the bottom of the fjord.

King saw the man reloading from a canvas satchel. He was closer now, and he could see the man had at least one more rocket after that. He pressed on the throttle and the snowmobile tore off, accelerating savagely and throwing a rooster tail of ice twenty-feet into the air.

Colonel Rechencovitch shouldered the launcher, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. His body had taken the bullet from King, but his ballistic vest had taken the rest. The shot that had found its way through the seam of the vest had gone through, but he knew he would likely bleed to death before long. His clothing was soaked in blood, he could feel it congealing on his snowsuit, yet feel the wetness creeping over his skin underneath. The fragments of bone had nicked an artery. No matter. He would finish the task assigned to him, and his record would go unblemished. It would never be made public, but both Spetsnaz and the GRU would know, and his legend would live on. He watched as the snowmobile drew near. He didn’t want to waste a shot, but he couldn’t take another shot at the submersing vessel with this man coming at him. He crouched low, took aim and fired.

King took his thumb off the throttle and leapt to the side. The grenade impacted in front of the snowmobile and the machine was flung in the air in a shower of shrapnel and chunks of ice and landed back down on the edge of the hole created by the detonation. It started to slide into the water, its engine and manifold hissing as the cold water enveloped the craft. King had hit the ice hard but kept rolling. When he tucked into a crouch, he had the pistol in his hand. The man wasn’t where he thought he’d be, but was running on the ice, getting closer to the submarine as he reloaded the launcher. He tossed the satchel aside, oblivious to King, who had got to his feet and was starting out in pursuit. King fired, clipped the man’s shoulder and he went down. He scrabbled back to his feet, picked up the launcher, again ignoring King as he fired. The bullet caught the man mid-torso. He fell, but the ballistic vest had stopped the bullet and done no more than break a rib. He sucked air in, staggered to his feet again, but his aim was unsteady. He dropped to his knees at the edge of the hole in the ice. The snowmobile was half-submerged, hanging on by its front skids.

King glanced at the submarine. It was pushing forward through the ice, its coning tower carving a path through, still fifteen feet above the ice and dropping slowly. He looked back at the man, stubbornly ignoring him and working on the aim for his final shot. King aimed at the man’s head. His last shot. He fired, but the bullet clipped the man’s neck. The man swiped at the wound as if he had been bitten by a fly. He looked at the blood on his fingers, glanced back at King, then steadied his aim on the submarine.

King was running now. He closed the gap, threw the pistol at him but it sailed past his face. Enough to trouble his aim. King was diving through the air in a rugby tackle. He landed hard, barrelling into the man and pushing his aim off. The rocket launched and sailed off into the sky. King had hold of the man and they slid over the ice and into the hole and the freezing water.

Rechencovitch was thrashing about in the water. He wasn’t just shocked at going in, but incandescent that his final attempt had sailed harmlessly into the night. As if to drive the fact home, the grenade detonated on its nine-hundred metre limit and the darkness was briefly illuminated in its impotent glare. He caught hold of King, growling in rage. King punched and kicked, then rolled onto his back and every kick aimed at the man propelled him to the edge of the ice. One kick caught the Russian in his mouth, and his ferocious attack slowed and put some distance between them. King reached the edge and clambered out. As the Russian reached him, he pushed off him with his right foot and got clear of the water. He was shaking, but as the man reached the ice, he had enough strength left in him to hammer a fist onto the man’s clawing hand. King rolled over, staggered to his feet and looked down at the man as he tried again to reach the side. This time, King managed a boot and the man yelped, withdrew his hand and sunk under. He came thrashing back and stared at King. He knew he’d lost, and his glare said as much. He thrashed through the water, away from King and reached for the other side of the hole. King got there in time to kick his hands back off the ice and watch him go under the water again. He bobbed back up, clawing frantically at the water, but almost at once, he seemed to flounder and stop thrashing altogether. He stared at King, his eyes boring into him, but King’s eyes were the coldest the man had ever seen, and Rechencovitch took the sight of the man standing victoriously on the edge of the ice, his stare unwavering, to the bottom of the fjord, where death was waiting for him in the darkness.

74

 

The temperature was positively balmy compared to Lapland and London was clearly entering spring with fervour. Buds of green were springing from the branches of the trees lining the streets and mature daffodils filled the borders of the lush-looking grass in Parliament Square. The sun was low in the