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

King took a moment to adjust to the change of pace, but he blocked hard, striking the man’s forearms with his own. King was stronger, his forearms meaty and veined from years of doing multiple sets of press-ups every day and working through blocking and striking routines on a heavy punch-bag. His forearms were weapons and each block threatened to snap the man’s bones. The man recoiled, wincing as his pummelling was countered. He punched out, catching King on the chin. The impact of the punch had been helped by the chunky gold ring on the man’s middle finger. King felt the lights dim, ducked, knowing another punch could well knock him out, and when he came back up, he did so hard and with the thrust of a power-lifter, and with the man’s scrotum in his clasp. The man’s eyes were about as wide open as was humanly possible, and they made a good enough target, so King jabbed two outstretched fingers deep into the man’s eye sockets. The man screamed and recoiled, but lost his footing and fell. The side of his head hit the toilet with a sickening thud and the man went still.

King stepped back, but there was barely enough room in the confines of the lavatory and he felt the door give a little under his weight. He looked down at the man, but recognised the twitching right foot as his nervous system shutting down. The man was already dead. King cursed under his breath. He had wanted to question him.

King bent down and pulled the man up by his jacket’s lapels. He dropped him down onto the toilet and pressed him back against the wall to steady him. He checked through his pockets and found a basic phone and a money clip with a few hundred pounds in it. He pocketed both. He then took out the tracking device and dropped it into his shirt pocket. He picked up the knife, folded it and kept it also. Then he looked back at the body. He pulled out a long length of toilet paper, opened the knife and caught hold of the man’s right hand. He worked quickly, using the joint rather than breaking the bone and removed the man’s index finger. He wrapped it up in the toilet paper and put the bundle in his jacket pocket. He then used some more toilet paper to wipe the handle of the knife clean of his own fingerprints and dropped it into the man’s shirt pocket. He washed his hands, checked himself in the mirror and cautiously opened the door. There was nobody waiting. King shut the door, then turned his back on the carriage and worked his own knife blade into the lock. He used it like a screwdriver and removed the locking nut. The door was now jammed closed. It would only take someone using a knife or screwdriver to get in, but most people would simply complain and use another lavatory. In King’s experience, people seldom worked the problem themselves. He checked his watch as he returned to his seat and picked up his bag. The train was already slowing for the station and passengers started to gather their coats and laptop bags, shut down their laptops and pocket their mobile phones.

King was first out of the carriage and as he walked across the quiet platform he saw Simon Mereweather waiting for him. The man was impeccably dressed in a fashionably cut suit, but to King looked two sizes too small, and he wore the shiniest pair of brown Oxfords King had ever seen. They looked like they had a clear coat of lacquer applied.

“Got your text,” said Mereweather. “Where’s your guest?”

“Change of plan,” King replied. “Take me somewhere with a fingerprint database. Preferably one with Russian or East European links.”

37

“Have you spoken with Caroline?”

“No.”

“It’s not against the rules.”

“We have our own set of rules,” King said. He was looking out of the passenger window of the Jaguar. He wasn’t sure if it was a company car or Mereweather’s own. Charles Forrester, the previous deputy director of MI5 used a Jaguar, but after he had died, the bean counters had taken hold of the Security Service and fiscal streamlining had paired the intelligence service to the bone. Simon Mereweather was from a family of money, he could probably find MI5’s annual budget in a savings account he’d forgotten about.

“She made it safe and sound out of South Africa. She’s in the air now.”

King nodded. “She was lucky.” He wouldn’t have shown it, but he felt a rush of euphoria. His heart raced, and he felt he could start to relax.

“She shot her way out of there like one of our boys from Hereford would have. Or indeed, yourself,” Mereweather paused. “It’s a shame about the South African Secret Service agent and the prisoner. I guess we’ll have to see how much he told her before it all kicked off and we lost our only witness.”

“What do you mean?” King asked. “Caroline was abducted. What’s this about an intelligence agent? And what happened to the prisoner? She said she was alone in the bush when she called for assistance.”

Mereweather smirked. “You two really are pros,” he said. “I thought she would have spoken to you about it.”

“We have our own rules, like I said. We don’t trouble each other when we’re on a task,” King paused. He was becoming increasingly aggravated by Mereweather’s apparent delight at knowing more about her situation than King did. He didn’t have the MI5 man down as the type. He had noticed Mereweather around Caroline, the man seemed to show an interest in her, but King discounted it. He trusted Caroline, had no reason to be jealous. He wondered if the separate tasks they had been carrying out these past