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

Bukov believed that he had done some good. Money had been off-loaded, given to the needy, and he had shaken the new world order to its core. The acquisition of wealth, of billionaire status, would never be the same again. He was proud that Helena’s plan had been realised. Proud to have taken a pivotal role in it.

Helena had come from nothing. She had been raped and abused by oligarchs on the Black Sea coast, handed around at parties, treated like a piece of meat and made to feel worthless. She had vowed never to feel like that again. She had moved to the west and soon found herself working in lap dancing clubs and on the books of various escort agencies. The same life, different location. But she had eventually found a man to take her away from that. Ian Snell had not been a ‘Sir’ back then, but he had been her way out of that life. She had contacted Viktor Bukov soon afterwards. The pair had been on and off lovers since their teens, but Bukov had joined the army, made it into Spetsnaz and rarely came home. When he did, the two would hook-up, and that had been their relationship ever since. Now that Helena had found her way out, lived a life of wealth and excess, she had wanted the one person who could make her both physically and emotionally happy.

Bukov surveyed the scene, studied the buildings. He knew Gipri Bashwani’s offices lay across the road to the east. That was good, because it would put the late afternoon sun on his back. Witnesses inside Bashwani’s building would unlikely see the muzzle flash from the big .338 Lapua Magnum with the sun behind it. They would not hear the shot either. The glass would be too thick. Other witnesses, those on the ground mainly, would hear the noise, but they would not see Bukov from his elevated position. He estimated to be on his way down to the street before the alarm was raised. In the car with Helena before any police presence was made.

He had already chosen his position. It lay in the lee of one of the air-conditioning units, approximately the size of a large garden shed, and constructed from sheet steel with a felt-lined roof. He laid down, opened the bag. He spread out the groundsheet, laid his sandbag on the edge. He positioned himself, tested it. Checked he was prone enough to remain out of view. Two-hundred metres distant he could see a figure inside Bashwani’s office. Bukov took out the Barrett M98 Bravo rifle and assembled the barrel and retracted the shoulder stock. The Schmidt and Bender 5-25 x 56 scope was already attached and zeroed to two-hundred metres. He took off the scope covers and rested the rifle down, the barrel making a steady indentation in the sandbag. He positioned himself behind the rifle, brought the scope to within two-inches of his right eye. Easing his head up slowly, he took in Bashwani’s frame in the sights. He made tiny adjustments, gradually brought the crosshairs up and lined them dead-centre on Bashwani’s head.

The Indian was talking animatedly into a landline phone. His tie had been loosened and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves. His suit jacket hung on the back of the chair. Bashwani was a doer, a man who led from the front and had worked practically every day of his life.

Bukov felt there could have been better targets, people more befitting the perception of  tax-dodging, corporate oligarchs, but Bashwani had been right up there in the wealth stakes and Helena had chosen him because of the practicalities. The man turned up for work every day. He was a creature of habit. But most importantly, he was a man who would take Helena Snell’s call. And that, unless Bukov was mistaken, was who the man was talking to now.

Helena was offering Bashwani a deal. A way for the software giant to get his fingers into the Goliath contract, via the backdoor. She knew the man had tendered for the contract, and she knew how much it had irked him that the government had championed GeoSpec from day one. Bashwani’s company would have provided the motherboards and guidance systems faster than GeoSpec, and for a far lower bid.

Bukov checked his mobile phone. There was no message. He rested it beside the rifle as he inserted the loaded magazine and worked the bolt action, chambering the .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge. He shouldered the weapon again, eased his eye back to the scope and sighted on the of the centre of the man’s chest. He was not confident of the bullet’s trajectory after breaking through the glass, but he knew it would not deviate drastically enough to be off target for an upper torso shot. Bukov was confident that he would get a follow-up shot. This would travel through the bullet hole in the glass, which he estimated would punch out ten inches or so of plate glass.

The text chimed, and he took his eye away from the man in his sights.

He’s on hold now, good luck, my darling x

Bukov smiled. He put down the phone and sighted in on the last man on his kill list. He could see that Bashwani was resting back in his chair, the phone held loosely while he waited for Helena to deal with an imaginary problem at her end. He eased his eye closer to the sight, checked the crosshairs, lined up on the centre of the man’s chest and took up some pressure on the trigger. He knew there was nobody better in this world with a rifle. The shot was his.

50

 

The gunshot was suppressed. Virtually silent. Nobody heard a thing. The figure in the scope slumped forwards, most of his head blown out by the subsonic 7.62mm bullet.

Rashid kept his eye to the scope