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

and watched Viktor Bukov bleeding out. There was no top to his head, but his heart must have still been beating rapidly as the blood ebbed and flowed.

The rifle had tilted upwards as Bukov had slumped over the shoulder stock. Rashid could see the man’s feet trembling. The left foot, so much so, that for a moment, he was tempted to take another shot and see if it made a difference. But he’d been there before. Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. Other places the SAS had sent him. He’d seen worse.

He ran a hand through his jet black, slightly greasy hair. He’d been in position for over twenty-four hours and realised he could do with a shower. He’d used up his thermos and eaten his sandwiches. He had been nibbling on digestives and sipping bottled water for most of the day. King hadn’t said how long he would be there, but he should have known. The last time he’d listened to him, his hands had been bound and he had very nearly been the star of a beheading video.

He had chosen his firing position after he had scoped out the best position to take the shot at Bashwani. Rashid was a supreme sniper, one of Hereford’s best. When he staked out the roof, decided that it was exactly the place he would have taken the shot, he had then chosen his position. A taller building to the west. With the setting sun on his back and a decent elevation. A shot of three-hundred metres with the Accuracy International 7.62mm rifle and the 7.62x51mm extra heavy 28g soft-nosed bullet.

Rashid looked at the scanner beside him. He had been able to fix on Bukov’s mobile, intercept the text message in time. He would admit it had been close. But this was an unofficial operation. He had agreed when King approached him. Partly because it intrigued him - King was a maverick, and he liked the MI5 man with his SAS past - and partly because he lived for this sort of thing. The chance to take down a former Spetsnaz soldier on a rooftop in London, while saving an oblivious billionaire businessman? Pitting his sniper skills against a man reputed to have killed a man at six-thousand metres? King had Rashid within the first minute.

Rashid packed up the scanner and then quickly and efficiently stripped down the rifle. When he had everything squared away, he texted King.

It’s done. You owe me a pint…

51

 

At first King had thought the text message had been from Caroline. He checked it, disheartened, but also pleased Rashid had come up trumps. He knew the man would. He hadn’t had much contact with him since they had worked together a year before, but they had hit it off and formed a tight bond, like many who fought alongside each other, and in such a brief time. He knew Rashid would do anything for him, but he also knew he would also do the same for the young SAS officer. The first Pakistani and Muslim officer to have led an SAS unit in a warzone. Rashid had later infiltrated ISIS and even taken up arms against the US-led Iraqi army to maintain his cover. In King’s view, Rashid was hardcore and as good a soldier as he had ever met.

With no news from Caroline, King had been concerned enough to seek out the watcher team that had earlier put Amanda Cunningham under surveillance. Normally he would have backed off and left her alone. That had been their rule. But this felt different somehow. This was Amanda Cunningham, and nothing would surprise him, after what he had witnessed in Amherst’s office.

The lead surveillance officer was on route and he wasn’t happy. King could care less, hadn’t pulled his punches on the phone.

His phone chimed, and he took it out. He saw it was Ramsay. He had forwarded the photographs of the letters Caroline had sent him. He hadn’t seen why she had sent them, but he had forwarded them higher up the chain. Ramsay was a doer, and King trusted him. He had texted back with Amherst’s revelation and told him that he was to consider Hollandrake and Amanda Cunningham in total collusion. At least until an expert could verify the writing and initial in the photographs of the letters. Ramsay had not seen Caroline, had checked with Mereweather and Director Amherst, but nobody knew anything. Caroline’s whereabouts was unknown.

King responded to Ramsay’s text. Told him where to meet and what to bring.

King thought more about the curious Amanda Cunningham. There had been niggles, things that she had said that didn’t ring true. King was certain she had said she was staying in Truro, but then she had turned up for breakfast in Falmouth. And King had not told her that his windscreens had been shattered, merely that he had suffered car trouble, but she had asked if the company had fixed his windscreen. Could she have been involved? In cahoots with Helena Snell and Viktor Bukov as well as Hollandrake? King was certain of it. But he did not yet know to what extent. Falsifying pathology and forensic reports, or something altogether darker?

 He stepped forwards, his foot crunching on the gravel. He withdrew, placed it back on the soft earth of the garden. There were no lights shining within. He drew the Glock 9mm and held it loosely by his side. He was about to ease around the garden to the path, but changed his mind. Something told him he was running out of time. Or at least, Caroline was. He stepped out, crunched across the gravel and strode up the steps. He reached the door for number three. Amanda Cunningham’s home address. He tried the door, then stepped back a pace and drove a front kick into it, just below the lock. The door didn’t give. Not a bit. But