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

“I’ll be leaving around fifty euros up, so it’s all good,” King said. He watched the minder walk over with two glasses, but also accompanied by the other bodyguard. “And you’re buying my drinks, so it’s not all bad.”

Sergeyev glanced behind him, then smiled back at King. “So, which of the two scenarios will it be, I wonder?”

“Well, you’re going to need more guys. And I’ll get to you first. Don’t doubt that for a second. But I think I’ll take the third one,” King said coldly. “That’s the one where I’ve already boarded your yacht in the harbour, neutralised your remaining three guards and taken your wife and child to a secure location. That’s another scenario into the mix, and I think you had better shut up and hear me out.”

5

 

She had become accustomed to the chloroform. She fought like hell, her heart and soul in the fight, but the inevitable had become more acceptable. She feared that the noxious chlorine would get into her system and damage her internal organs, give her cancer. She knew of the side effects, possibly why when her fight was over, she relaxed more in a bid to take in less of the chemical, expose her lungs to less danger.

Her hands were taped behind her back – she had already escaped once, gnawing at her bonds and making it out of the first compound they had held her in – and now her captors were taking no further chances. She knew she was inside a goods vehicle, as it rumbled along the roads, and she knew that as they had travelled across Europe with impunity – and the EU Schengen Agreement would give them that – with no borders or security checks, there was little chance of her discovery.

They had held her in France initially. She was certain of that. She had drunk the tap water, eaten bread they had brought her. It was unmistakable. The bread in France tasted like no other. There was a crust to it, a softness in the dough that differed to other countries, and certainly British outlets that marketed their produce as such. She could concede that they had taken her to Belgium, but it seemed unlikely. Other food had been distinctly French. A simple stew of beef and potatoes, but strong on garlic, yet with no pieces in it. The French always crushed their garlic with salt, like the Italians only ever sliced. The Spanish chopped it, and their bread always seemed a day-old. In truth, she realised she had perhaps had too much time and solitude to contemplate such matters. But, she had heard French spoken in passing, and there were smells which had taken her back to childhood camping trips throughout France. Spain had always been a little mainstream for her parents, and France, along with trips to Tuscany and the Italian lakes had been her holiday destinations. Or at least the ones she remembered the most.

She had lost track of time. Not just the hours, or the days, but she could not recall to the nearest week how long she had been held. Her training was slipping. She had done the forty-eight-hour escape and evasion courses, been held and interrogated, sleep deprived, then given a pat on the back, a Mars Bar and a cup of tea when it was all over. It seemed so trite now, so utterly fruitless. Such a tough course at the time, but one that had paled into insignificance when compared to her situation. Surely this could not go on much longer? She thought of Terry Waite, the envoy to the Church of England, and hostage negotiator, held captive for 1,763 days, the first four years of which, were in solitary confinement. What must he have felt? The thought made her draw on her resolve. It wasn’t over yet. And she suspected, it wouldn’t be for quite some time. She would have to be ready for an opportunity when it arose. A toilet break, a meal, a wash. When the time came, she would do what had to be done.

She did not remember the night she had been taken. Not much of it, at least. An attempt on her life. She had been struck on the head and later drugged in the boot of a car. She remembered coming round, for what seemed an age – groggy, sick and nauseous. The effects of her head injury, the excessive use of chloroform and the exhaust fumes from the boot of the car. She had been locked in a dark room, not given food or water until she had been as desperate as she could have ever imagined. She knew she had lost weight. Her filthy clothes had been loose, and her insides had rumbled constantly.

A shop-bought sandwich had been thrown to her, along with a bottle of water, and she had feasted like a wild dog. She had missed the opportunity of escaping, the door left open too long, in favour of eating. It had been a low moment. One of degradation and disgust, and one of knowing she had missed her chance.

The next time opportunity presented itself, she had struck her captor, sending him to the ground where she had stamped on his groin and fled out through the open door. She had bolted, clueless to either the time of night, or her surroundings. She had been a few hundred metres later, lights from what looked like a village nearby, so close she could taste her freedom. She had been beaten then, bound sadistically tight, and kept under guard. The guard had touched her at night, when the rest of the building had been dark and quiet. She had resisted, fought him night after night, sustaining bruises and cuts as he had kicked her like a dog. The beast had been persistent, and her energy had all but gone to keep fighting. It had been