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

But the one thing Caroline Darby promised herself, that kept her going - perhaps more so than even the slim chance she would ever be free, to see the man she loved, her family or her friends again - was that before this ended, in whatever way fate dictated, she would make the man hurt a hundred times more.

6

Biarritz, France

“We have a saying in the Urals, where I grew up,” Sergeyev paused and sunk his Scotch in one mouthful. He did not grimace at its bite, but thoughtfully studied the remnants, the droplets of amber liquid running inside the glass. “You cannot negotiate with a wolf, while your balls are still in his mouth… but you can still kill him, if you care not for your own fate.”

“There’s a saying on the estate where I grew up,” King said. “It’s about shit and being full of it. Right now, your wife and daughter are being held. You are a tough and resourceful man, I get it. You took control of the brotherhood. And you did it by being a ruthless son of a bitch. Here’s the reality check. There is always someone more ruthless, tougher and more resourceful. He’s sitting here, drinking a beer and giving you one chance, and one chance only.”

“You are brave,” Sergeyev said. His hair was jet black and greasy. But it was product. He was sweating profusely, and the beads of sweat were trapped in the product. When they eventually ran, they formed thick rivulets. King noted that the man’s colour had paled. The man was not riding this out with as much bravado as he made out. Sergeyev wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I could kill you. Right now.”

“And never see your wife and child again,” King said coldly. “Let me tell you, tough guy… that would look good to your monkeys here. That would make you look tougher than just about anyone. But you will burn and freeze and ache inside forever more. And besides, like I said, don’t assume you’d win. And don’t assume your two monkeys will beat me either.”

“You are not armed,” the Russian said. “You’re very arrogant.”

King sipped some of his beer and shrugged. “I’ve been asked to kill you.”

“You’re an assassin?”

“I suppose. I’m not here for financial gain, and I’m not serving my country. Somebody is holding the woman I love prisoner. They have me in a corner. They want you dead, and I don’t think one death will cut it for them. So why the hell should I further their agenda? I want my fiancé back, but when this is all done, I don’t want to have helped the person calling the shots. I don’t want them to gain from this.”

Sergeyev thought on this for a moment, then clicked his fingers. One of the man mountains stepped forward. Sergeyev snapped at the man in Russian and he seemed to protest. Sergeyev pulled him closer and spoke slowly and hoarsely into his ear, and he seemed to think better of it, turned around and walked to the bar. “More drinks,” the Russian said. “I’ve ordered you another glass of that piss you are drinking…”

“Thanks,” King said, somewhat impassively. “You drink Scotch,” he commented. “I thought you’d drink vodka.”

“Peasant’s drink,” he replied. “We used to put garlic in the stuff we drank at home. It held the impurities which could otherwise make you go blind…”

King nodded. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said. “I need the lavatory.” He stood up and casually buttoned his jacket.

“Dimitri will accompany you,” Sergeyev said emotionlessly. “Just to make sure you don’t go anywhere before we’ve finished our little… chat.”

King nodded. “Of course.” He pushed past the hulking minder and watched him fall in behind him using the mirrors behind the bar. King walked casually, unhurried. He pushed the first door inwards, then when he reached the gents he opened the door, glanced at the Russian. “Are you coming in? I can’t take a piss with someone watching.”

“Tough shit.”

“Well, after you then.” He pushed the door wide and the Russian stepped inside.

King took a shuffle step and kicked the big man between his legs from behind. To be fair, the man had quite a package and King’s size twelve leather brogue had no trouble finding the target. The man gasped, but as he dropped, King was already on him with a right, left, right combination of punches to his kidneys. He was felled and dropped hard on the tiled floor. King had watched the lavatory door as he played blackjack and talked to Sergeyev. He knew nobody would be in here, but he could not account for who would follow and when, so he stamped on the back of the man’s head and drove his face hard into the tiles. King was already heaving his unconscious body into the furthest cubicle, the one that would give him more privacy. He bundled the man onto the toilet seat, pushed the door closed, then took a deep breath. He was lightheaded for a moment. The twenty-plus stone of muscle was dense and unpliable. King reached inside the man’s jacket and retrieved a nickel-plated Colt .45 pistol with mother of pearl grips. Neither classy, nor a practical combat piece. Nickle reflected light big time and mother of pearl had all the grip capabilities in combat - where palms can be sweaty, and fingers seem numb - of a wet bar of soap.

The weapon was a solid design though, and King had used the big Colt many times before. He was always happy with the slow travelling, hard impacting .45 round. Usually a one shot, one drop weapon. He checked it over, saw that it was chambered but not cocked. A big mistake for the single action pistol. Safe to carry, but the hammer would have to be