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

cocked back before firing, unlike most semi-auto pistols made from the seventies onwards, where they could be carried with extra safety on a dropped hammer but would require twice the trigger pull on the first shot. After the weapon had fired, cycled and a new round chambered, then the hammer remained back, and an easier trigger pull was given for every following shot. And this weapon, although mimicked and even made under license by other companies, was well over one-hundred years old in design. And completely unchanged from its first patent and subsequent use in the First World War. Testament to its capabilities yet flawed in many ways by today’s standards. King got it though. The hefty weight and size, the appearance, the shine and bling. It was a drug dealer’s weapon, a mafia’s tool of the trade. It was noticeable and had most likely been waved in many faces as a warning. A taste of what was to come if deadlines were not met, if sales were not made and percentages not paid.

King checked the man’s pulse, tucking two fingers with a lot of force into the side of the man’s throat, pinching the carotid artery. He frowned, adjusted his position, then felt a weak thud. It was enough. The guy would either make it or he wouldn’t. He couldn’t worry about the little things. Sergeyev’s instructions to the other monkey had been clear enough. He would be outside, calling in the troops. The Russian had not assumed, somewhat arrogantly so, that King could speak Russian. King had spent a lot of time either in Russia or fighting their agents in secret wars. He wouldn’t pass for a local by any means, but he could understand and speak the language beyond conversational levels.

Sergeyev was a fearsome man. King could see that now. There was a reason he was still at the top, still the man running one of the most notorious of the Russian brotherhoods. A man willing to chance sacrificing his wife and child to remain top dog. He was hedging his bets on making King talk. Making him give up his wife and child, and if he did not, then that was the price he had been willing to pay.

King checked over the man’s pockets. He went through his wallet. There were a few cards and five-hundred euros. It would come in handy, so he took it, along with a spare magazine for the Colt. That still only gave him fourteen rounds in total. Not enough for a proper shootout, especially with Sergeyev’s men on route. King knew that the Russian had business interests in Biarritz, not least the casino. He would have to get out fast. But how? Casinos were like banks. Only with more security. He tucked the pistol into his waistband and adjusted his jacket, before pulling the door inwards and closing it carefully behind him. Once outside in the corridor he saw that the only other door was that of the female lavatories. Not even worth a look. The windows would be barred, as they had been in the gent’s. No, his only chance was to slip behind the bar as he re-entered the casino lounge and try to get down to the works of the building – the pot-wash, kitchen and beer-cellar or wine-cellar.

King eased the door outwards, looked directly at Sergeyev, who was standing in front of him. There were four burly security personnel on either side of him. All had a variety of handguns pointing at him. King was fast, and he was good. But nobody is that good. He glanced to his right, where the house security stood. Unarmed, but they were loving the turn of events. He figured they would get a bit of him sooner rather than later.

“Give me Dimitri’s gun,” Sergeyev said quietly. “Slowly.”

King reached slowly, as he was told, but even now, he was unsure which end to give the Russian. The muzzle first and a .45 bullet right between the eyes, or butt first and surrender? King had never surrendered before. He had been shot and captured, held and tortured, but he had never had to hold up his hands and accept capitulation. He eased the weapon out of his waistband. He could do it, was convinced he’d take down several of them, but it was a suicidal move. But he couldn’t abandon Caroline. Right now, he was her only hope of survival. Play the game he had been pulled into and look for the right opportunity. King held the pistol pinched between his thumb and forefinger, held it out carefully.

“Easy,” one of the armed men said. He stepped forward and caught hold of the barrel with confidence and familiarity. He twisted the weapon away from King and gained possession, before stepping back.

The unarmed men lunged forwards as one. A flurry of fists and elbows, but King was too akin to a life of survival to take a beating without a fight and reacted hard and fast, the men dropping around him clutching chopped throats, gouged eyes, broken noses and loosened teeth. King dodged and weaved and punched and kicked and with five men down, was starting to look like he could go all night and take on all-comers. And then he felt an impact between his legs and an indescribable pain through his testicles and his stomach. He dropped to his knees and took the slam to the back of his head. He fell forwards, rolled onto his side and saw the bulk of Dimitri in the doorway. The big Russian was holding his own groin and heaving for breath. He was pale and clearly pained, but he looked like he was pleased with his efforts. He’d certainly repaid King for the kick in the balls.

King gasped through the pain, struggled to get a breath inside him, as he watched the big Russian walk forwards and raise a size fourteen shoe above his face,