The Alex King Series by A BATEMAN (free ebook reader for ipad TXT) 📕

not want to engage in conversation, anything that would make him memorable. He pointed to a large military bowie-style knife, or what was increasingly called a tactical knife, and the man unlocked the glass door, picked up the knife and sheath and passed them to him.

King tested the blade for sharpness with his thumb, just enough for the blade to feel sticky. He turned the knife over, saw that the blade went all the way through the handle, what is called a full tang, and was happy with the three brass rivets securing it in place. It looked to be a sturdy design and well balanced with a fifty-fifty weight distribution between blade and hilt. The back of the blade was serrated, with an additional feature near the hilt, a W shape cut into the metal. He slipped it into the leather sheath and nodded. King noticed an array of flick knives, each sticking into a solid piece of cork. He reached in, pulled one out and checked it over. He closed the blade, then pressed the button and the blade flicked out and locked tight. He folded it, nodded to the man and handed it to him.

There hadn’t been much change from one-hundred-euros, but the man had wrapped them in tissue and placed them in a thick paper bag without seeming to take any notice. King walked on and after ten minutes he found the sporting goods store. There was an outdoor pursuit section with climbing equipment, canoeing and paddle-boarding gear and mountain bikes. King bypassed all of this and looked at the guns behind the counter. Tuscany was hunting country, with walked-up game birds and wild boar, as well as deer and small ground game. This all required a variety of firearms including various gauges of shotguns, and .22 rifles through to heavy calibre hunting rifles in 7mm and .30-06. There were also a few handguns under the glass counter. King suspected Italian gun laws would be like most of Europe and would require licences, home security and hunting permits. He didn’t even waste his time asking, but he did see the selection of crossbows hanging from the ceiling and he pointed to a rifle-style one that had 150lb written on one of the bow-limbs. The pedantic part of him wondered why it wasn’t in kilos, but he knew the poundage was a universal measurement of power. He had used a fifty-pound recurve bow for a while, thought it would be a good hobby when he found the time, and figured the crossbow would be three-times more powerful. The young man unhooked it and passed it to him. King shouldered it, sighted through the open vee and pin sights and eased on the trigger. He took it away from his shoulder and studied it more closely. There was a safety catch and he could see the locking system, along with a foot loop for loading. He’d find a tree and have a practice when he got back to his villa. He asked for some bolts, knowing they were not called arrows, and the young man nodded and came back with a pack of twelve. Just to be sure, King asked for another pack and paid in cash. Another crossbow had been supplied, packed in a sealed box, which came with a multi-tool for assembly and some paper targets. King paid in cash again, little change from two-hundred euros and carried it in the bag the store supplied, along with his other purchases, back to the car.

The drive back up the mountain took longer than King expected, there was no overtaking room and if it wasn’t clapped-out mopeds or motorcycle-pickup wagons with little in the way of horsepower and turning ability, then it was groups of Lycra-clad cyclists testing themselves on the twisty passes. It took an hour to get to his villa, just fifteen miles from Castagneto Carduci. It was a modest villa of two-bedrooms and a swimming pool set in well-tended grounds. King had taken it over the place he had been told to check into. He hadn’t even considered the pre-paid villa that his paymaster had booked. He needed to perform what was asked of him to save Caroline. So, he would do it on his own terms. He imagined a property bugged and tapped, wired and rigged to cameras. He was damned if he would give Helena that much control. She texted the target, the photo and left documents in the cloud. That was what he needed to get the job done. He wasn’t going to be her puppet. He was doing what he was good at, right up until he stood a chance to save Caroline, or he hoped, give her enough time to get control of her situation and get away. He had never met anybody more rounded, more capable. She was a force to be reckoned with, and she had proven that with her last assignment.

If only King could say the same about himself. He knew that Caroline was held prisoner because of him. Because of his sense of justice, his need to exact revenge. He had rescued Caroline, gone after the person who had attempted to kill her, but he should have done it differently. He shouldn’t have sought justice for her victims. He should have simply detained her or killed her. But he had wanted her to know, to feel what was happening, that what she had done had caught up with her. It had taken him away from Caroline, and it had left her vulnerable. Helena had exploited this in ways King would not have imagined. And now Caroline was paying the price.

14

 

King laid his purchases out on the bed. He did so meticulously, counting out what he had bought and making a note of anything else he would need. It was too late for rethinking things. Outside forces had aligned locations, people and opportunity. There was no better time