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

18

Tuscany, Italy

King looked at himself in the rear-view mirror and smiled. He had learned the importance in maintaining a sense of humour in life. It had got him through tough and desperate times. The fact that Caroline was being held captive was always on his mind, but as he looked at the fifty-euro set of fake gold chain around his neck, worthy of Mr T, he couldn’t help wondering what Caroline would say. It was off-set wonderfully by the black T-shirt and black suit. King had used butter to grease his hair and smear it backwards. His head now stank of rancid dairy product, but he didn’t care. He looked every inch the Russian bodyguard. Every inch one of Nikolai’s men.

King had parked his vehicle on a narrow mountain road approximately half a mile downhill from Luca Fortez’s property. It was a tactical and practical decision. Exfiltration, and this one would be hot, was better made downhill. Less exertion, more speed – which in turn meant he would present himself as a more difficult target – and an uphill escape would mean that he would have to drive back past the entrance to the property.

King would have to skirt the property, hiking the steep hill for at least a mile and a half, before observing the property from above. He would then make his way down to the vineyard and enter the grounds to the property through the fence.

King found the walk uncomfortable. The late afternoon sun was hot on his back, the temperature a dry and draining thirty-degrees. The ground was arid, with the earth baked hard, and much of the terrain was sharp rock and loose shale, which made every footstep difficult, as he dropped backwards a few inches with every tread. The pine trees were scented and seemed to give off their own heat. He was using dead-reckoning, cursing leaving his button compass back in Scotland, simply using the sun and the mountainside as his directional prompts, although he was aware he could be veering drastically off course and away, or worse - head-on towards the vineyard. He had no friendlies out here, so as usual, he had left his mobile phone behind. There was no point in carrying it, and with the use of scanners, the phone’s signal could be traced simply by a pulse receiver. The phone emitted a signal wherever it went, and this could be exploited. The people using the equipment may not know whose phone it was, but they would know that one was in the area and could easily home in on it.

He had slung the crossbow over his shoulder using a belt and tucked the bolts into his pockets. It wasn’t an ideal way to carry them, but he had the sheath knife fastened tightly to his trouser belt and the flick knife in his jacket’s inside pocket and was not dressed in tactical clothing. The suit had started to tear, and he was both hot and uncomfortable, the excess butter he’d greased his hair with had started to run into his eyes. The macabre sense of humour in him just hoped he didn’t die out here and was left looking like this for someone to discover. A greasy-haired extra from a rap video with four-pounds in weight of gold-painted brass around his neck and a crossbow strapped to his back. The police would be scratching their heads for months.

When King had estimated the distance, he tracked across the mountainside and crouched low, listening to his surroundings. He took a 500ml bottle of water out of his pocket and downed the contents in a few mouthfuls. He wedged the empty bottle between some tree roots, and wiped his face with his sleeve, before taking out a crossbow bolt and standing up to cock the weapon. He tucked the bolt under the spring clip and kept the cumbersome weapon held in front of him. The going was much easier downhill, and he moved at twice the speed as his climb, taking care to watch the ground for loose rocks, tree roots and snakes. He had seen some big spiders, which looked like tarantulas to him, waiting patiently in the centre of giant webs, spanning five or six feet between the trees. He was sure they weren’t too harmful, certainly not lethal, but he didn’t want to put his face in one while he was watching the ground. He had to remind himself that he needed to keep aware not only of his footsteps and his immediate vicinity for natural threats, but to be ready for the human factor too. As he closed in on Luca Fortez’s property, he realised that he was approaching one of the most dangerous and untouchable men in Italy. His men would be armed.

And that was what King was counting on.

19

Dover, England

“Have they treated you well?”

Rashid shrugged. He looked at the man in front of him. The recorder had been switched off and all police officers had left the room. There were two cups of steaming coffee on the table in between them, and a plain manila file.

“There will be no charges brought against you. I’ve seen to that.”

“Cheers,” Rashid said, his Birmingham accent making it sound somewhat noncommittal, as he reached for the cardboard cup.

“That’s it?”

“What do you want? A dance?”

“Some gratitude would be nice.”

“I’ve got some bitchin’ blisters, you wouldn’t want a hand job…”

The man stared at him, then shook his head. “I can see why you and King are friends. You love authority too…”

“I don’t know anybody called King,” Rashid paused. “Is that what you are? Authority? Sorry, I thought you were just some prick in a suit.”

“I think we’d better start again.”

“You can start by telling me your name and business,” Rashid said coldly. “You’re a spook, that much is clear.”

“My name