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

He did not see any of Luca Fortez’s cars on the drive to Monteverdi Marittimo and when he reached the outskirts of the town, he pulled into a pine-clustered layby where there was a bank of general waste and recycling bins. He left the engine running while he got out and tossed the bag into the general waste bin and got back inside the vehicle. He paused on the side of the road, allowed the convoy of vehicles to drive past. He tensed, every fibre of his body on edge for no more than a second, as he realised the cars were Fortez’s. Two red Alfa Romeos led the way, Luca’s Maserati followed, with a new Lamborghini SUV and a Porsche Cayenne following closely, and another red Alfa Romeo bringing up the rear. All the cars had tinted windows, the darkest tint possible, verging on black. King had no way of knowing how many men there were, but he figured each car was rammed full of Italian muscle and a whole lot of guns.

He eased out behind them and followed. He was out-powered and had to work the gearbox and accelerator hard as the convoy snaked through the corners and into the town at over twice the speed limit. They veered off left on a mountain road King had not noticed during his time here, and the road was both narrow and twisted around a deep canyon descending rapidly. King realised he was down to just knives, and there would be enough firepower ahead of him to start and finish a small war. He kept his distance, tried to estimate from the satnav where the convoy was heading. He realised it was an alternative route that would snake around the mountain and come up onto the Russian’s rented villa from what looked to be a series of tracks from the south.

King pulled to a halt. If the Italians were going to attack the Russians, then they would be doing so from the low ground. Tactically, a poor move. He scrolled on the screen and brought up the Russian’s track that led off the road from Canneto to Monteverdi Marittimo. He had used the high ground to perform a reconnaissance on the Russian’s villa. He needed to see what was happening and he needed to place himself somewhere with a tactical retreat. If the Italians were not heading for the Russians, then he would just have to take his chance. He wasn’t about to blindly follow the Italians into a killing ground, and he wasn’t going to chance detection as he followed them on their devious route.

He drove back to Monteverdi Marittimo and headed straight through, barely pausing for the pedestrians. He was tired, still hot and thirsty, as he threaded the car through the series of bends and steady incline. He got caught behind a slow-moving hatchback and cursed as he did not have enough power or road to overtake, but he wanted to get close to the villa and get himself into position before the Italians got there. Eventually, the car turned off sharply for Canneto, and King floored the accelerator and broached the hill affording a glorious view of the sea with the sun low on the horizon. It was almost dusk. The perfect time for Luca’s men to attack.

King found the track he had used earlier and grounded the car over the rough lane, dropping harshly into the potholes and scraping the fronds of thorny bushes and the outspread branches of pine trees. He manoeuvred the vehicle around, so he was facing back out the way he had come, then switched off the engine. The silence was total, bar the ticking of the cooling engine. King got out and was instantly set upon by midges and the same type of horseflies that had terrorised him in the pool. He swiped them away, the best he could, but he was hot and perspiring and the insects had homed in on the only meal in the area. King rolled down his sleeves and reached back inside the car for the sheath knife. He slipped it onto his belt and checked he could draw it quietly. He then slipped the car keys under the driver’s-side front wheel arch and stepped out into the thick brush, taking careful steps down the steep mountain slope.

It was five-hundred metres to the edge of the ledge, which dropped vertically three-hundred feet or so to the bottom, and the start of another steep slope. The villa was clearly visible to the right of the slope on a plateau below. King could see the rutted track running parallel. Uphill would eventually meet the road to Canneto, and King could only assume that the track ran downhill to the road that the Italians had taken, just outside the town of Monteverdi Marittimo. As if to confirm this, King saw the first man edging uphill. Another appeared behind him. Both carried what King could only identify as ‘longs’. Too far away to see if they were assault rifles, hunting rifles or shotguns. A third, and then a fourth followed. They made their way up the track, edging closer but tentatively watching the ground either side of them.

King watched, voyeur to the assault from the sanctuary of the cliff edge. He felt strangely nervous. He had put a lot of stock into the personalities and traits of the two sides. He had the Russians down as professionals, and judging from their close protection performance, they had been far more switched on than the Italians. The Russians were ex-military, provided muscle and resources for enterprises like Luca Fortez had planned for the rival mafia families. And he had the Italians down as hot-headed, impetuous and able to muster resources at a moment’s notice. He just hoped he’d not read too much into what he had seen in the town earlier that morning.

Any doubt King had over