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

the lounge. He sounded Russian, but she already knew he was. She looked back at the other man, who was edging towards her. He kicked out and she blocked it with a forearm sweep and she dashed forwards and jabbed a punch into his sternum. He gasped again, but swung a wild punch which slammed into her jaw. She fell backwards, and the man stumbled forwards and half tripped, half threw himself on top of her. She screamed and struggled but he was muscled and overweight and felt like a tonne weight on her.

The man in the doorway started laughing. “Very good, Giorgi!”

The man named Giorgi caught hold of Caroline’s wrists and pinned them to the floor.

Amanda got up unsteadily. She was shaken, her lip bloodied and starting to swell. She looked at the scene on the floor and then at the man in the doorway. “Viktor, what are you going to do with her?” she asked. “They’ll know she was here.”

Viktor Bukov grinned. He was still watching the man on top of Caroline. Her legs had shifted during the struggle and the man was now lying between them. Caroline was struggling, but she wasn’t strong enough to get him off, or get out from underneath him. “Giorgi,” he chuckled. “Do you want us to leave for a few minutes while you have your way with her on the floor? Give you two love birds some privacy?”

Giorgi struggled a hand free, pinned her wrist with his other elbow, then smashed his fist down onto the side of Caroline’s jaw. She smarted for a moment, then her eyes lolled, and she passed out. He looked back at Bukov, breathless, his brow damp from sweat. “No, I’m okay now. Phew! That bitch put up a fight!” He rolled off her and got to his feet. He tucked in his shirt and adjusted his leather bomber jacket. He wiped his brow with the back of his heavily tattooed hand.

“I said, they’ll know she was here,” Amanda repeated. She dabbed her lip with a damp tea-towel. “You need to move her,” she said. “And I need to get someplace else to create an alibi.”

Viktor Bukov shook his head. “Forget it. Moving her out of here in daylight is going to take all three of us. We’ll need bedsheets or blankets, and a roll of duct tape. And we’ll have to hurry, somebody will miss her before long.”

“What about me?” Amanda asked. “I can’t leave yet, I need to see my report pushed through.”

“If she was here, your report is as good as worthless.”

“But…”

“Get packed!” said Bukov. “You were going to disappear after this. What’s a few days early?”

“It will look suspicious.”

“It’s too late for that,” Bukov said coldly. “Damage limitation is all we can hope for now.”

47

 

Sir Hugo Hollandrake had just met with the Prime Minister. He had the PM’s ear, and she had been easily swayed by him in the past. He had recommended that the search for the ringleaders behind Anarchy to Recreate Society, and the investigation into Sir Ian Snell’s death be handed over to Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. He expected the handover to be confirmed by the end of the day.

He sat back in the sumptuous leather of the Jaguar XJ. He would be Prime Minister soon. He was certain of it. He already had names he could call on, people indebted to him, or scared of what he knew of their past. They would back him without question. Politics was a house of cards, and he owned the entire bottom tier. Nobody at the top could stand without a foundation. Hugo Hollandrake had been told this as a fresh-faced civil servant thirty years ago, and he had never forgot it. He had spent his life coaxing and owning people. He hadn’t called in many favours over the years, but he soon would.

The Jaguar pulled in along the side of the pavement outside of Whitehall. His bodyguard was already out and moving, he approached the Home Secretary’s door from behind, opened it when the driver released the central locking in time with his movements. He used the door to protect the minister from one side, and his body to offer cover from the other. Hollandrake exited and the bodyguard followed two steps behind and a step to his right. They were good security drills. He saw the minister all the way up the steps, past the armed police officer on the door, and into the foyer. The bodyguard peeled away.

The offices were secure, security was a preventative, not restrictive operation. Hollandrake walked on, his bodyguard replaced by a PA, who talked animatedly as they walked. She handed him a file, nodded to his request of coffee and peeled off at the top of the staircase and Hollandrake walked to his office. The PA would normally occupy the front desk and Hollandrake walked on through and opened the fire door, which because of a security refit, was a self-closing, solid wooden door with tight seals.

The door had closed before the Home Secretary saw King seated behind his desk. He dropped the file and papers slid out across the floor. He did not look down at them, nor attempted to retrieve them, merely stared at King, mouth agape. He seemed to realise this, closed it suddenly.

“Do take a seat,” King said.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “Get the bloody hell out!”

King shrugged. “That’s not happening anytime soon,” he said. He leaned back in the leather chair, swivelled it slightly from side to side.

“How did you get in here?”

“Practically in my sleep.”

“What do you want? I thought I told Amherst you were done. Is that it? You’re here to get even with me?” he asked, incredulously. “Pathetic. You’ll do time for this. Threatening a member of the cabinet? The Home