by A P Bateman
It was late May and the temperature was a comfortable 26°C. They had spent the first few days swimming and snorkelling at a secluded cove, walking along the marina and dining at a different restaurant twice a day. This was the first excursion they had taken so far and they only had two days’ holiday remaining. He hired the Opel Astra and promised to take her on a scenic drive she would never forget.
Port de Sóller was a curious town. On a Spanish island, it looked more like a town in the south of France. The French architecture was obvious, and by no means understated. The result of its people finding it easier to trade with France across the ocean, than to trade with the rest of the island on the other side of the mountains. The horseshoe cove was fringed by a dirty-yellow beach and a promenade that wound around the bay separated from the open-fronted restaurants and hotel facades by a tram line and regular trams running to the town of Sóller some three kilometres inland.
“I’m really hot,” Caroline said. She tugged at her wrap. “Fancy a dip?”
“Sure,” King said.
They walked down the slope and Caroline pulled the wrap over her head. She was already wearing a white bikini, and against her tan it looked magnificent. At least, in King’s eyes she looked more so. Perfect in fact. She kicked off her sandals and walked into the water, turned around and waited for him.
He tugged off his shirt and waded out. He was slim and toned, returning to fitness slowly. He had lost weight after the shooting, but was steadily rebuilding his muscle mass. He had lost over a metre of intestine and part of his stomach and now ate far less than he used to. The bullet had passed through, but required comprehensive surgery to repair the damage inside. His stomach looked as if a shark had bitten half of his torso, then let go. The scars had turned white against his tan.
They swam out, the mountains to their left, million euro yachts and powerboats to their right and the mouth of the horseshoe bay ahead of them. King drew her close, kissed her and they laughed as they started to sink and splash and were forced to break free of each other. They swam back and sat in the tiny shore break.
“I’m not hungry yet,” King said. He stood up and picked up his shirt. “Why don’t you chill here, take a decent swim while I check out the gift shops.”
“I’ll come.”
“No, I want to buy you a gift. This town is going to have some nice jewellery and things. Better than the typical tourist stuff elsewhere.”
Caroline smiled. “I like the idea of jewellery.”
“I’ll be back in an hour.” He bent down and kissed her tenderly. “Don’t go finding yourself a millionaire playboy while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try not to. Don’t be too long though, I can’t promise anything.”
King walked briskly down the promenade. There was no service on his mobile, but the last text message he’d received on the descent down the last part of the mountain pass into Sóller town had the target on site. King had read the message in the carpark whilst Caroline had paid for the ticket at the pay-and-display point.
At the end of the promenade he followed the road around to the right, crossing the tram tracks and past an expensive jewellery boutique. He noted to go in on his way back. Past the row of gift shops there was a bicycle hire shop which looked to specialise in repairs. King had seen many professional looking road racer cyclists on the drive, they obviously tested themselves against the arduous hills and mountain passes that had cut the town off from the rest of the island.
He saw the bicycle chained to the railings. It was a bright yellow Dawes. The saddle bags were made from lightweight fabric with zip fasteners. King bent down, opened the main zipper, removed the lightweight Beretta, the loaded magazine and the six-inch long suppressor, and distributed them in the pockets of his damp shorts. His phone vibrated. He had rounded the cove and was between two mountainous outcrops. The signal was intermittent, but had returned.
Four words.
Hostiles on route - hurry.
He walked the steep gradient. Cobbled street. His fitness was coming back, but he noticed his breathing was rapid and his chest pounded. Adrenalin, but also exertion.
Caroline had been helping with his fitness, and so many other things besides. After being discharged from hospital he had stayed with her and gone for regular physiotherapy, stomach drains and later for skin grafts to his hand. Caroline had helped him physically and they had helped each other emotionally. Caroline had been sent on emotional leave and had been monitored for PTSD. During the restructure of MI5 and the subsequent reviews and briefings both had been called to bear witness. Forester had left a file in his personal records running King as an unofficial agent for years. King had been remunerated and extended every curtesy, including private healthcare and an allowance during his recuperation. Like it or not, he was now with MI5.
The house was typically French, a southern style chateau. It was painted cream with terracotta accenting and tiled roof. The garden was mature, mainly potted plants or borders of typical Mediterranean appeal. It was May, so many of the species were flowering in colourful blooms of yellow, orange, pink and red. King stood back and studied it from across the road. He watched an ambulance crawl down the hill and park. The driver had a clipboard and was talking on his phone, while the passenger studied the houses on the hillside. They seemed unhurried.
The two men walked up from the port. Both were tall and lean and fit. Both wore their dark hair slicked back. They each wore a day sack on their shoulders. When they reached the chateau opposite, both removed the sacks and opened them. King pressed himself into the doorway. It was a residential building of apartments. There was an awning over the doorway and a few chairs scattered on the pavement. A place the residents sat at night and smoked and drank and watched the lights in the port or the glimpses of sunset out at sea through the opening of the horseshoe cove.
King inserted the magazine into the Beretta and screwed the suppressor into the custom-made bushing which had been fitted to the muzzle of the weapon.
The men both surveyed the street, cast their eyes over the walls of the chateau, then pulled their weapons out of the sacks and climbed the steps to the garden gate. King waited until they entered the property, then made the weapon ready as he crossed the road. He sprang up the steps and followed. The terraced gardens each had a patio or strip of lawn and a garden border with either chairs or sun loungers. The highest paved terrace led straight to the sliding glass windows of the house, the lowest featured the tiny swimming pool and alcoves of seating with pergolas above, covered in vines which were now in full growth and spreading their leaves to provide ample shade in the mid-day sun.
Vladimir Zukovsky sat reading a newspaper. His skin was red and peeling, and he wore a Panama hat to cover his head and face from the sun’s rays. He looked up at the two Russian’s, stared at their matching Glock 17 pistols with extended magazines. He placed the newspaper carefully down and raised his hands. King made his way silently down the steps and could hear Zukovsky pleading his case, quite desperately in Russian.
The nearest man raised his pistol. He did not hear the gunshot from King’s Beretta, merely fell into the pool as the bullet hit him in the head. The Beretta had made next to no sound and both Zukovsky and the second gunman were momentarily confused. King reached the terrace, held the weapon up just three paces from the gunman.
“Drop it!” he said. “Drop the weapon and you can walk away.”
The gunman had half turned, his pistol was pointing at the ground between King and Zukovsky. “Thank you,” the man said. “Thank you for the professional curtesy. But you do not know my employers…” He turned and brought the pistol up on King. The move was quick and well-practised.
King fired twice and both bullets hit the man in the face. He fell backwards and writhed on the ground, the pistol still in his hand. King aimed and fired once more and the man went still.
Zukovsky stared at King. “You?”
“It was always going to be.”
“B
efore you kill me, tell me what happened to my son?”
“You didn’t wait for him.”
Zukovsky shrugged. “I did what I did. What I had to do.”
“You set the timing device off, you thought you’d get the hell out of Dodge. You’d never have made it.”
“It was a mistake. In my haste, I set it on the timing meant for Al-Shaqqaf’s suicide bomber. Once it was set, there was no going back. I was hoping to lure you away from the bomb, let it run its course. Do you have my son?”
King stepped closer, keeping the weapon aimed at him. “Your son is dead. And that crazy whore Alesha Mikailovitch.”
“You killed them?”
“Alesha choked on the boiling sugar,” King looked into the man’s eyes. “I killed your son.” Zukovsky’s expression dropped. There was genuine sadness there, amongst the craziness. “Wasn’t worth it, was it?”
The Russian shook his head. “So now you kill me? Why not let my countrymen do it for you?”
King looked around. The two men dressed as paramedics carried the empty stretcher between them. They hesitated at the foot of the steps. One carried a medical pack containing the drugs and tape needed to subdue and secure Zukovsky on his drive to the private airfield where a plane was waiting. King looked back at the Russian. “Because you are going to tell some people everything you know about this invasion lunacy. And after you have told them everything you know, you will tell our American friends. And they’ll record and review everything you say and analyse it back and check for holes and lies and patterns, until you can only remember the truth and the lies fall away and the truth is all there is left in your world.”
***
Caroline had swum out past the buoyed-off area and to the headland beyond. She was now laying on her back in the sand, drying off and warming in the sun. King watched her. She looked glorious in her white bikini, her tousled blonde hair hanging long and golden. She looked around and waved. He smiled, she’d known he was there. Coincidence of course, but when one is so in love the coincidences become the norm. Something that only they would ever share. He walked down the ramp and kicked his sandals off as he stepped onto the warm sand.
“How was your swim?”
“Good,” she smiled and kissed him. “No millionaire playboys bothered me, but it’s early yet.”
“Maybe after lunch then?” he said.
“How was your shopping?”
“Good,” he smiled. “Couldn’t find a keyring in the shape of a penis that works as a whistle.”
“Damn.”
“But I found this.” He held out the box and she took it slowly.
“Thank you,” she said and opened the box carefully. She took out the ring and the sunlight caught the cluster of three diamonds and threads of white gold interwoven with the yellow gold. “What kind of ring is it?”
“Mainly gold.”
“Knuckle head,” she smiled. “I mean; which finger does it go on?”
“Whichever. But ring finger will be the best fit, from my estimation.”
“And which hand?”
“Whichever feels more comfortable,” he said, and patted his heart. “Here, that is.”
“I’d like the left, I think.”
King smiled at her. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Author’s Note
Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed the story. For those who did not know this was a sequel to The Contract Man, I hope it read well as a standalone novel. For those who did, I hope you like what I’ve done with Alex King and appreciated a few nods to his past.
We modern writers rely so much on reviews, Amazon in particular. I hope you can take a couple minutes to log on and leave a review and rating. It helps keep our work visible in a competitive market. Here’s a link that will get you there -
http://www.amazon.co.uk/A-P-BATEMAN/e/B00TIS48AI
I plan another outing for Alex King very soon. Either way I’m currently working on something. You can keep up with me on Facebook to find out what -
https://www.facebook.com/A-P-Bateman-438490282965204/?ref=hl
Thanks for reading
A P Bateman