The Asset (Alex King Book 10)

by A P Bateman

  “How’s it coming along?” Mac said quietly. He hadn’t spoken about it until now, but he had seen the look in Rashid’s eyes and there was a flicker of hope in his own. Goldie simply stared into space, oblivious.

  “It’s hard going,” he replied quietly. “Just hang in there, mate…”

  35

  Yosef and The Shepherd were flanked by nine men as they watched the black S-Class Mercedes pull steadily across the gravelled driveway and ease to a halt in front of the house. Built in the late nineteenth century as a vineyard, it had fallen foul of Italian occupation at the start of the Second World War as part of the puppet state, and then a succession of German occupation, partisan liberation and communist repurposing and then eventually, private liberation by the Albanian mafia after the collapse of the Soviet Union and its satellite states. The building had been modelled on a French chateau, but the vineyards had long gone, taken over by scrub and cactus and pine forest. Vines needed irrigation, labour and investment. They needed husbandry at the hands of experienced horticulturalists, not years of abandonment as the property’s occupiers drank the cellar reserves and allowed nature to encroach on a hundred years or more of design.

  Yosef’s brotherhood each cradled AK-74 assault rifles, some with folding stocks and others with folding bayonets. They looked an imposing sight.

  A black Mercedes ML SUV followed the luxury saloon and pulled a wide arc, facing back out of the driveway. Three of Romanovitch’s men got out of the SUV and took up positions. They made a show of adjusting their holsters, checking their pistols, but in this company, they were clearly outgunned.

  Before Romanovitch could show himself, a member of the Albanian brotherhood jogged over and sidled up to Yosef.

  “I have found the patrol,” he said.

  “And?”

  “Their buggy went over the cliff at the south end,” he said breathlessly. “They are all dead.”

  “An accident?”

  “It looks that way.” He paused. “Their weapons are with them, the buggy is burned out. I saw smoke and followed it. They must have got too close to the edge.”

  “Gregor being a fool again and driving like a racing driver, no doubt.” Yosef shrugged. “When we are done here, get it cleaned up. But now, go and tell them to get the prisoners ready for the exchange.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said The Shepherd, watching the man walk towards the chateau. “What are the chances?”

  “You are suspicious of everything,” Yosef replied, adjusting the sling under his jacket. The bullet which had killed his boss on its way into his shoulder had been removed, but it had taken surgery and twenty stitches, and it was yet unclear whether he had suffered nerve damage.

  “And I have the privilege of being an old man because of it.”

  Yosef nodded, smiling sagely. “Have a look around the grounds,” he said, still watching the S-Class with the blacked-out windows. “Take a gun and a couple of men with you.”

  The Shepherd shook his head. “I have my knife,” he said. “And I move silently alone.”

  36

  “There’s movement in the trees,” Ramsay said into his phone. “I have a good view from here. Three black Mercedes SUVs have parked in a logging track further down the road and men have spread out across the forest.”

  “How many?” Caroline asked.

  “Not sure. But I see a flash of solid colour every now and then, and there were three men walking in single file. I’ll say nine or ten at least.”

  “Has anyone remained with the vehicles?”

  “I’ll have to go and check. I’ll do a drive past.”

  “Well, be subtle about it.”

  “Subtle is my middle name.”

  “I thought it was Patrick…”

  “Funny.”

  Ramsay started the Audi and pulled out onto the tarmacked mountain road, which was narrow and only bore white lines in the widest sections. The Road led to North Macedonia and to Greece. They had chosen it not only for its proximity to the chateau, but for its tactical importance, too. Three countries, three different directions.

  He slowed as he passed the logging track. The vehicles all had tinted windows, but the windscreens were clear. He used his mirrors to try and spot if someone was inside but could not see anyone. He drove on past and when he was around the next bend, he slowed and performed a three-point-turn and slowly made his way back. The three vehicles were parked in a row. Ramsay pulled in and switched off the engine. When he stepped out of the car, he listened for a moment. The forest was quiet, and he could hear his own thudding heartbeat over the silence.

  Cautiously, he crept forward and crouched at the first car. He unscrewed the dust cap, then retrieving a silver ballpoint pen from his pocket, he worked it into the valve and let the air out. The hiss of air was surprisingly loud, and he was aware that it could probably be heard from a long way away. He wondered whether the trees absorbed the sound or echoed it more acutely. Ramsay worked his way around the cars, letting out the air in just the front tyres. Those were the wheels that did the steering, and being four-wheel-drive, he figured they would do a good bit of work as well. By the time he worked on the third vehicle, he had almost zoned out to the noise of the hissing air but was suddenly aware of a shadow. He glanced up and looked right into the man’s foot as it came scything towards him, catching him in the face.

  Ramsay yelped as he fell backwards into the dirt, still clutching the pen. The man was hitching up his shirt to reach his pistol and Ramsay struggled forwards and jabbed the pen into the man’s thigh. It punctured the heavy cargo pants and plunged two inches into the muscle until it hit bone. The man screamed, but Ramsay pulled the pen back out and got to his feet. He didn’t square off, didn’t work out a strategy. King had once told him that rage and speed was what would work for him in a fight, and Ramsay had not had one of those since his first day at secondary school. He lunged at the man, flinging himself inside the man’s guard, and as he took several rabbit punches to his back, he drove the pen deep into the man’s throat.

  Ramsay fell back onto the ground, the bloody pen still in his balled fist. The man clutched his neck, but the blood was spreading far more quickly than the man had any hope of staunching its flow, and he wobbled on his feet, staring angrily at Ramsay the entire time. When he fell backwards and crashed heavily to the ground, it was a huge relief to Ramsay, who scrambled to his feet, tossed the pen into the depths of the forest, and ran back to the car.

  He started the engine and tore out of the gravel track and onto the road, catching sight of himself in the rear-view mirror. He had tears in his eyes and had turned pale. He slammed the steering wheel with his fist. He was an analyst, a planner. He should never have been here, or on any of their missions. He felt ashamed having taken the man’s life, but relieved that he had lived through the incident, and as he thought about what had happened, he felt overwhelmingly guilty and further ashamed of his relief. He slammed the mirror with his fist, smashing it from its fixings and putting a six-inch crack in the windscreen. He would not mention this to anybody on the team. He had no desire to join their club.

  37

  Rashid had moved the ratchet four more times. He still couldn’t get his hand out, and in trying, he had closed the ratchet one click. Frustrated, but high on the knowledge it could be done, he had set back to work, his fingers raw from the work of getting the copper away from the lead, as well as aching from the awkward dexterity required. He could now hear footsteps approaching. What if they took him for another beating? They would snap on the handcuffs and release his own, putting him back at square one. What if they discovered the pick or wondered why his hand and fingers were so bloody? They would know what he had been doing for sure. In desperation, Rashid continued to work on the lock, feeling the ratchet give another notch. The footsteps grew closer, and Rashid grit his teeth to bolster himself and positioned his thumb and little finger together, took a breath and squeezed the two
digits together with his right hand. The thumb cracked and he gritted his teeth through the agony, panting through the pain as he squeezed the broken thumb enough to get the handcuff over his hand and set himself free. He tried to straighten the thumb, but nothing happened. It merely flopped loosely, the source of such unbelievable pain.

  The door unbolted and opened, and Shrek and The Runt walked in. They had not come to drop off food or water, nor empty the communal bucket each man had been forced to slide to one another with their feet. Which meant they had come to take one of them away.

  “Time to go,” The Runt said, grinning through broken, yellow teeth. “All of you.”

  Rashid and Mac shared a look. Could this be it? A bullet in the head and a shallow grave outside?

  Shrek held up the shackle in one hand and the keys in the other. He stepped towards Rashid but was caught off guard when he lunged towards him, rugby tackling his legs. The big Albanian recovered enough to whip Rashid across the back with the shackles, but he was already going down and Rashid was too invested, too focused to acknowledge the pain anywhere else but in his hand, and he was doing a good job of ignoring that. Shrek went down hard, and Rashid reached up and caught hold of The Runt by his scrotum and yanked him down into the melee. The Runt screamed, fell to his knees, and reached for his pistol, but Rashid was already upon him. He pounded him in the face but recoiled as he felt every bit of it through his broken hand. Instead, he grabbed the man by his ear and pulled him over him and kicked him towards Mac, as he concentrated on the ogre beneath him.

  Mac wasted no time and seated on his backside, he clawed at The Runt with the heels of his feet, pulling him across the stone floor towards him, using his legs like mechanical backhoes. Once the slightly built Albanian was close enough, he straddled him and clutched the man’s throat with his one free hand, gripped like he had never gripped before, and straightened his arm until it was rigid. He then leaned down on him and watched the life leave his eyes second by second. He was gritting his teeth, saliva drooling from his mouth, like a rabid dog as he used all his strength and willed the man to die quickly.

  Shrek had recovered and was overpowering Rashid, slowly bringing him closer to him in order to put a wrestle hold on him. Rashid kicked and fought wildly, resisting, but short on both energy and strength. The beast of a man got his forearm around his throat and Rashid knew he was running out of time. He flung his head backwards and there was a sickening, but comforting crunch as the ogre’s nose flattened against his face. Rashid did it again, and a third time, but Shrek had wised up and turned his head to the side. He fiddled with the shackles, then got the chain around Rashid’s neck and started to strangle him. With every ounce of strength Rashid lost, he could feel the strength gain in the man who was trying to kill him. He grabbed for something, anything – a flap of skin, the man’s groin – anything that would cause his opponent momentary pain or discomfort to buy him some time, but he was at a loss. The Albanian was twenty-stone or more, and he was as strong as an ox. Smelled twice as bad, too.

  Rashid knew all about the term, circling the drain. He wasn’t sure how it had come about, possibly the blood in the shower scene in the film Psycho, but he knew it was meant to describe someone about to enter the death throes, the point of no return. His vision was blurred, he couldn’t breathe, and he felt lightheaded. His hearing was starting to become impaired, every sound echoed and rang, distorted and unworldly. But, as he felt close to passing out, he heard a muffled sound and the beast on top of him fell forwards and rolled off him. Gradually his hearing, sight and breathing returned to him and he was aware of Mac’s booming voice calling him. He rolled over, the side of his face wet with blood, but he soon registered that it did not belong to him. He looked at Mac, who was looking at him earnestly and holding the smoking gun in his left hand. At his feet, The Runt was dead, his throat and neck misshapen, his head flopped to one side at an impossible angle.

  “Get the keys and get us the hell out of here, boss,” said Mac.

  Rashid looked at him and smiled. “On it.” He turned his attention to Goldie, who still stared at the wall, oblivious of what had taken place. “Goldie! Get to it!” he shouted. He got to his feet, tossed the bunch of keys to Mac and gave the Londoner’s foot a kick. “Get up, soldier!” Rank or seniority did not dictate who carried a liberated weapon, so he allowed Mac the privilege of carrying the pistol. He had enough problems with his broken thumb, anyway, so he snatched the keys off him as the man’s shackle hit the floor and set about unlocking Goldie’s handcuff. “Come on soldier, on your feet!”

  Goldie looked up at him, his eyes seemingly hard to focus. He nodded, got unsteadily to his feet and Rashid put his arm around his waist, moving him towards the open door.

  38

  The door of the black Mercedes S-Class opened and Romanovitch stepped out, his foot crunching on the thick gravel. He fiddled with his mobile phone, a cigarette pursed between his lips. He ignored the Albanian mafia boss, something that did not go unnoticed by the men of the brotherhood. Tension was taken up on the grips of the weapons and they looked to their leader, who remained impassive. Better to ignore a snub and pretend that it went unnoticed, than to take offence and do nothing.

  Romanovitch’s guards fanned out, but their weapons remained holstered. The Russian said something to one of them, then walked over and stood before Yosef, looking up from his phone.

  “I believe you have something for me…”

  Yosef smiled. “This was a winery, for many years. There are a great many wine crates in the cellar, but fear not, you will not be going home in them. I shall extend to you the courtesy you did not afford to my brother…”

  “Very wise,” Romanovitch commented, seemingly unintimidated.

  The Albanian smiled, although it was mirthless and thin. “I have the advantage. My men are well-armed.”

  The Russian nodded. “We do not want more bloodshed. Let us start a new accord. You give me the men you have captured, and I will increase supply and logistics by one hundred percent.”

  “Not forgetting the ten million euros bounty I put on them.” Yosef paused. “One of the men was killed. But in light of what you did to my brother, the price remains the same for three.”

  Romanovitch frowned. “I thought there were four.”

  “As I said, one of them was killed.”

  “And that leaves four.”

  “No, that leaves three.”

  “I see…” Romanovitch frowned and glanced at his phone once more, then typed out a short text. “Forgive me, but I have to finish ordering a hit on someone. A competitor who has outlived his usefulness.”

  Yosef smiled. “Business. It never stops,” he said. “Anyone I know?”

  Romanovitch sent the text and put the phone back in his pocket. “Yes, my friend. I believe you do…”

  Yosef’s head blew apart as the high velocity round hit him between the eyes. Romanovitch dropped to one knee and pulled out a tiny 9mm Ruger LC9S pistol and fired two shots at the nearest brotherhood member in the line, dropping him and aiming for another. The men had barely any time to react before they were cut down by automatic gunfire from the forest. It was over in just a few seconds and Romanovitch’s bodyguards stepped forward and aimed shots at the heads of the men lying either dead or wounded on the ground. The gunfire died down and when it became silent, Romanovitch stood up and walked back to the car. He opened the rear door and helped the passenger out onto the gravel.

  39

  Twenty-seven hours earlier

  The smell of the pine was almost nauseating. King could both taste and smell the heat of the forest, the warmth in his mouth and nostrils. He was reminded of hot summers on the southwest coast of France. The pine smelling so hot that he could imagine it about to combust. The ground was almost completely made up of rock, but for the thin blanket of pine needles and pine mulch beneath that. King watched as the first of the gunmen stepped out from a thicket of trees and crunched across the ground towards him
. He carried an AK-74 assault rifle with a scope attached. That made sense, considering the accuracy in which he had forced King to keep his head down.

  King stepped on the small Motorola two-way radio and ground it into the pine needles underfoot. If he was to convince them he was alone, the last thing he wanted them to find was a two-way radio. He had his hands raised slightly, walking tentatively out from the trees. He never went full surrender with his hands on his head, once you made that pose, the people holding the guns didn’t like you breaking it. Better to let them come up with the terms, and whatever they stipulated gave you an idea of how professional they were. Another man stepped out, and then another. Both carried assault rifles. Sure enough, all three had formed a triangle, decreasing in size with every step they took towards him.

  “Who else is with you?” one of the men said in half-decent English with a thick Balkan accent.

  “I’m alone.”

  “Bullshit!” said another. “We heard voices!”

  “It was my phone. I answered it on speaker by mistake.”

  The third man closed the gap and said nothing. Instead, he swung the rifle and the butt smashed into King’s jaw. He spun and fell to the ground, and the man jabbed the butt into his right kidney. King gasped for air, contorted in pain. He rolled onto his side, tucking his knees to his chest, and shielding his head with his elbows, but the rain of blows he was expecting did not come. Instead, two pairs of hands grabbed him by the shoulders and heaved him to his feet.