by A P Bateman
King heard the hiss of wind, ducked, and held up his hand. The knife sliced deep through the meat of his forearm and he found himself falling forwards, half by the impact of the blade and half by his own reaction to the surprise attack. He rolled and made it smoothly back onto his feet, but he had lost the pistol. He looked at the man in front of him. He was old and his hair was grey, but he looked wiry and fit and King would guess his life had not been easy. His eyes were cold and grey, and his brow was furrowed enough to hold a hand of playing cards in the creases. King realised he had seen the man with the Albanian leader. He’d put him down as a senior figure, but not the boss. An old hand. The way the man had used the knife, King now suspected he was a killer and enforcer for the brotherhood.
The man charged forwards and King darted to his left, snapping a roundhouse kick with his right leg. It caught the man in his stomach, but he was fast and experienced and stabbed King’s calf muscle. King grimaced. His arm was wet with blood and he knew the wound was deep and suspected the knife had cut its whole, and not inconsiderable length. King took out his own knife. It was a modest folding lock knife with a three-inch blade. It looked puny in comparison, but as he whipped it open, he saw a glint in the old man’s eyes.
“I am Galanis. They call me The Shepherd, but many from my village call me the Butcher.” He spun the knife in his hand and the blade glinted in the shafts of sunlight between the trees. In the distance there was the sound of another significant explosion. King reflected both Hellfire missiles had done their job, now the helicopter would be down to its gun. “I kill my goats for village celebrations. I can butcher an entire beast for the fire grill in twenty minutes. What do you say to that?”
King gripped the knife firmly in his left hand. His right arm was aching, and his grip was weak. He took a step forward. “I say you talk too much, old man. And I’ll tell you right now, I’m not a scared little goat.”
Galanis lunged forwards, whipping the knife in the air and slashing great arcs back and forth ninety degrees or more. King came in hard, but at the last minute he lashed out a front kick to the man’s abdomen, beating his reach, then swiped his blade across the man’s wrist. He yelped, but King jabbed his knife twice into the man’s bicep, then ran it across his side as he backed away. Galanis swapped hands with the knife. His confidence had gone, and he steeled his resolve, coming in for another attack. King swung his arm up and under the man’s attack, and when he blocked the knife across his body, Galanis’ left side was exposed. King stabbed but caught the rib bone and the blade deflected. The old man screamed, but he caught King across his left shoulder, the razor edge of the curved blade slicing a good two inches and half an inch deep. King darted one way, then another and as he faked a stab, he slashed the man across his forehead and stood back. The man backed away, too. The blood ran down his face, like a theatre curtain closing. He wiped the blood with the back of his hand, squinting to see through the blood in his eyes.
“I have used that cheap knife fighter’s trick, myself. Gimmicks will not win against me. I have carved up dozens of men!” Galanis panted, but he managed a thin smile. “You know, as do I, that only one of us is leaving here alive…”
King nodded. He bent down and picked up the Browning that was now at his feet, both men parrying above it. The difference was, King had planned it that way while Galanis was busy having a knife fight. He shot him in the face and turned around to head after Romanovitch, but almost walked into Alaina.
She was holding the Walther P99 that King had trained her with, then given to her before they had set out.
“Put the gun down,” she said confidently. Her weapon was aimed at King’s head, while his own was pointing to the ground.
King looked at Romanovitch. He was breathing heavily, his hand covering the wound to his side. He was bleeding, but nothing vital appeared to have been clipped by the bullet on its way through. King could tell by the colour of the blood, and how much of it the man was losing. King dropped the pistol for the second time in as many minutes.
“Surprised?” Romanovitch asked. “You complete fools at Interpol and MI5! How easily you can be played! You follow your emotions, never your instincts.”
King shrugged. “I do as I’m ordered.”
“But you showed mercy and compassion to a woman putting on an act. How easily you were manipulated. How you only saw what we wanted you to see!”
“I take it our mole in St. Petersburg is a double agent?” King asked, his arm throbbing and the blood running over his hand, droplets patting on the forest floor.
“Double, treble, I forget,” Romanovitch smiled. “But, yes, he works for me, not you.”
“And Vasyli?”
“Stealing from me. A great deal over a long time. He had to go, so better to use him in a charade than to simply waste him.” He paused. “Vasyli killed Alaina’s brother in a card game. I offered her the chance of retribution if she worked for me, played a part in the deception.” He touched her waist, and she smiled. “Amongst other things…”
King had witnessed the passion in her hate for Vasyli, the way she had stared transfixed at his body, her eyes locked onto the bullet hole between his eyes. It must have brought her great solace, or perhaps guilt. King reflected it was usually the latter. But whatever she had felt, she must have taken on her role like a method actor, substituting her love for her brother and her hate for Vasyli for an anonymous young woman and the mafia boss. He looked at Alaina and said, “Was it worth it?”
“Yes,” she nodded.
King shrugged. “And the real Alaina? Did she come in search for her sister? If indeed there really ever was one.”
“Oh, there was,” Romanovitch said before she could answer. “And Alaina joined her. Foolish girl.”
“And Draco?”
Romanovitch shrugged. “Collateral. Wrong time, wrong place. I’ll send his family some flowers.”
King stared at Romanovitch and said, “Is this about your brother?”
The Russian frowned. “My brother?”
“In Georgia.” King shrugged. “We crossed paths. I killed him. Sorry, I should have sent flowers.”
Romanovitch stared at him for a moment, then broke into a wry smile. “My brother was a bastard. I took over after he was killed. I should thank you. I now have all I could wish for.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“We need to go,” said Alaina, or whoever the hell she was, glancing at her watch. “Ten minutes until our lift to Bulgaria arrives. Let’s do this and get going. Do you want the honours?”
Romanovitch nodded. “I guess so,” he said. “For my worthless brother, because it’s what my mother would want me to do.” He took the P99 from her and aimed it at King’s forehead. “So long…” He pulled the trigger and the internal hammer clicked. “For god’s sake!” He snapped angrily at Alaina, took his hand away from the gunshot wound and quickly worked the slide backwards, his bloody fingers momentarily struggling for grip, but he got it done and fired again.
Another click.
King bent down and picked up the Browning. His hand was slippery with blood, but the bulky chequered walnut grips could stop anything from slipping. He nodded to Alaina and said, “You put on a good show. I was baffled by your hate towards Vasyli, it almost had me doubting myself, but now it makes perfect sense.”
“You suspected?” she asked incredulously. “When?”
“Well, a long time before I removed the Walther’s firing pin, that’s for sure,” King said. “In my room up in Novyalaski, you said that Interpol gave you Ramsay’s details and you contacted him. I found that odd. But by then, of course, the real Alaina Kopolov was already dead.”
Romanovitch chuckled, but his face was humourless. He was clearly in pain. “And then some,” he said. “Just like her stupid sister. But it paved the way for our little charade. My snake in the woodpile…”
King nodded, looked back at the woman whose name he did not know. A woman who had set out on revenge herself
and sealed the fate of another young woman in search of her own justice. God only knew how many lives Romanovitch had ruined, how many souls were left searching for answers to lies, and retribution. “It was Draco,” King said decisively. “That was what started me doubting you. Right there at the beginning. He wasn’t on to you or investigating a break in. He was at the pool house to meet you. You lured him there with the promise of sex, but really you had me kill him to add weight to your story.” He shrugged. “And your reaction when you saw him was forced. There was no need to scream like that. And you got in my way when I stepped towards him. You didn’t want him knocked out, you wanted him dead, so you gave me no choice. Afterwards you didn’t act like someone in the role you were supposed to be playing. That response didn’t belong to the frightened and desperate young woman in search of her sister, or the truth about what happened to her. Your comment about his death was callous, much like the person I suspect you really are.”
“Fuck you!” she snapped.
King turned to Romanovitch. “No, when something’s not right, it’s just not right. I wasn’t convinced from the start, but I wanted to see where it would go. I suppose, when it comes down to it, it’s not like you said, that we follow our emotions, never our instincts, but the other way around entirely.” He shot Romanovitch through the forehead, then turned the gun on Alaina.
“No, please…”
King fired and started to walk away before her body hit the ground. He looked up and saw Caroline and Big Dave standing twenty feet in front of him, each taking cover behind a mature pine. Big Dave lowered the rifle. King didn’t know how much they had seen, but he guessed they had arrived after Romanovitch had fired the defective gun. Or at least, he hoped they had.
“Alex!” Caroline flung herself at him and he winced. “Are you okay?”
He hugged her close, smelt the familiar natural scent of her and her silky hair against his face. “Never better,” he said quietly. “Never better.”
42
Flymo had already landed the chopper and had taken up a defensive position with a rifle he picked up off the ground. He was kneeling beside the Mercedes S-Class and was firing single shots into the trees, with the helicopter’s engine running and rotors engaged. Not the sort of thing learned in a civilian flight school, but something he had done many times flying in Afghanistan. Rashid and Mac were loading Goldie’s body into the aircraft. An unlucky bullet. But Rashid would later tell King that the former SAS soldier had died in that cell, or in the interrogation room where the beatings had been handed out so freely. Rashid knew that he would never know the catalyst, what had broken the man entirely, but he had his own demons to live with and had to let it go.
Big Dave opened the door of the helicopter, keeping his head down beneath the rotors. At six-four, he had the most to lose. He retrieved the medi-pack and handed some gauze to King. “Pad the leak!” he shouted above the noise of the rotors and engine. “I’ll take a look when we get back!”
King rolled up his sleeve and pressed the pad against the gash, as Caroline struggled with some tape to hold it in place.
Rashid was staring at Goldie’s lifeless form on the deck of the aircraft. There was simply no time to look for Philosopher’s body, sporadic gunfire erupting from the forest, almost at once being suppressed by Flymo and Mac from their positions. Rashid looked at King and nodded, but his eyes gave all the thanks King would ever need.
“Let’s go, let’s go!” Flymo shouted above the din. “Everybody in!” He clambered into the helicopter and put on his earphones. Immediately the pitch of the engine changed, and the rotors sped up.
Rashid got into his seat, facing backwards. King sat opposite on the row of three. Caroline followed and Mac closed the door, leaving Big Dave to ride in the left-hand seat to balance the craft. They each put on their earphones, taking relief at the dramatic reduction in noise.
The helicopter lifted as they were all putting their belt harnesses on, and Flymo was bringing the craft around in a lazy spin as they climbed in height. “It’s heavy,” he said. “We have far more fuel than standard and we’re full to capacity.”
King reflected that the two Hellfire missiles used on the men in the forest had lightened the load considerably and there was a hell of a lot less 7.62mm bullets than before. He glanced down at Goldie’s body, but said nothing. He did not know the man, but three people on board had, and Flymo could be the one to make the decision if he decided one-hundred and sixty pounds needed to be jettisoned anytime soon.
King could see men in the trees. He could see muzzle flashes, too, but they were climbing and heading out of range with every second that passed. He rested his head against the bulkhead. He was tired, not just because of the lack of sleep and exertion, but because by his estimation, he had lost more than a pint of blood. For the first time since he had boarded the aircraft, his leg hurt, too. The old man with the knife had been a fearful and experienced opponent. He glanced down at his desert boot and saw that blood had discoloured the laces and suede. His sock seemed to be soaking much of it up.
Caroline rested her head upon his shoulder. She still had the Makarov in her right hand. They hadn’t said much to one another, especially now the voice-activated comms linked all their earphones. It would have to wait until they got back on the ground, but already there was communication between the way their legs touched, and the weight of her head against his shoulder. An unspoken comfort and familiarity.
King turned and looked at her. She was attractive, but far from glamorous. Her mousey-blonde hair had cascaded around her shoulders and she was covered in dirt, but she was beautiful and stubborn and tenacious and all the things that kept a relationship exciting. He grinned and she smiled back at him. She pursed her lips and raised her head for a kiss. King was thrown back against the bulkhead and Caroline screamed as the helicopter banked and dropped so violently, that Goldie’s body levitated several inches from the deck as gravity momentarily fell to zero, then dropped down heavily again as the craft levelled out and physics was restored once more. Only their belts held them in place, but everyone had shifted in their seats.
“Incoming! Incoming!” Flymo shouted. He banked hard and a missile shot past them, a great white trail of smoke streaming behind it as it fishtailed, recalculated, and turned in the air. A second later and it was coming back at them.
Rashid craned his neck to see, but soon got sight of the missile as the helicopter switched course and dropped several hundred feet in height. King turned, saw the missile gaining impossibly quickly and he braced for impact. The helicopter banked again, dropped lower, and turned violently back on its previous heading. The heat signature change from the Bell’s jet engine confused the missile’s heat-seeking system, and it raced on past, caught the new heat signature, and turned once more.
The helicopter climbed and Flymo rolled the helicopter in a loop before descending straight back down to earth. King swung his legs out and pinned Goldie’s body to the floor. Rashid glanced at him, then did the same.
“Oh, mother fu…” Big Dave didn’t finish his sentence as the ground loomed ahead of them. He had a clearer view than most of the ground coming towards them, but he had now closed his eyes.
Flymo flew them down a fire break in the forest, the helicopter’s skids just feet off the rocky ground and the rotors clearing the trees by no more than a few metres on each side.
“It’s on us!” Rashid shouted, staring at the missile gaining on them. Only the sudden change in direction had slowed it down.
King reached up and snatched a flare gun from its mounting above Rashid’s head. Rashid looked at him, guessed what he was thinking and pulled the pin on the emergency door released, then pulled the lever down and the door spat out into the air and the cabin filled with wind, blasting all around them. King cocked the pistol and fired ahead of them and to the right. Flymo cut the engine altogether to lose the heat trail and banked hard left and pulled up on the stick. The missile raced past them and detonated
on the bright phosphorus head of the flare. The concussive shockwave vibrated through the craft and they were blown sideways by the force of the explosion.
The helicopter started to fall, and warning sirens filled the cabin, and the wind noise clearly audible now that the jet engine had been switched off. Flymo turned into the natural spin of the craft and fired up the jet engine, using autorotation to cut the friction of the rotors and take the path of least resistance. He struggled on the controls, but the craft was mercifully back in control, just feet above the trees.
“Oh my god!” Caroline exclaimed.
“I know,” said King. “That felt intense…”
Caroline shook her head vehemently. “Not that! Look!” She pointed and everyone turned, their eyes wide. Ahead of them an attack helicopter, laden with an array of missiles and cannons was hovering above the trees less than two hundred metres away.
“Holy shit…” Big Dave said quietly.
Flymo was already on it. He built the helicopter up to maximum revs and they banked hard and accelerated towards the craft. The attack helicopter answered with twin cannons, but Flymo dropped down, the skids of the Bell skimming the trees.
“He’s going closer!” Caroline screamed, unsure to whom, but her outburst mirrored the feelings of everyone on board.
Except for King. He knew that some opponents only fought well when they had the advantage of reach. Get close, and they struggled. King snatched one of the AK-74 rifles off the deck and got it to his shoulder. As Flymo banked hard left, he opened up with fully automatic fire on the cockpit of the attack helicopter and the great leviathan, banked hard defensively, exposing its belly. King kept firing, but the weapon clicked empty before he could do any real damage.