Reaper

by A P Bateman

  The casino was running at about half capacity, with croupiers on every table, but plenty of seats at the Chemin de fer table and the bank of blackjack tables. There were poker games on raised plinths, three or four people at each table, and a whole host of slot machines with thousand euro pay outs. King changed up two-hundred euros and headed to the roulette tables. He played randomly numbered odd reds for twenty spins and walked away forty euros up. He had finished his drink and went to the bar for another. It was only when he had drunk half the glass and completed his fifth spin on even blacks and lost fifty euros, that he looked up and watched Sergeyev walk from the opposite roulette table to the nearest of the six blackjack tables. There was nobody else at the table.

  One of his minders carried his chips, while Sergeyev managed to carry what looked like a large scotch all by himself. He sauntered over, ignored the croupier’s greeting and tapped his finger on the table. The minder dutifully placed the considerable pile of chips beside his boss and stood back a pace. King wandered over as Sergeyev reached twenty-one and beat the house. He couldn’t help wondering whether it was luck, or if he had been dealt a softener, something to ease his mood and bolster his ego.

  King pulled out a chair, put down his glass and put his meagre pile of chips next to it. The croupier glanced at the Russian, then dealt King a card when the Russian did not look up. King flicked over the card, a seven. Sergeyev got a nine. The house got a six. King’s next card was a six. The Russian got a four and the house dealt down a five. King took another seven and naturally held. Sergeyev got another nine and lost a whole lot of chips. The house got a three, then a ten. King won fifty euros. He watched the Russian’s pile go to the house. He wouldn’t have earned that much in a month, but Sergeyev already pushed another pile across, bigger than before.

  “Something I can help you with?” Sergeyev said, without looking up.

  King picked up his glass, drained the beer in one. “You can get me another drink,” he said. “Or one of your monkeys could get one, if they’re not too busy looking tough.”

  The Russian looked at him this time, his eyes hard. But King saw the flicker. Nobody had ever stared into his own eyes and come off better. King’s were grey-blue and glacier cold.

  “What?”

  “Buy the winner a drink.”

  “You call that winning?”

  “Sure,” King said. “Hell, with what you’ve got in the bank, you didn’t exactly lose just then. You’ve probably made more since.”

  “What do you know about me?” The Russian asked incredulously. As if to back up the man’s disbelief, his minder stepped over behind King.

  King smiled. “Now, I wouldn’t recommend that,” he said. “I won’t go down like that poor fella in the bar.” King turned around in his chair, looked at the minder. He was built like a side of beef. Looked as intelligent too. “Go and fill up your boss’s Scotch. I’ll have another house lager. But get them to work on the foam-beer ratio. They’re making enough money tonight.” He turned towards Sergeyev. “So, are you playing or what?”

  The Russian smiled, but there was no humour behind it. “You know something of me, and you think you can talk like this?”

  King shrugged. “Shitty world. Don’t always assume you’ve done more, or worse than the guy sitting next to you,” he paused. “Get your monkey to fetch our drinks, you might want to talk with me in private.” He looked up at the croupier. “Deal another hand, will you?”

  Sergeyev nodded to the croupier and she dealt out two cards. A ten for King and a seven for the Russian. The house got a nine. King was hit with another ten and held. Sergeyev got a seven. The house took a ten. Then the Russian was dealt with a nine. The house got a four. King won another fifty euros and the Russian handed over close to four-thousand.

  “Well, it’s one way of cleaning your money, I suppose,” King said. “You own this place, don’t you? You take money from drugs and arms and prostitution, and you lose it here. To yourself. Back in the system, cleaned and ready to go. Nice.” He tapped his chips beside him. “Thanks for my win, by the way.”

  “Don’t thank me. You won fair and square. Shame you won’t spend it though,” he paused. “Two things can happen when my bodyguard returns,” said the Russian. “You pitch your angle and I like it, well, then you leave tonight, but with a beating. And without your winnings. Or, you say what it is you want to say, and I don’t like it… well, you will get beaten like you wouldn’t imagine possible, taken by car to the forest, dragged out pleading for mercy, and take a bullet in the head.” He smiled. “So, I hope it was worth it.”

  “I’ll be leaving around fifty euros up, so it’s all good,” King said. He watched the minder walk over with two glasses, but also accompanied by the other bodyguard. “And you’re buying my drinks, so it’s not all bad.”

  Sergeyev glanced behind him, then smiled back at King. “So, which of the two scenarios will it be, I wonder?”

  “Well, you’re going to need more guys. And I’ll get to you first. Don’t doubt that for a second. But I think I’ll take the third one,” King said coldly. “That’s the one where I’ve already boarded your yacht in the harbour, neutralised your remaining three guards and taken your wife and child to a secure location. That’s another scenario into the mix, and I think you had better shut up and hear me out.”

  5

  She had become accustomed to the chloroform. She fought like hell, her heart and soul in the fight, but the inevitable had become more acceptable. She feared that the noxious chlorine would get into her system and damage her internal organs, give her cancer. She knew of the side effects, possibly why when her fight was over, she relaxed more in a bid to take in less of the chemical, expose her lungs to less danger.

  Her hands were taped behind her back – she had already escaped once, gnawing at her bonds and making it out of the first compound they had held her in – and now her captors were taking no further chances. She knew she was inside a goods vehicle, as it rumbled along the roads, and she knew that as they had travelled across Europe with impunity – and the EU Schengen Agreement would give them that – with no borders or security checks, there was little chance of her discovery.

  They had held her in France initially. She was certain of that. She had drunk the tap water, eaten bread they had brought her. It was unmistakable. The bread in France tasted like no other. There was a crust to it, a softness in the dough that differed to other countries, and certainly British outlets that marketed their produce as such. She could concede that they had taken her to Belgium, but it seemed unlikely. Other food had been distinctly French. A simple stew of beef and potatoes, but strong on garlic, yet with no pieces in it. The French always crushed their garlic with salt, like the Italians only ever sliced. The Spanish chopped it, and their bread always seemed a day-old. In truth, she realised she had perhaps had too much time and solitude to contemplate such matters. But, she had heard French spoken in passing, and there were smells which had taken her back to childhood camping trips throughout France. Spain had always been a little mainstream for her parents, and France, along with trips to Tuscany and the Italian lakes had been her holiday destinations. Or at least the ones she remembered the most.

  She had lost track of time. Not just the hours, or the days, but she could not recall to the nearest week how long she had been held. Her training was slipping. She had done the forty-eight-hour escape and evasion courses, been held and interrogated, sleep deprived, then given a pat on the back, a Mars Bar and a cup of tea when it was all over. It seemed so trite now, so utterly fruitless. Such a tough course at the time, but one that had paled into insignificance when compared to her situation. Surely this could not go on much longer? She thought of Terry Waite, the envoy to the Church of England, and hostage negotiator, held captive for 1,763 days, the first four years of which, were in solitary confinement. What must he have felt? The thought made her draw on her resolve. It wasn’t over yet. And she suspected, it wouldn’t be for quite some time.
She would have to be ready for an opportunity when it arose. A toilet break, a meal, a wash. When the time came, she would do what had to be done.

  She did not remember the night she had been taken. Not much of it, at least. An attempt on her life. She had been struck on the head and later drugged in the boot of a car. She remembered coming round, for what seemed an age – groggy, sick and nauseous. The effects of her head injury, the excessive use of chloroform and the exhaust fumes from the boot of the car. She had been locked in a dark room, not given food or water until she had been as desperate as she could have ever imagined. She knew she had lost weight. Her filthy clothes had been loose, and her insides had rumbled constantly.

  A shop-bought sandwich had been thrown to her, along with a bottle of water, and she had feasted like a wild dog. She had missed the opportunity of escaping, the door left open too long, in favour of eating. It had been a low moment. One of degradation and disgust, and one of knowing she had missed her chance.

  The next time opportunity presented itself, she had struck her captor, sending him to the ground where she had stamped on his groin and fled out through the open door. She had bolted, clueless to either the time of night, or her surroundings. She had been a few hundred metres later, lights from what looked like a village nearby, so close she could taste her freedom. She had been beaten then, bound sadistically tight, and kept under guard. The guard had touched her at night, when the rest of the building had been dark and quiet. She had resisted, fought him night after night, sustaining bruises and cuts as he had kicked her like a dog. The beast had been persistent, and her energy had all but gone to keep fighting. It had been her lowest ebb.

  But the one thing Caroline Darby promised herself, that kept her going - perhaps more so than even the slim chance she would ever be free, to see the man she loved, her family or her friends again - was that before this ended, in whatever way fate dictated, she would make the man hurt a hundred times more.

  6

  Biarritz, France

  “We have a saying in the Urals, where I grew up,” Sergeyev paused and sunk his Scotch in one mouthful. He did not grimace at its bite, but thoughtfully studied the remnants, the droplets of amber liquid running inside the glass. “You cannot negotiate with a wolf, while your balls are still in his mouth… but you can still kill him, if you care not for your own fate.”

  “There’s a saying on the estate where I grew up,” King said. “It’s about shit and being full of it. Right now, your wife and daughter are being held. You are a tough and resourceful man, I get it. You took control of the brotherhood. And you did it by being a ruthless son of a bitch. Here’s the reality check. There is always someone more ruthless, tougher and more resourceful. He’s sitting here, drinking a beer and giving you one chance, and one chance only.”

  “You are brave,” Sergeyev said. His hair was jet black and greasy. But it was product. He was sweating profusely, and the beads of sweat were trapped in the product. When they eventually ran, they formed thick rivulets. King noted that the man’s colour had paled. The man was not riding this out with as much bravado as he made out. Sergeyev wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “I could kill you. Right now.”

  “And never see your wife and child again,” King said coldly. “Let me tell you, tough guy… that would look good to your monkeys here. That would make you look tougher than just about anyone. But you will burn and freeze and ache inside forever more. And besides, like I said, don’t assume you’d win. And don’t assume your two monkeys will beat me either.”

  “You are not armed,” the Russian said. “You’re very arrogant.”

  King sipped some of his beer and shrugged. “I’ve been asked to kill you.”

  “You’re an assassin?”

  “I suppose. I’m not here for financial gain, and I’m not serving my country. Somebody is holding the woman I love prisoner. They have me in a corner. They want you dead, and I don’t think one death will cut it for them. So why the hell should I further their agenda? I want my fiancé back, but when this is all done, I don’t want to have helped the person calling the shots. I don’t want them to gain from this.”

  Sergeyev thought on this for a moment, then clicked his fingers. One of the man mountains stepped forward. Sergeyev snapped at the man in Russian and he seemed to protest. Sergeyev pulled him closer and spoke slowly and hoarsely into his ear, and he seemed to think better of it, turned around and walked to the bar. “More drinks,” the Russian said. “I’ve ordered you another glass of that piss you are drinking…”

  “Thanks,” King said, somewhat impassively. “You drink Scotch,” he commented. “I thought you’d drink vodka.”

  “Peasant’s drink,” he replied. “We used to put garlic in the stuff we drank at home. It held the impurities which could otherwise make you go blind…”

  King nodded. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said. “I need the lavatory.” He stood up and casually buttoned his jacket.

  “Dimitri will accompany you,” Sergeyev said emotionlessly. “Just to make sure you don’t go anywhere before we’ve finished our little… chat.”

  King nodded. “Of course.” He pushed past the hulking minder and watched him fall in behind him using the mirrors behind the bar. King walked casually, unhurried. He pushed the first door inwards, then when he reached the gents he opened the door, glanced at the Russian. “Are you coming in? I can’t take a piss with someone watching.”

  “Tough shit.”

  “Well, after you then.” He pushed the door wide and the Russian stepped inside.

  King took a shuffle step and kicked the big man between his legs from behind. To be fair, the man had quite a package and King’s size twelve leather brogue had no trouble finding the target. The man gasped, but as he dropped, King was already on him with a right, left, right combination of punches to his kidneys. He was felled and dropped hard on the tiled floor. King had watched the lavatory door as he played blackjack and talked to Sergeyev. He knew nobody would be in here, but he could not account for who would follow and when, so he stamped on the back of the man’s head and drove his face hard into the tiles. King was already heaving his unconscious body into the furthest cubicle, the one that would give him more privacy. He bundled the man onto the toilet seat, pushed the door closed, then took a deep breath. He was lightheaded for a moment. The twenty-plus stone of muscle was dense and unpliable. King reached inside the man’s jacket and retrieved a nickel-plated Colt .45 pistol with mother of pearl grips. Neither classy, nor a practical combat piece. Nickle reflected light big time and mother of pearl had all the grip capabilities in combat - where palms can be sweaty, and fingers seem numb - of a wet bar of soap.

  The weapon was a solid design though, and King had used the big Colt many times before. He was always happy with the slow travelling, hard impacting .45 round. Usually a one shot, one drop weapon. He checked it over, saw that it was chambered but not cocked. A big mistake for the single action pistol. Safe to carry, but the hammer would have to be cocked back before firing, unlike most semi-auto pistols made from the seventies onwards, where they could be carried with extra safety on a dropped hammer but would require twice the trigger pull on the first shot. After the weapon had fired, cycled and a new round chambered, then the hammer remained back, and an easier trigger pull was given for every following shot. And this weapon, although mimicked and even made under license by other companies, was well over one-hundred years old in design. And completely unchanged from its first patent and subsequent use in the First World War. Testament to its capabilities yet flawed in many ways by today’s standards. King got it though. The hefty weight and size, the appearance, the shine and bling. It was a drug dealer’s weapon, a mafia’s tool of the trade. It was noticeable and had most likely been waved in many faces as a warning. A taste of what was to come if deadlines were not met, if sales were not made and percentages not paid.

  King checked the man’s pulse, tucking two fingers with a lot of force into the side o
f the man’s throat, pinching the carotid artery. He frowned, adjusted his position, then felt a weak thud. It was enough. The guy would either make it or he wouldn’t. He couldn’t worry about the little things. Sergeyev’s instructions to the other monkey had been clear enough. He would be outside, calling in the troops. The Russian had not assumed, somewhat arrogantly so, that King could speak Russian. King had spent a lot of time either in Russia or fighting their agents in secret wars. He wouldn’t pass for a local by any means, but he could understand and speak the language beyond conversational levels.

  Sergeyev was a fearsome man. King could see that now. There was a reason he was still at the top, still the man running one of the most notorious of the Russian brotherhoods. A man willing to chance sacrificing his wife and child to remain top dog. He was hedging his bets on making King talk. Making him give up his wife and child, and if he did not, then that was the price he had been willing to pay.

  King checked over the man’s pockets. He went through his wallet. There were a few cards and five-hundred euros. It would come in handy, so he took it, along with a spare magazine for the Colt. That still only gave him fourteen rounds in total. Not enough for a proper shootout, especially with Sergeyev’s men on route. King knew that the Russian had business interests in Biarritz, not least the casino. He would have to get out fast. But how? Casinos were like banks. Only with more security. He tucked the pistol into his waistband and adjusted his jacket, before pulling the door inwards and closing it carefully behind him. Once outside in the corridor he saw that the only other door was that of the female lavatories. Not even worth a look. The windows would be barred, as they had been in the gent’s. No, his only chance was to slip behind the bar as he re-entered the casino lounge and try to get down to the works of the building – the pot-wash, kitchen and beer-cellar or wine-cellar.