Reaper

by A P Bateman

  “We’re not,” Mereweather said tersely. “But King needs bringing in.”

  Ramsay shook his head. “The two things should go hand in hand. But we’ve done so little to date, that she will probably never be found. King is our best shot. Caroline’s best shot.”

  Mereweather shook his head. “Look, while I see our friend out, you get on with the task you’ve been set,” he said sharply. “But come to my office and see me before you go. Understand?”

  Ramsay nodded. He watched Simon Mereweather escort Rashid out of the office, then let out a sigh.

  “Problems?” the secretary asked, her expression humorous and her eyes inviting comment.

  “Always,” Ramsay replied. “But I fear, there may soon be many more.”

  24

  King wanted a target on the man’s body to give him two things. Maximum noise and maximum incapacity. He wanted the man incapacitated, but he also wanted him to howl like a banshee and bring everybody running. This man had a better suited weapon than the guard with the Uzi, and King intended on using it and leaving the crossbow behind.

  The crossbow sights appeared to be off centre judging from the miss on the first guard, either that, or the crossbow fired to the left because of human error. King put the vee and pin sights on the man’s right buttock and eased them a little higher to compensate the distance. He knew that if the man gave up the fight, he may well survive long enough to receive and respond to medical attention. But he would never have known pain like it. He thought of Caroline, his motivation for such cruelty.

  And then he squeezed the trigger.

  The bolt hit the man between both butt-cheeks. Penetration was deep, but the bolt stopped just short from going through and through as the solid plastic flights, like a set of mini aircraft wings, slowed the bolt to a stop. The man dropped the rifle and howled. King was up and moving towards the staggering man. He had managed to turn around and King saw the tip and shaft of the bolt sticking out from the man’s blood-soaked genitals. The man looked on in horror at King as he barrelled towards him, but he was not able to put up a fight. King caught him by the throat to steady and incapacitate him further, then gave the bolt a twist with his right hand for good measure as he tripped his feet from under him and dropped him onto his back. The man hollered, then screamed when his buttocks hit the ground and the bolt took the impact.

  He didn’t stop screaming.

  King stepped away, picked up the assault rifle and checked it. The man did not have a spare magazine on him, judging from his attire, but he did pick up the man’s radio and tossed it over the fence. He looked back towards the property and could see two men on the lawn, two-hundred and fifty metres away, and one-hundred and fifty feet below. They were looking his way, but the sun was still in their eyes. King shouldered the rifle, took aim and fired three shots at each man, all aimed below the waist and above the knees. Both men dropped a moment later. He could hear their screams, even above the man squirming and hollering on the ground behind him.

  King didn’t look back. He started down the embankment, then crouched and took aim at the guard by the pool. He could see the woman on her feet, the children in the pool, their play having stopped as they stared up at him. King shouldered the weapon again. He fired two shots at the guard. Steadied his aim and fired another two rounds. The guard dropped to the ground, but he was alive and crawling desperately to safety. King sent half a dozen rounds into the pool and each impact threw a spray of water three-feet into the air. The bullets landed near the children, but he was never in doubt they would miss. The children screamed and scrambled to the side, their mother dashing towards them, desperately trying to pull them clear.

  Luca Fortez appeared on the patio with a nickel-plated handgun and fired on King. The bullets went wide and low, sending up dust that showered his feet. King returned fire, making sure his bullets hit the glass doors behind. The glass showered the mafia boss and he ducked down, crouching low as he got to his wife’s side and heaved his son out of the pool.

  The radio in King’s pocket chattered and he took it out, pressed down on the transmitter switch and tucked it into his belt making sure the switch remained activated. He had now jammed all communication between the security. The handset was ancient and only had the one channel. King stood up straight and fired two more rounds on Luca, aiming just a little to his left. He slung the weapon over his shoulder and calmly took the Uzi off his other shoulder. A guard ran onto the lawn and King mowed him down, taking the man’s legs out from under him in a burst of 9mm copper-coated lead.

  There were many screams now, calls for help and the sound of general panic and pandemonium. Gunfire erupted to King’s left and he returned the rest of the magazine, hitting the gunman and the vehicle he had sheltered behind. The car’s alarm added to the cacophony of noise. He changed magazines, then slung the Uzi over his shoulder and switched to the Heckler and Koch G36. He had barely noticed what make the weapon had been. All he knew was he was familiar with it and had it switched to selective fire mode as soon as he had picked it up. The 5.56mm rounds were more powerful than the 9mm pistol rounds in the Uzi, and the weapon was accurate to five-hundred metres.

  King reached the lawn and the writhing men. He kicked the first man’s weapon aside. Then covered the other two with the rifle. “Where… is… Luca… Fortez?” he asked harshly in carefully rehearsed, but poor Italian, with as much Russian accent as he could achieve speaking a language he would not even understand the answer to. He bent down and picked up one of the men’s pistols and tucked it into his waistband. The man spat something in Italian at him, and King dropped the rifle butt down onto the man’s ankle. He wailed, and King kicked the other man’s rifle away.

  Two guards ran out into the grounds from the buildings behind the mansion and fired on King with pistols. King turned and fired, but this time, the men were close, so he took no chances and gave each one two rounds, centre-mass. They went down hard and one rested still, the other squirmed, his legs kicking and striking the ground in an effort to push himself into cover. King turned towards the house and fired the rest of the magazine at the windows, then dropped the weapon and slipped the Uzi off his shoulder. He jogged down the side of the house towards the pool. Luca’s wife was shepherding her children into the house, but the broken glass was making their escape on bare feet difficult. King was instantly regretful, not wanting the children to injure themselves, but he knew they would be ok. Nothing a few plasters wouldn’t sort out. He had seen worse in Syria and Iraq; these two privileged children would cope with a few cuts and a day of discomfort. They may be traumatised, but then, maybe he had done them a favour. Maybe they would head clearly down a different path, a life without crime.

  King looked at the woman. She was frozen to the spot, her feet bleeding on the broken glass. She didn’t seem to notice the pain and was simply staring back at him, looking at the muzzle of the machine-pistol. King grabbed hold of her, twisted her around and held her in front of him for a human shield. Just as long as her husband did not fire upon them, she would be alright. Luca wouldn’t be so lucky. He was going to feel some pain now. King saw him sheltering behind a large planter and opened fire. The terracotta pot smashed, and King aimed carefully at the man as he cowered.

  Again, he used a carefully rehearsed line, strong on the Russian accent, “Nikolai has had a change of mind. He will be taking you over. He will own your empire, eat from your table and sleep with your woman…” King fired and hit him in the left shoulder with a single shot and the white shirt turned crimson around the hole. The woman screamed as Luca fell backwards, and King gave her a shove forward. And that was the last King saw of them as he turned and ran down the side of the house and across the lawns. He hoped the children were alright, but he hoped Luca Fortez was too. He was convinced it was a flesh wound and knew that the bullet had not hit organs or arteries. It may have broken bone, but he was convinced that if pressure was applied quickly and just so long as Luca did not go into shock, then he
would survive.

  25

  Caroline was eagerly anticipating a visit from Michael. He was young, and seemed different, certainly more sensitive than the other men she had encountered so far. As if he were somebody caught up in something he had no control over. She had tried to create the human element, the personal factor. She had told him that he reminded her of her brother. She concentrated hard to create a person in her life to fit Michael’s character. She was an only child. This was all a game, an avenue to explore and to exploit. She imagined things Michael might like, thought how to weave her fictional brother’s life into her captor’s mirroring image. She had no idea what her captors planned, but people were less willing to harm, or even kill a person they felt attachment to. If she could make Michael feel for her plight, she may even get the man to help her. But how far could she go? What would she be willing to do to buy her freedom?

  She could hear a noise outside, footsteps on the landing. She unwrapped herself from the covers, slid off the bed and made her way around the bed to the desk. She figured she could get the leg off the desk in one swift movement. She held the wingnut in her palm, her fingers clenched around it, she quickly tucked it into her bra.

  The bolt eased back. There were two sharp knocks, then the door eased open. Michael stood in the doorway with a flask. “Coffee,” he said, and walked in. He looked at her, signalled for her to step backwards with a flick of his hand.

  Caroline obliged, took a step backwards and smiled. “Thank you, Michael.” She watched him pour the thick, black liquid into a dirty-looking cup on the desk. It was hardly appealing, but the thought of the warm drink made it more appetising than she ever thought it would have. She stepped over carefully, noticed that the man did not move. Was he letting his guard down? She picked up the cup, cradled it in her hands and took a sip. It was strong, tasted faintly of cigars, of burnt tobacco. She grimaced but found the warmth of the liquid and the caffeine hit most welcome and took another sip. It tasted better the second time. By the third mouthful, she was drinking as fast as the heat would allow. She held the cup, studied the man’s face. “Where am I?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I not tell,” he said. “I cannot.”

  “I was expecting Eastern Europe, but I think we travelled further. Perhaps into Russia? The scenery looks like I imagined Russia to look.” She took another sip, thought more about the time they had travelled, the stops. “Those mountains are to the north. Ukraine perhaps?”

  “Enough!” he snapped. He held out his hand for the cup. His sleeve rode up, exposing a tattooed forearm. Caroline recognised it. She was no football fan, but she knew Manchester United’s insignia, briefly saw the name over and under the picture of the devil with the pitchfork.

  “Okay,” she said, acting more subdued than he could ever make her feel. She decided that it might be best to put the sight of his tattoo in the bank. She could work on a satisfactory backstory, weave her brother in somehow. Appeal more to the young man’s conscience. “I just want to know where I am. I have family who will be worried. My brother…”

  “I don’t wish to know!”

  “My brother looks just like you. I miss him. He’s football crazy. You know, soccer? He supports Manchester United. Have you heard of them?”

  “Of course!”

  “He’s a huge fan, took me to see them play.”

  “Where?” he asked curiously, his tone softening.

  “Old Trafford,” she said. This was unfamiliar territory for her. She decided not to try and be too detailed.

  “Who did they play?”

  She tried to think of another premiership team but was at a loss. She thought of the big cities. “Newcastle United, I think.” She cursed inwardly. She couldn’t remember if they had been relegated or not. She would have to be hazy on dates and players.

  “You think?”

  “It was a long time ago,” she said flippantly. “I’m not a football fan, but it was fun to go. The atmosphere was incredible…”

  “What colour shirts did they wear?”

  “Red!” she said, smiling. She held out her cup. “Could I have some more, please Michael?”

  He nodded, poured and filled the cup. “I mean, Newcastle.”

  “Oh,” she said. She was concentrating hard. She knew their nickname was The Magpies. She went with it. “Black and white. It was a fun afternoon.”

  “What was the score?” he cocked his head. “You must remember the score?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure, two-one, maybe? It was a long time ago, and as I said, I’m not a fan. But my brother is. You like Manchester United?”

  He smiled. “Yes.” He lifted his sleeve. “See?”

  “Wow!” she exclaimed, hoping she wasn’t overdoing it. “Have you seen them play, live, I mean?”

  “I have,” he said proudly. “But not at Old Trafford.”

  “My brother could set you up with a box. You and some friends. He does all sorts of corporate events with the club. PR work for his company. Other companies like the link, their managers enjoy a good box event with a free bar.”

  Michael nodded. “I would like that…” he trailed off. “I have to go now,” he said.

  “You said there were others here,” Caroline ventured. “Other women like me?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not like you.” He backed away and caught hold of the door.

  Caroline watched him leave. There was a moment when she thought she had blown it, but now she felt confident she had successfully formed a human link.

  26

  There was enough pandemonium to escape the property through the vineyard, but not without coming under fire from the guards. But as King had reckoned when he had first envisioned and formulated his plan, they were not of the standard of the Russians. Luca’s men were comfortable. They were renowned through historical acts, a ruthless reputation. But there was a difference between tough and sadistic men outnumbering individuals and businesses, and highly trained ex-military recruited into the Russian brotherhoods. And this is what King had seen at their meeting in the mountain town. Not only a higher degree of professionalism, but the Russians were on foreign soil and would undoubtedly be ill at ease.

  King hadn’t underestimated the Italians, but he had used them. He had reached the edge of the vineyard and the plateau carved out of the mountainside. He was now into the trees and traversing the steep gradient. The ground was uneven, loose and dotted with giant boulders that he had to dodge around. He had thrown the radio handset behind him, and as he crouched low behind a thick pine tree to get his breath and bearings, he ejected the magazine of the Uzi and checked. He was down to two rounds. He thumbed them out and checked the breach of the Uzi. It was an original design Uzi, in that it fired off an open breach bolt. There was therefore no chambered round in the weapon. He dumped it down on the ground and pocketed the rounds. He took the pistol he had captured out of his waistband and checked it over. It was a Beretta APX in .40 calibre. He had never used one before but looked over the features and the trigger safety and decided it was similar in design and working function to a Glock. He checked the ten-round magazine and the weapon’s chamber, then stood back up and checked the ground behind him. There was nobody on his tail yet, but he wasn’t about to give them time to get organised and brave. He stripped off the suit jacket, and then tore off the ridiculous gold chains and tucked the bundle between a tree stump and a boulder which looked to have felled the tree in a landslide at some time. He wedged the Uzi and its magazine in there as well. Then, he started to take the slope, gaining in speed and agility as he grew used to the ground and momentum. He was carrying a lot of speed and ended up charging through one of the huge tarantula webs. He shook his head and brushed himself off the best he could as he ran, slid and leapt across the terrain. He tried not to think about the giant eight-legged creatures as he ran.

  He was hot and soaked in sweat, but he reached the first mountain road, hopped the barrier and ran across the tar
mac, clearing the second barrier and dropping six-feet to the slope below. He lost his footing and sprawled. He slid and rolled and came to a halt some thirty-feet later. He was cut and would certainly bruise, but he checked himself hastily and was lucky to have not broken anything. He had lost the pistol. He looked quickly, but the weapon had been electro-coated with olive-coloured paint and he did not hold out much hope finding it in a hurry in this environment. He still had the large sheath knife and the flick knife in his pocket, but he left them where they were, not wanting to chance another fall. The gun would not fire unless he pulled the trigger - and he wouldn’t do that because his finger was nowhere near a trigger until he needed to fire – but he wouldn’t want to fall with a sharp blade in his hand.

  He knew he was clear, but he just hoped they would not gather, regroup and anticipate his escape. He needed to get to his car and get away as fast as he could. Right now, he imagined they were in a state of shock. But Luca Fortez was a man who had risen in his world by acting fast and striking hard. King knew that both his appearance and questions, the way he had asked them, would point them towards the Russians. But had he done enough? Would they fall for it? He thought they would. Was banking on it. But it was how they would react that would matter. He doubted the Italians would simply go round for a cappuccino and work things out. This was their turf and their boss had been hit. His family terrified. Their colleagues injured, some killed. They were red-blooded, hot-headed men and they would go after the Russians with everything they had.

  King just hoped it would be enough.