by A P Bateman
There was a change in pace. In battle there usually is. But King couldn’t work out what was happening in the sudden lull. The Italians had regrouped, mainly into groups of four and five, which gave King a chance to count them. He almost got it done but had reached forty when the men started to fire again upon the house. King could see it was going to go the Italian’s way, when a vehicle bounced its way down the track, and five men spilled out. They took up position in the trees above the villa and started to fire on the house with hunting rifles. King had no idea what calibre the men were using, but they were powerful rifles, knocking great chunks of concrete out of the villa, which was no longer affording the Russian’s protection. The new arrivals acted like a sniper unit, keeping the Russian’s in place and unable to return fire as the main bulk of men approached the villa in a pincer movement on both sides. They were getting the hang of it too, if a little Napoleonic in their tactics, but they were getting the job done. Men would advance, drop to their knees and fire, more men would dash around them, drop and fire, and by the time they had rained shotgun lead or pistol bullets at the windows or the cowering men behind the solid oak furniture, the manoeuvre was repeated, and ground was constantly gained. All the time, Luca’s security core was on the periphery laying down fire with automatic weapons and the snipers were either picking off Russians who attempted to return fire or keeping their enemy’s heads down.
King was almost transfixed at the sight. He watched with a mixture of emotions. His plan was working. He had seen the Russian’s as the more difficult target, been aware that he was operating without either the equipment of backup he would have needed for such a task. He had no friendlies to call on, no help on the ground to provide him with intelligence or weapons. The Italians seemed to him to be the easier target. And now, whatever the result of the pitched battle below, he could kill his quarry while they were battle weary, or Luca’s men would have already done it for him. Like the wolf circling two fighting contenders to become the alpha male but striking the weary victor with a deadly attack when he had no fight left in him.
The sound of the battle changed. There were less gunshots, less automatic fire. King recognised this as reaching a conclusion. The Russian’s were suffering from either personnel losses or were running low on ammunition. King had been both sides of that fence, and he knew the mental effect it could have. He knew the attackers would see the end in sight, but he also knew that the defenders could go two ways. Peter-out and think of surrender or go out with glory. Now was the time it could change and more often than not, for the unexpected.
The surge came from the house and three men exited, back to back. A Hail-Mary. They covered three points of a triangle and rained a hail of lead onto a three-hundred and sixty-degree field of fire. King saw many of the Italians drop, and the Russians kept up their shuffle towards the line of vehicles, which surprisingly, the Italians had failed to disable. Two more Russian guards followed giving one-hundred and eighty-degree arcs of fire, with Nicolai being firmly manhandled by a third guard. King saw the lights flash on the lead car, and one of the forward guards drop. They had a great deal of firepower and the advancing Italians were caught out, but not for long. The snipers were hunters and they were good. By the time Nicolai reached the car, only one guard remained, and he was struggling to get into the driver’s seat. Another Russian bolted out of the villa and fired a pistol at the snipers’ positions, but he was dead meat before his third shot and went down fast, bullets still hitting him and rocking his body after he was on the ground. The snipers then turned their attention to the car and shot out the tyres and front grille. King knew that enough lead and copper had hit the engine for it to be going nowhere. Luca’s men made their way up on the Mercedes, and his personal security came out of the trees with their automatic weapons shouldered. There was a lot of shouting, but no more gunshots. At the villa there was movement at the doors and windows, and weapons were being tossed outside. Moments later, five Russians stepped hesitantly out of the building, their hands placed firmly on top of their heads. They were circled by three-times as many Italians. King knew what would happen next, and sure enough, the beating started.
Relentless, cruel and without mercy.
29
King had pulled back from the cliff edge, worked his way to the east two-hundred metres or so, pushing through thick scrub and dense pine. The slope was so steep, that it was almost sheer. He used the pine trees for footing, and slid down to the next tree, working his way down two-hundred feet or more to where the slope became less sheer. It was challenging work, and he was thirsty and hot, despite the noticeable drop in temperature as dusk gave way to night. A sanguine moon filled the sky, giving a dull, yellow hue by which, he could make his way through the trees.
He could hear voices, loud and commanding. They were Italian, and King had no ear for the language. But he got the gist of it. Pissed off was pissed off in any language.
He reached the wire boar fence, slid over carefully and made his way to the fringe of trees surrounding the property. When he found a suitable place to survey the scene, he almost wished he had stayed at the top of the cliff. But he needed to confirm, or at least control the outcome. He had come this far, it was imperative he see it through.
Nikolai was on his knees, a rope tied around his neck. A tough-looking man had a firm hold of each of his shoulders and a third held the rope as if the Russian were a stubborn mule. He was at the edge of the swimming pool. King judged it to be the deep end by the look of the metal ladder steps to the Russian’s right and the scalloped Romanesque steps at the other end. King felt an ominous sinking in his gut. His plan had been to force the less professional side into overcoming the pros by numbers. He had forgotten, or rather neglected to think about what evil men can do when they were out for revenge. That, and had the elation inside that only the victorious in battle would experience.
King moved to his right, not for a better view, but to the body of an Italian heavy who had been killed during the last stages of the battle. The win was still fresh and the desire for vengeance was still coursing through their veins. They had yet to mop up their dead, dealing only fleetingly with the injured who could call out for help. Three men lay upon the steps of the villa’s main entrance, but King could see that the two men tasked with attending to them were craning their necks towards the pool and intent on seeing what would happen next.
The man would have been around twenty-years-old and had died from a bullet to the chest. It was dead centre and had most probably hit the man’s spine. His eyes were open, giving an indication of a swift demise. King bent down and picked up the man’s pistol. It was a compact 9mm Beretta. He checked the magazine, but it was empty. The slide had not sprung back and held on the empty chamber, indicating that there was still a chambered round. He slid the slide open a touch and saw the flash of brass in the dull light. He smiled, thought of his old mentor, as he took out the two 9mm bullets and fed them into the magazine.
Old warriors got old for a reason.
King felt better for having the weapon, even if it only held three bullets. He edged his way through the treeline and looked back at the pool. Events had transpired, even in the brief time it had taken King to find the weapon, into a scene of torture. The Russians had been placed in a sitting position on the edge of the pool, their hands bound behind their backs, their legs facing away from the pool edge. One of the Italians had waded into the water, while two men pressed down on the prisoner’s legs. King knew what would happen next, and he watched as the man in the water pulled backwards on the first Russian in the line and forced the man’s head and shoulders under the water. The men on the legs had their work cut out as the Russian struggled and bucked under their weight but was at the mercy of the man in the water.
King’s heart raced, knowing he was ultimately the instigator of this scene, but he soon checked his emotions, feeling a rage towards the Russian bitch who had set him on this course, held the woman he loved as his stake in her wicke
d game. He edged out of the treeline, kept within the shadows and moved behind the shot-up Mercedes. One of the Russian’s lay dead at his feet, and he tucked the pistol into his waistband and picked up the AK47. He crouched low, listened. The Italians and Russians only shared one common language, spoke English in thick accents, one slowly, commanding, the other desperate. King edged out, saw the mafia boss towering above the kneeling Russian. A coat draped over his shoulders, like a mafia Don from the fifties.
“Where is your man who attacked me? Where is the dog who did this?” Luca Fortez asked, his tone cold and impatient. He wore a sling on his arm, his shirt ripped open, a large dressing taped over the bullet wound and clearly visible underneath.
“Again, I know nothing of any attack!” Nikolai spat at him.
Fortez looked at the man who had been looking at him for confirmation. He shook his head at the man holding the prisoner’s head under the water. He watched as the struggling Russian slowed his movements, then ceased altogether. The mafia boss walked to the prisoners. He nodded to the man in the water and he dutifully pulled the next terrified man under. Fortez looked down at the man beside him. “You will be next. After your friend has died, you will feel his pain, feel his loss. You will breathe the water through your lungs as if it were air, your life will play out before your eyes and you will wish you told me everything. Do you understand? Now, tell me,” he paused. “Where is the man your pig of a boss sent to kill me?”
The man was panicked, could not get his words out quickly enough. “I… know… nothing… of… an… attack!” He looked at the struggling man beside him, then back at the man above him. “Please! Bring him up!”
“Then tell me about the attack!” Luca barked at him. “Tell me what you know!”
The man slowed, and like his colleague, stopped moving altogether. The man looked at Luca Fortez desperately.
“Please!”
“Tell me!”
“I don’t know of any attack!” he screamed. “You had a deal with my boss! We were going to work for you on something! I don’t know of any attack, it doesn’t make sense!”
Luca nodded, and the man was pulled backwards. The men at his feet gripped tightly, making themselves ready.
“No! No…” the man’s screams were cut off by a deep gargle and the thrashing of his limbs in the water.
Luca turned to Nikolai, unconcerned for the dying man and his struggle. “Tell me, tell me now.”
“You stupid fucking wop! You have been told! There was no attack!” he screamed at him. “Not by us!”
Luca turned and watched the struggle until the man lay as still as the other two bodies. He stared at the scene for a moment, then looked at the man in the water. He said something in Italian and the man pulled both remaining guards into the water, catching the men holding their legs by surprise. They held on tightly as the men struggled and splashed and fought desperately, but futilely for their lives.
King looked on. He edged backwards, another body behind him, another AK lying on the ground. This time the weapon was an AK74. It fired a lighter 5.45x39mm round, technically less powerful than the AK47, but designed to be so, as the bullet was designed not to deform or fragment, but to yaw and create cavitation, or simply put: would tumble after penetration and cause more damage than a through and through shot from the 7.62x39mm round. He preferred the weapon, because it had less recoil and was easier to control. He looked back at the pool, the gathering of relaxed men watching the grisly scene, their leader undefeated, invulnerable in battle, merciless in his victory. The snipers, such as they were, rested on their rifles. King had felt anger at being pushed into this, rage at being used as a pawn in another person’s game, but as he looked on, he felt contempt for the woman he now served. He had lost sight of what he was doing. He was so busy doing her bidding effectively, he had not stopped to ask himself why. Why? Why did she want these Russian mafia men dead? He thought back to the forest in France, the dead man’s wife at the farmhouse. Helena Milankovitch wasn’t just someone out for revenge for something in her past, she was working towards a future.
A future with these men removed from it.
King couldn’t check the magazine of either weapon without making a noise. The AK rifle was a tool. A reliable tool you could count on, but it wasn’t a supremely manufactured firearm intended for the range and competitions. For civilian shooters to coo over and upgrade with match-grade precision parts. It was hardy and rustic and worked. It was noisy and metallic in its operation, and that was without even firing it. King looked on. The men were drowning, and there wasn’t anything he could do for them, and nor did he want to. They were men of the sword. They knew the score. But as he looked at the Russian brotherhood boss on his knees, he saw then a man who was merely a target.
He saw a link.
A link to the woman who had come crashing into his life and torn it apart.
King backed away, gave himself a better field of vision. He hoped the two weapons held enough rounds to do the job. He brought the AK47 up to his shoulder and tightened his finger on the trigger.
30
Georgia
She was exhausted. She had tried to keep her eyes open, but there was no fighting it. The coffee hadn’t seemed to help. She knew she was tired and had had little more than naps for the past few days as she had travelled. The journey, adrenalin and fear had taken their toll. Her body needed rest. Her head lolled, her chin touching her chest, waking her with a start. Each time she raised her head, she almost dropped back to sleep.
Caroline slapped herself across the cheek. Hard. She felt the sting, but the sensation was nulled, quickly overcome. She could not succumb to this. It felt so unnatural, like no bout of tiredness she had ever experienced. She knew what had happened. Knew that the coffee had been spiked, contained a barbiturate of some description. Perhaps ground-down sleeping tablets, possibly something stronger. She slapped herself again, powered through her lethargy and rolled off the bed. She clawed at the floor, her fingernails digging into the gaps between the unfinished wooden floorboards, breaking and tearing away as they provided little purchase. She did not feel any pain, dug her toes in and pressed on, the bathroom offering sanctuary from the fate of what she believed would happen next.
She could hear the solid footsteps on the landing outside. She crawled onwards. Used the edge of the open door to pull herself inside the bathroom. Her eyelids were closing, and she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, something to hurt her, to snap her consciousness back, put her equilibrium back under her control. She could hear the rattle of the lock outside. The key in the padlock, the rasp of the bolt. She rolled onto her back, heaved her leaden legs up and kicked the door closed. She could not rest there. She could feel the darkness washing over her, her eyelids heavy and unforgiving.
“Hey?” The voice whispered, muffled. She envisioned him peering through the darkness, his frame illuminated by the light behind him. “Hey, you?” Sharper now, louder.
Testing.
She knew what he wanted from her. She kept her feet pressed firmly against the door, arched her back, but had nothing to press against, provide purchase against the door. If he barged the door, she would simply slide backwards. She fought with all her might, battled the ebb in consciousness. Her eyelids heavy. She looked in the gloom, looked for something she could use, but he had taken all the wash things from her. If only she had something she could use… a wedge, something to jam the door with…
“Hey!” Loud, followed by a footstep as he entered the room. “What are you doing in there?”
She had it. The large wingnut she had removed from the leg of the dresser. She had anticipated its use as a knuckleduster. But now, it just might…
She slipped her hand under the linen dress, hooked it out from her bra. She could barely keep awake, let alone sit up straight, but she fought through it, bit at her cheek again and then at her lip to shock her system, to stem the drift downhill towards sleep. She half rolled, half sat up, presse
d the wingnut under the gap, close to the door jamb. She pressed hard, part of the wingnut digging into a thin gap between two floorboards, the other half digging into the underside of the door. She fell back down, her head knocking on the floor. Her eyes, heavy now, no more resistance possible, caught sight of the handle moving, the door edging marginally inwards. It caught. She heard a curse; the sound of the door being kicked at. The door resisted, she prayed it would hold, but could do no more, as she entered a still, dreamless sleep.
31
King prioritised the targets. The hunters-come-snipers each leaned on their bolt-action hunting rifles. They would be slow to reload, their powerful scopes would be too close to fire accurately back at King, and in the low-light conditions afforded by the yellow moon, they may not make out King at all. The rest of the men had formed into two groups. The events in the pool were gruesome, and men thrown into this conclusion as voyeurs tended to watch shoulder to shoulder, rather than stand alone. Whether they took comfort or shared bravado watching such things in company, King did not know. But he had witnessed behaviour such as this in Iraq, Afghanistan and Syria. Even from the most battle-hardened ISIS fighters. Likewise, the perpetrators of these acts found both the will and the desire to continue the brutality, possibly feeding off the audience.