Reaper

by A P Bateman

  Men were always bigger men when weaker men looked on.

  King glanced at the selector lever. It was all the way down to single-fire mode. That would do. The trigger was light, and he would fire once at each target. For they were targets now, not living, breathing men. He aimed, breathed steadily, then fired.

  The first three men dropped without so much as a single man looking at the source of the noise. King switched his aim and dropped two of the snipers for good measure, then turned back to the remainder of the group. He fired twice more, missing one man and hitting another. He moved to his right, just as someone managed to fire a pistol back at him. King fired at the muzzle flash, saw the man drop and then cursed himself as he remembered the three men tending to the casualties. He spun around and fired at the two figures on the edge of the patio. A double tap at one, a single shot at the other. The weapon dry-fired and King threw the AK47 down and reached for the AK74 on his back. He flicked the selector down and brought the weapon back on the main body of men. They had reached the point where they would either stand and fight, or scatter. King hoped they would stick around. He wouldn’t have enough rounds for a pitched battle over various arcs of fire. He kept the weapon’s sights low and fired at the men’s stomachs. Gut wounds dropped men fast, they also gave room for an off-centre shot. King threw himself down across the bonnet of the Mercedes and rested the magazine. He aimed, fired, aimed, fired…

  He was taking fire himself, but he maintained his onslaught, bringing down the last of the hunters, and turning his aim on the exposed men on the other side of the pool, illuminated in the pool lights in front of them and the moon behind. He reached Luca Fortez, who was frozen, transfixed at the muzzle flashes and commotion. He hesitated, thought of the woman he had used as a shield, the two children who had shredded their feet on the broken glass. King broke aim, sighted on the last of his guards and fired three shots. The next pull on the trigger yielded a click and King dropped the rifle and drew the pistol from his waistband. He broke cover, fired at a man in front of him, then a man to his left. He was being shot at from a gunman twenty-metres away. King fired, dropped the pistol and dived towards the man he had just killed in front of him. He snatched the dead man’s pistol, brought it up on the last two guards standing and double tapped each of them in the chest.

  Luca Fortez stared at King, now only ten-feet away from him. “It’s you…” he said, bewildered and confused. “You’re the man from town. The tourist…”

  King levelled the pistol. He glanced around, aware there would be wounded men from the fight, and wounded men were extremely dangerous. “Live or die?” he said. “Your choice. I know where you live, where your family are. You walk away when I’m gone and it’s over. I have no fight with you. No reason to return.” He glanced down at Nikolai, then back at the Italian. “But he’s coming with me.”

  Luca opened his mouth, but he struggled to process what was happening, and how quickly it had happened.

  King crouched, picked up a dead guard’s machine pistol. Another Uzi. He dipped the mag, knew by the weight it was more than half-full. He pressed it back in, saw the exposed round on the open chamber, the open bolt ready to fire. He switched weapons, tucking the pistol into his waistband, keeping the Uzi on Luca. “This is happening now,” he said and stepped forwards, struck Luca in the throat with rigid fingertips. The Italian dropped to the ground, clutching his throat and fighting for breath. King grabbed Nikolai by his collar and heaved him up. He dragged him forward, man-handled him away. King glanced back, saw the mafia boss crawling towards a weapon on the ground.

  “Leave it!” he shouted. “Lick your wounds and live for another day!” King reached the row of cars and saw two men advancing. He fired a short burst from the Uzi and both men fell. He turned toward Luca Fortez. The man had a pistol in his hand. King pushed the Russian to the ground and he fell onto his face, unable to break his fall with his hands still bound behind his back.

  The mafia boss looked around him. The bodies were scattered, some having fallen onto their comrades and resting still. Others were wounded, but the 5.45x39mm was an evil little bullet, and they weren’t getting up soon. Maybe never.

  “I’ll hunt you down, you bastard…” Luca shouted.

  King fired a short burst and the man dropped, rolled forward and fell into the pool. The water started to turn crimson and Luca’s body sunk to the bottom, his hands outstretched, gently clawing for the surface but going nowhere.

  King watched, then said quietly, “No, you won’t…” He had enough on his plate, couldn’t afford a war on more than one front. He had taken enough risks and chances with his own life, knew he needed to remain alive to buy Caroline time. He’d given the man a chance to go and live a life with his family. King looked at the five drowned Russians as they drifted, neither floating nor entirely sunk, in the pool. King had felt for the man’s family, given him a chance, but in truth, he hadn’t deserved it. He’d got the end he deserved now, floating with the men he’d callously had tortured and killed. His wife and children would grieve, but they would eventually be better off without him.

  King pulled the Russian to his feet and pushed him forwards without another thought of the scene of carnage behind him. He kept the Uzi aiming in front of him, the muzzle close to the Russian’s head. He saw a man cowering in the bushes. His back was to King, his hands cradling his head. The three wounded men were nearby. It looked as though they had tried to crawl away at the sound of the gunshots but had frozen as King walked past.

  “Stay down!” King said clearly and confidently. “Stay where you are. All the heroes are dead. Stay down and you will live to go back to your families…” He kept the weapon trained on them, right up until he reached the Lamborghini SUV. He opened the door, saw the control device on the centre console. King opened the rear door and pushed the Russian inside. He fell, slipped down between the front seat and jammed in the footwell. He wasn’t going anywhere. King slammed the door behind him and got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He dropped the Uzi on the seat beside him as he selected drive and floored the accelerator. He had never felt acceleration like it, as the twin-turbo diesel V8 dumped its six-hundred-plus horsepower onto the gravel track and shot forwards in a storm of thunderous engine and exhaust noise with a hail of gravel thrown onto everything behind it for twenty-metres. King almost lost control of the vehicle in a straight line, but he lifted his foot, brought the vehicle back towards the realms of sanity and aimed for the track ahead of him. He took the track fast, with little care for the potholes in the ruts or the boulders along the edges. The Lamborghini flew over the ruts, taking off occasionally and thudding down hard, Nikolai grunting as he was tossed and thrown in the rear. King roared up the incline and after a mile, which was taken in under a minute, King hit the tarmac and threaded the vehicle through a series of bends. He floored the accelerator on the straight and held on. The large vehicle was other-worldly fast. King daren’t take his eyes off the road ahead to check his speed, but the bends ahead forced him to slow, even though the four-wheel-drive system seemed to grip as if the SUV was on rails. Once he had cleared the bends, King slammed on the brakes and hammered the vehicle down the lane where he had parked his hire car. The Lamborghini would only attract the wrong type of attention, so King would leave it behind. Cars like this were always fitted with a tracker. Usually a stipulation from the insurers or lease companies. But for mafia bosses, because they would want to find the person who stole their newest toy.

  King killed the engine and got out of the vehicle. He opened the rear door and pulled Nikolai out. He pushed him ahead and into the rear of the car. He went back for the Uzi and slipped it under the driver’s seat as he got in.

  “Who are you?” Nikolai asked incredulously.

  “I am life,” King said. “Or I can be death.” He started the car’s tiny engine and by contrast to the premium SUV, their progress up the track was almost comically slow.

  “And which will you be to me?”<
br />
  “That depends on you,” said King. He turned out onto the road, drove steadily and carefully. His lights were on, and he was just a tourist on an evening drive. No place to be, no agenda.

  “Why? Why have you done this?”

  “Helena Milankovitch,” King said. “Do you know her?” He looked in the rear-view mirror, caught sight of the man’s expression in the moonlight.

  Nikolai nodded slowly. “I thought I’d never hear of her again,” he said. He sat back in the seat, as much as his bound hands would allow. He looked up at the ceiling, his shoulders had sagged. “I thought it would never catch up with me…”

  32

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” said King. “You’ve seen what happens tonight when people don’t get the answers they want.”

  “It was you,” Nikolai sneered at him. “You did something to Luca Fortez. Something that drove him crazy. Crazy enough to wage war on us. Kill my men…”

  King shrugged. “You ply your trade, make your living from bringing misery on others. You had it coming.”

  “Bullshit,” the Russian paused. “You and I are one and the same. You are a man who has done many terrible things. I can see it. See it in your eyes. You are no different to me.”

  “I’m nothing like you.”

  Nikolai scoffed. “As I said, you are no different.” He tried to sit up, but struggled in the deep sofa, his bindings restraining his hands and the use of his arms. He slumped back down. “Who do you work for? Helena Milankovitch?”

  “Tell me more about her,” said King. “It sounds like she has finally caught up with you. Why?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “And I’m not telling.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “I won’t talk,” Nikolai said defiantly. “Tougher men than you have tried before. They are all dead. You will be no different.”

  King took out the sheath knife. He unfastened his belt, removed the sheath and buckled back up again. The Russian watched. He stared at the blade, followed it as King placed it on the table.

  “I don’t really go in for torture,” said King.

  “Then what?”

  “Maybe I’ll appeal to your better nature?”

  Nikolai smiled. “What is your name?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  “What, I don’t get to know who you are?”

  “Always for the best.”

  “You’re not hired help,” he commented. “Who are you really working for?”

  King walked out to the open-plan kitchen and picked up the kettle. He filled it with water, turned the dial and waited for the gas to ignite. He put the kettle on the gas jet and then turned around and stared at the Russian. “It won’t take long.”

  “What? The hot water? What are you going to do with that?” he asked. His brow was perspiring, and his eyes were wide. He stared past King, his eyes transfixed on the kettle.

  “I’m making a cup of tea,” he said. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

  Nikolai switched his eyes to King. He looked incredulously at him, his eyes flitting between him and the kettle, which was starting to steam from its spout. “Are you kidding?”

  King took out two cups. He put a teabag in one and spooned some instant coffee into the other. He’d never met a Russian yet who drank tea, didn’t assume for a moment that Nikolai would be any different. He poured on the water, replaced the kettle and switched off the gas ring. Again, he assumed black. Poured a little milk into his own. He had forgotten to buy sugar. But he had once been forced to make a brew with his own piss, so he’d cope.

  He took the two cups into the lounge, placed them on the glass coffee table.

  “How am I meant to drink that?”

  King sipped his tea. He stared down at the Russian. “Helena Milankovitch.”

  Nikolai shrugged. “Trash. Married well.”

  “Didn’t she just,” King commented.

  “Her husband died. She will be a wealthy woman.”

  “She had her husband killed,” King paused. “She’s on the run.”

  “And you’re hunting her?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What the hell does sort of mean?”

  “I am hunting her, yes. And I’m going to kill her.”

  “Good. She’ll be less trouble that way.”

  “To you, maybe.”

  “What has she done to you?” Nikolai stared at him, there was a knowing lilt to his chin. A cadence that did not need speaking. “She has done you wrong, hasn’t she?”

  King shook his head. “No. This is about you.”

  “May I have some coffee?”

  King pulled over a chair, placed it around six-feet from the coffee table. The Uzi was resting on the chair. King had earlier checked it over, it held fourteen rounds. He picked up the sheath knife, walked around the table and pulled Nikolai forwards, sliced the man’s bonds, then pushed him back into the chair. When he rounded the other side of the table, he pushed it firmly into the Russian’s legs and sandwiched them to the chair. He pushed the coffee cup closer to the man, then sat back in his own chair. He placed the Uzi on the right arm of the chair and the knife on the other. He sipped his tea, watched the man in front of him drink the coffee. He noticed the man’s hands shake. Nikolai placed the coffee cup back down on the table, rubbed his hands together, rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. He fiddled with his watch strap. King could see it had cut into his wrist. The Russian looked up at King, he was nervous. Understandable. He fiddled again with his watch.

  “I will pay you,” he said finally. “Pay for you to release me. Unharmed.”

  King sipped his tea, placed the cup back down. “What did you do to Helena?”

  The Russian shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does. You know Pyotr Sergeyev?”

  Nikolai stared at King, the fear had left his eyes, replaced by annoyance. “I do.”

  “Elaborate.”

  “We worked together.”

  “And that’s it?” asked King. “I asked you to elaborate.”

  Nikolai shrugged.

  “That’s not elaborating.” King picked up the Uzi and selected single-fire. He aimed at the man’s shoulder and squeezed the trigger.

  The gunshot in the confines of the villa was deafening. Nikolai yelped, and his feet kicked out, pushing the coffee table away and splashing tea and coffee onto the glass. He had turned pale and the fleshy part on the tip of his shoulder was bright red, blood seeping through his shirt and running down his chest.

  “What the...?” he grimaced, then cursed in Russian. He held his left hand on the wound, then looked around and picked up a cushion, pressed it hard against the bullet graze.

  King understood the profanity, shrugged it off. He’d heard worse directed at him from his own mother. “Just a flesh wound,” he said. “Bloody painful, though, I’d bet.”

  “Okay!” he snapped. “I worked with Pyotr Sergeyev. We were inducted into the same brotherhood as teenagers. We were gofers at first, then hard-men. Enforcers. We dealt out beatings, collected money.” He was sweating, great beads running down his brow and into his eyes.

  “But you went separate ways,” King said. “Two rival mafia brotherhoods.”

  “Later, yes,” Nikolai nodded. He winced, moved the cushion away and inspected the wound. The bleeding had slowed. It was a nick, a graze, nothing more. It might have needed a couple of stitches, but he wouldn’t be getting them tonight. Too many people asked questions when they suspected a gunshot wound. “He’s dead. I heard he’d been hit. Was that you?”

  “Helena wanted Sergeyev killed.”

  “And?”

  “So, he’s dead.”

  “Shit, she must have something you really want back.”

  King ignored him. “And she wants you dead.”

  “I figured that.”

  “So, why?” King asked. “Why does sh
e want the two of you dead?”

  Nikolai smiled. “She’s a vengeful bitch, that is why.”

  “No shit.” King aimed the Uzi again.

  “Wait!” The Russian held his hands up. The cushion dropped onto his lap. He was flinching, his hands in front of him like tiny shields. He winced at the pain. “I’ll tell you!”

  King lowered the machine pistol. “Go on then.”

  “Okay, jeez. I tell you, you ever need a job after this, you come to me, right? You get the Italians to take down my guys, then you take down the Italians? Shit, man, you got balls this big…” He raised his hands and made a gesture, his fingers and thumbs not touching. The motion hurt his shoulder and he winced again. “Look, we were hot shit. We knew we were untouchable. That bitch Helena worked the casinos and she danced in some places, too. Man, what a body! She would hang on a guy’s arm, lucky charm sort of thing, whisper in his ear, ask for drinks. The guys lapped her up. She made the casino money getting guys to dump all their money on wild bets, and they made money on her drinks. Only French champagne, fifty US dollars a glass! Helena and girls like her, they were like gold mines. She was good too. She knew how to work a man for everything he had.”

  “And you had a cut of all this,” King stated matter-of-factly.

  “Of course,” he said. “We supplied her, and other girls to the casinos.”

  “So, I’m guessing she tried to leave that life behind? Left you with a big hole in your income.”

  “Yes,” Nikolai paused. “She did so a few times. Or at least, tried to. We took her back, encouraged her to stay.”

  “Encouraged?”

  “Yes.”

  “You beat her?”

  “No. Of course not,” he said emphatically. “She was a pretty woman. No point damaging what makes you money, eh?”

  “So, what happened?”

  “I need a drink.”

  King raised the Uzi. “You’ll get another bullet. Who knows, my aim might be a bit off next time. The bullet may go lower. Take a chunk of bone with it, nick an artery…”

  “Okay!” Nikolai shifted in the chair. “Helena had done another one of her disappearing tricks. Her sister turned up in town…”