Reaper

by A P Bateman

  King picked up the smaller man’s machine pistol. It was an older version, where the action fired from an open bolt. The bullet visible in the neck of the magazine. A squeeze of the trigger and the bolt would slam forward, the firing pin fixed and take the bullet to the breach where it would fire instantly and cycle until the trigger was released. Not an ideal design for grime and debris, but it was instantly recognisable as empty or loaded. He walked over to the pool, aimed at the man clinging to the side.

  “What were your orders?”

  “Fuck you…” the man winced, the side of his face was burned too.

  “She warned you, didn’t she?” King asked. “At the window.”

  The man smirked. “What the hell did you expect? You killed her husband.”

  “And you came here to kill me?” The man shrugged like it was nothing. “And her?” King asked.

  “What?”

  “Did you come here to kill her too? Her daughter as well?”

  “Why the hell would I kill them?” the man asked incredulously.

  King shot the man in the forehead, turned and walked back to the house without seeing him sink to the bottom of the pool, a trail of blood discolouring the water like a pale, crimson mist. He checked the weapon’s magazine as he walked, best guessed there were ten rounds left. He could see the Mercedes on fire a hundred metres up the road. The burning wheels had set something alight in the engine bay, or perhaps the fuel lines underneath, and the flames had taken hold. King had no way of telling if the driver or whoever else had been inside had gotten clear. He couldn’t see anybody, so entered the house vigilantly, the weapon aimed in front of him.

  Anna was on the floor, her back perched against the sofa, her daughter cradling her as she rubbed her jaw. She looked groggy, possibly only coming round in that moment. She looked up at King, her eyes wild and her expression full of hate.

  “Bastard!” she shouted at him.

  “You called them, didn’t you?” he said quietly. “When you got the coffee.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I said what I said to you, because it suited me. I survive. That’s what I do. I survived back in those days with the Bratva, and I continued to survive by marrying one of them. I knew they would be looking for me, and I knew they would leave me alone if I helped them. And I rated their chances more than yours.”

  “Let me know how that’s worked out for you?”

  “Bastard!” she shouted again. The girl flinched, and Anna held her arm, squeezing tightly. “This is the man who killed your father, my dear.”

  The girl looked puzzled for a moment, then sad. She said nothing, but tears were welling in her eyes.

  King ignored Anna, looked at the girl and crouched down. “I’m sorry for you, Dina. Truly I am,” he paused. “I understand your pain. But I gave your father a chance to live. More of a chance than he gave me.”

  “Bastard!” Anna shouted.

  King raised the machine pistol at Anna. “Shut up!” he snapped at her, his eyes as cold and blue as glacier water. He turned back to the girl. “You look like a smart girl,” he said. “You can choose to hate me for what happened, perhaps even wish me dead. Or you can let it go and get on with the rest of your life. The first option will bring you nothing but misery. The second option will define you, bring you happiness. The ability to love the people you get close to and enjoy life to the fullest.” He stood back up and walked to the door, pausing briefly to turn back and look at her. “My name is Alex King,” he said. “Remember it. If you want to get even one day, well I’ll most likely deserve it. But believe me, I’ll be ready, and I don’t die easily. And I won’t think twice about killing you.”

  54

  “About time. You’re playing fast and loose with the woman you love.”

  “I was injured after taking down Nikolai. I needed a few days to get sorted,” King lied seamlessly, then paused. “And the area got pretty hot with the police. I had to lie low for a while.”

  “But you’re ready for your next task now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I will text it to you now. And no contact with me until it’s done.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No, Mister King. You will receive the target and the address. You will do the job and you will keep all communication switched off until it is done. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “And no collateral damage.”

  “Sometimes it’s inevitable.”

  “Not in this case!” Helena snapped.

  “I’ll see how it goes.”

  “The guards are one thing, but no civilians. No non-combatants. Understand?”

  “Like I said, I’ll see how it goes.”

  “There will be no collateral damage, or you will never see your woman again…”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “Plenty. But make sure you understand. No collateral.”

  “Send me the details.”

  “Nearly there,” she paused. “And then you will see your beautiful, feisty Caroline again. Unless of course, you fail…”

  King heard the line go dead. He smiled, feeling that she had been suitably rattled. He held the phone in front of him, willing the text to come through. He took out the piece of paper that Anna Sergeyev had written Romanovitch’s details on. She could have been lying, but he doubted it. She seemed to want Helena Milankovitch derailed as much as he did. She ran with the fox and hunted with the hounds. He suspected he couldn’t trust a word she said.

  The text came through, a silent vibrate that King had set the phone to. He unlocked it and read the text. Goran Romanovitch was the target. King held up the paper alongside the phone. Helena had included GPS coordinates with her text, but the two addresses were identical.

  King had his next target.

  He was another step closer.

  But there was no mention of Catherine Milankovitch. Only Helena’s insistence upon zero collateral damage.

  Not only was King a step closer, he was now decidedly out in front.

  55

  Tbilisi International Airport (TBS),

  Georgia

  “I’ll get the car,” Ramsay said. “You two stay here and keep an eye on the bags.”

  “Yes, Dad,” Rashid quipped as Ramsay walked away from them.

  “You like winding him up, don’t you,” Marnie stated flatly. “He’s not so bad.”

  “No, he’s okay,” Rashid agreed. “But he’s done a lot of desk work, pressed the flesh and signed a lot of documents off. Not to mention had a few lunches on expenses.”

  “He was pretty handy at Botha’s place,” she countered. “Got you inside quickly when everyone was being shot at.”

  “True,” he conceded. His phone vibrated in his pocket and he looked at the screen as he took it out. He turned away from Marnie and spoke quietly. Marnie watched him, as he nodded, concentrating on the voice on the other end. She caught his eye and smiled, but he turned away without returning her gesture. Rashid slipped the phone back into his pocket and walked back over to her.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  Rashid watched Ramsay signing documents at the Hertz desk, showing his licence and talking animatedly with the hire company agent. He turned back to Marnie and bent down, kissed her firmly on the lips. She went to pull away, but he tucked his hand behind her head, felt her submit and kiss him passionately back. When he pulled away, he smiled. “Sorry, luv,” he said. “Got to go. Don’t try and find me, I have something to do.”

  “What?” she asked, shocked and confused. She looked over at Ramsay, who caught her eye, but looked back to the hire car rep. “What do you mean; go?”

  “Got to see a man about a dog,” he said. He slung his travel bag over his shoulder and headed for the exit without another glance.

  56

  London

  Another day of drizzle, the humidity of summer exacerbated by the heat and fumes of the heavy traffic. Simon Mereweather
had left the COBRA meeting and was on his way back to Thames House. It was only a short drive, but as expected, the traffic was gridlocked. MI5 were using motorcades less frequently in recent months, preferring to blend in with the rest of the London traffic. Mereweather travelled in the rear passenger seat of a pool car, the anonymous Ford Mondeo crawling with the flow of commuters, sight-seers and taxis. Upfront, his regular driver was accompanied by Mereweather’s bodyguard.

  His phone was hot, messages, texts and calls coming in from MI6, GCHQ, the MOD and various departments within MI5. The impending visit from the Russian president was first and foremost on the security and intelligence community’s agenda, given the dire lack of relations between the two countries after the Russian’s had been accused of biological attacks on former KGB double-agents on British soil. Russia’s relationship with many countries who had supported Britain, expelling Russian diplomats, was at an all-time low. Now, with a new Russian president and a new British Prime Minister in place, the visit was viewed as critically important on the world stage. However, with Russia’s involvement in supporting the Syrian regime, and an accusation of covert biological attacks in predominantly Muslim Chechnya, many Islamic extremist suspects had been heard on what GCHQ called network chatter. Their Echelon listening system had picked up talk of assassinating the Russian president.

  Mereweather looked at his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes. He was about to ignore it for a moment, collecting his thoughts for the imminent COBRA debriefing he would have with Director Amherst back at Thames House. There was barely a number he didn’t have stored, but the number was an international one, and he felt compelled to take it. He answered and was greeted by a woman’s voice, heavy in accent with a little background white noise.

  “Operator services, I have a reverse-charge call from Georgia, will you accept the charge?”

  “Yes.” A series of clicks followed, more white noise, then Mereweather said, “Hello?”

  “Simon! It’s Caroline…”

  “Caroline! Oh my god! Are you alright?”

  “I am,” she hesitated. “But I’m not safe.”

  “Are you free?”

  “I am.”

  “Where? Tell me and I’ll get an asset to you.”

  “Seems to be becoming a habit…”

  “Where are you?”

  “Batumi,” she said. “On the Georgian Black Sea coast.”

  “Where?”

  “Hard to say. I have a vehicle, but no money and no phone. The British embassy is in Tbilisi, but it wasn’t practical to head that way. I don’t have enough fuel to reach Tbilisi.”

  “Neil Ramsay is in Georgia. He traced Helena’s IP address to a deserted farmhouse on the outskirts of Skhimili.”

  “That’s where I was being held!” she gushed, the relief and knowledge that they had been looking for her was almost too much, the emotion heavy in her voice.

  “He’s up there now. The police are all over it. But it’s deserted.”

  “They haven’t found anything?”

  “They are taking swabs and prints as we speak.”

  “People. What about people? Women?”

  “Women? No. The place was empty.”

  “Simon, it was hell. It was a staging post for sex trafficking, baby farms… There were many women there…”

  “Well, they’ve cleared out now,” Mereweather paused. “I’ll call Neil right back, get him to come and get you. Where can you meet?”

  Caroline hesitated, then said, “There is a lighthouse and Ferris wheel on the seafront. I’ll meet him there.”

  “Hang tight,” Mereweather said. “He’ll come straight over.”

  “Simon,” Caroline said quietly. “Is Alex okay?”

  “Why do you ask?” he paused. “Apart from the obvious?”

  “Helena said she had him working for her. To keep me from harm. Is that true?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Is he okay?” she asked again.

  “We don’t know,” Mereweather paused. “He’s taken down half the Russian mafia and an Italian mafia syndicate for good measure. In short, we don’t know where he is.”

  “Helena needs to be caught.”

  “Well, we’re working on it. Look, stay put, I have to go so I can get you picked up,” he paused. “It’s brilliant to hear your voice again. Stay safe…” Mereweather ended the call, scrolled and dialled Neil Ramsay’s number.

  57

  The Georgian police seemed to have a unique approach to securing a crime scene. Once every officer had trod their way through with muddy boots, they gathered and smoked a cigarette each. Talked in low voices and agreed it would be a good idea to walk the mud through again, this time picking up everything within reach without gloves, regroup and smoke again, each man flicking their cigarette stubs in different directions. Some long and low conversations later, and relatives of the police were now on scene to assist, smoke, traipse mud of their own through the crime scene, then confer over more cigarettes. Somebody had found a bottle of alcohol and a few of the lower-ranked officers gathered behind one of the barns to share it. After a few more smokes, a vehicle arrived and then a man got out wearing a suit and carrying a medical case. He conferred with the group of officers, accepted a cigarette and smoked it on his way in.

  Ramsay looked up, glanced at Marnie, then looked back at the man in the suit.

  “I am officer Danko, I am the forensic scientist.”

  “I’m with the British Home Office,” Ramsay said without offering his name or department. “There looks to be evidence of people being held here. One of our people may have been held prisoner here,” he paused. “We are sending over a DNA sample, fingerprints, blood type and photograph to your headquarters.” He looked dejectedly at the mud on the floor, the officers walking through. “In the event of a miracle and you actually finding any forensic evidence that hasn’t been corrupted by your colleagues, the British Government would appreciate you correlating this data and sharing it immediately.”

  The forensic scientist shrugged and walked over to two police officers, who pointed towards the stairs. He left the room without a glance.

  “Fat lot of good this will do,” Marnie said. “I only know about these things from watching Silent Witness and CSI, but I’m guessing they don’t excel in the world of forensic science out here. I doubt they even watch those shows.”

  “I doubt they even get Quincy,” Ramsay commented flatly. He felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket and took it out. He saw Simon Mereweather’s number on the display. “Hello?”

  “Drop whatever you’re doing and get down to Batumi on the coast. There is a lighthouse and a Ferris wheel on the seafront. Caroline will be there.”

  “What?” Ramsay asked incredulously. “A trade?”

  “No. She escaped, and she’ll be waiting for you.”

  Ramsay was already walking, Marnie snapped to and followed, her expression one of concern. He strode out across the farmyard, talking as he went. “Is she okay?”

  “She sounds shaken, and she has no money or phone, so hurry and pick her up. Call me as soon as you have her.”

  Ramsay put the phone back in his pocket and reached for the keys to the hire car.

  “Problem?” Marnie asked.

  “No. Caroline is safe. But she has no funds, no way of contacting us and we have to drive to a town called Batumi and pick her up. She escaped…”

  “Escaped?” Marnie interrupted.

  “Yes,” Ramsay replied tersely. “I don’t have the details yet, because I’m sure Simon hasn’t either.”

  “What about Rashid?”

  “Screw him.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “Seriously, screw him. He isn’t going to be with MI5 after that little stunt he pulled.”

  “Well, it must have been important,” Marnie protested. “Rashid is a good man.”

  “Tell that to your boyfriend,” Ramsay paused, shaking his head. “I saw you and him ki
ssing at the airport.”

  Marnie stopped walking. “Firstly, that is between me, and my soon to be ex-fiancé. Rashid actually made me realise I was making a mistake, whatever happens or doesn’t happen between Rashid and myself when we get home.”

  Ramsay stopped and turned around. “And secondly?”

  “Secondly, don’t take a cheap shot at me because you’re pissed off with him.”

  He turned back and carried on walking. “All right,” he said. “I’m sorry, it was uncalled for.”

  “Forget it,” she said. She took out her mobile and started searching for the name of the town. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll start satnav guidance now.”

  “How far is it?”

  “One-hundred and thirty-eight kilometres.”

  “About two-hours then.”

  “Try four and a half.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what it says here. It’s not the M1, that’s for sure.”

  Ramsay got into the Skoda Superb, had the engine started before Marnie got in. As her backside hit the seat he took off at speed, the front wheels throwing up gravel that scattered down the side of the vehicle. Her door closed when enough wind force pushed it shut. She was struggling with the seatbelt, which had locked up when the wheels lost traction.

  “Holy crap!” she shouted.

  “Four and a half hours, my arse,” he said, and took the car up to eighty miles per hour down the narrow country lane. The car scudded over potholes large enough for a corpse to be buried in, the car bouncing and weaving its way down the track. “I said two-hours, and by Christ we’ll do it in two.”

  58