Dead Man Walking (Alex King Book 14) Read online

  DEAD MAN WALKING

  A P BATEMAN

  CONTENTS

  The Alex King Series

  The Rob Stone Series

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Author’s Note

  Dead Man Walking

  By

  A P Bateman

  Text © A P Bateman

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, printing or otherwise, without written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction and any character resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Some locations may have been changed; others are fictitious.

  Facebook: @authorapbateman

  www.apbateman.com

  Rockhopper Publishing

  THE ALEX KING SERIES

  The Contract Man

  Lies and Retribution

  Shadows of Good Friday

  The Five

  Reaper

  Stormbound

  Breakout

  From the Shadows

  Rogue

  The Asset

  Last Man Standing

  Hunter Killer

  The Congo Contract

  Dead Man Walking

  THE ROB STONE SERIES

  The Ares Virus

  The Town

  The Island

  Stone Cold

  Standalone Novels

  Hell’s Mouth

  Unforgotten

  Novellas

  The Perfect Murder?

  Atonement

  (an Alex King short story)

  Further details of these titles can be found at

  www.apbateman.com

  For Dad.

  I’ll miss you every day…

  ONE

  He had first noticed the car four days ago. On the second day he had approached the driver in a casual manner before the vehicle had driven off. Not erratically, but certainly because of him making a beeline towards it. On the third day he had packed Caroline off to an aunt in the lake District, where she had cancelled her Airbnb bookings for the late winter die-hard walkers and welcomed her niece with open arms. Caroline had left her mobile phone and bank cards behind and taken with her the ten-thousand pounds that had been wrapped in a brown paper bag and hidden under a stair tread in their cottage, along with the basic burner phone and second passport under an assumed name. Hidden too had been the baby Glock and two magazines loaded with 9mm hollow points. One could never be too careful.

  King peered through the edge of the curtain. The car was still there. The bulky and heavy Sig Sauer P226 9mm pistol felt comforting in his hand. The cash-filled envelope in his inside jacket pocket felt comforting, too. The same ten-thousand pounds allotted to Caroline, and one of a dozen more dotted around the country. Secreted too, were more weapons and passports. Both had memorised the locations, along with a series of email accounts where they could contact each other using a tried and tested technique of keeping an email in a draft folder and using it as a message page if they needed to, saving the draft when they had finished and remaining under the radar. The email would never even enter the ether, where any number of foreign intelligence agencies or terrorist organisations could intercept their communication and do them harm.

  Outside, King’s car was fuelled, well-serviced and a small leather travel bag was permanently stashed in the boot. Under the spare wheel a compact M4 assault rifle had been scissored open as if for cleaning which enabled the weapon to fit snugly in place in the recess along with a detachable scope and three magazines filled with 5.56x45mm Swedish match grade ammunition. King had chosen the Audi RS4 for its powerful engine and four-wheel-drive system but had removed the satnav and emergency response button so that it could not be hacked into by hostile forces to discover either his current location, or where he had been. Likewise, Caroline’s Mini Cooper S was both anonymous and swift, but just like King’s vehicle the satnav had been removed. The couple had both reverted to a more analogue world in a bid to disappear. Only now, they had been found.

  King watched as the vehicle was joined by another. It was dark, just after midnight. He could hear the engine switch off through the open window. The driver’s door opened, but no interior light illuminated. There was the faint, red glow of the door lights opening on the first car, but again, no interior light. The car in question was a BMW 3 Series and King already knew where the red convenience lights were located and that he was dealing with a degree of professionalism. But he would have done it differently. He would have had the bulbs of these lights removed and not just switched off the interior lights, and he wouldn’t have parked so close.

  King made his way to the rear of the house. Behind the property were several fields running to the natural border of a river in the valley below. He already knew that it was high tide and that the tidal creek would be deep enough for a boat of considerable size to find passage through. From half tide RIBs and rowing boats could easily escape the mud, which was all there was for an hour or so either side of low tide. A muddy creek with a sliver of murky water from the stream which ran permanently. But at high tide, and an hour either side, a boat with a five-foot draught could easily anchor close to the shore. King picked up the binoculars and switched on the night mode. He couldn’t quite see the edge of the creek, but he did see the five, armed figures making their way across the fields. His heart started to beat heavily, and his breathing became erratic. He put down the binoculars and took a deep breath. And then another. Just like his mentor had taught him all those years ago. By the time he exhaled a third time, he was ready for the fight.

  King was already dressed in black jeans and wore a black M65 style military jacket over a dark navy sweater. He had used a camo-cream stick on his face and wore a black beanie hat. He raced downstairs and picked up the crossbow, slipping the pistol into his jacket pocket. He had been watching the vehicle for two hours in the darkness and his eyes were well-adjusted to the dark. He assumed the approaching men would have some sort of night vision
system, but as he cocked the 175lb pull crossbow and fitted the first bolt under the clip that would hold it in place next to the bowstring, he took some satisfaction in having a night vision sight fixed and painstakingly zeroed atop the crossbow.

  Attacks should always use the terrain and darkness to good effect. Successful attacks incorporated both factors, and approach from multiple sides. But the most successful attacks always had the element of surprise. That element only lasts for a few seconds, but it can mean the difference between failure and success. King had both terrain and darkness. He couldn’t cover multiple sides, but he had the element of surprise, and his attackers did not. They had played their hand and he had would call them on it. King knew that if he were to ambush a target at night, then he would do it somewhere between two and four AM. A person’s sleep pattern had usually entered REM sleep at that time and waking suddenly would leave them groggy, their equilibrium still to catch up. He checked his vintage Rolex, the luminous dials faint and just visible in the darkness. It was not yet eight PM.

  Outside, the air was fresh, and the night was still. Unusual for late winter in Cornwall. Last week had been eighty-mile-per-hour winds and driving rain. Next week would likely be the same. But the still air and clear skies could work for King just as well because King could be as silent as the grave and he would hear his enemies coming. He had been in this scenario many times, and he was still here.

  King had landscaped the garden as best as his limited skills would allow, but he had excavated and laid paths of gravel through the rustic garden and apple orchard. He had used paving around the house, and he now crossed it silently, hearing the crunch upon gravel from one of his enemies as a boot crunched on the gravel chippings. King slipped silently into the shadows while the man crossed the gravel in three tentative strides. Behind him, King could hear another footstep in the still, night air.

  They were surrounding the house. Closing in like a boa constrictor contracting its grip on its prey. King shouldered the crossbow and saw the man crouching beside an apple tree. Too small to afford him any cover. Strange that a man would think to conceal himself behind such a thing, but it told him another thing about his enemies. Anyone with military training would have been lying prone, following the tree’s moon shadow. The man may have had darkness to his advantage, but he had forgotten all about silhouette. And the way he had chosen to cross the noisy gravel once he had trodden carelessly onto the path, so close to the house, told King that sound was another of the five S’s he had chosen to ignore. He put himself inside the man’s head. Most likely young and excited, scared even. Focusing on the weapon in his hands and getting the job done. Without ego, King thought that the men would have been thoroughly briefed on their intended target, and that briefing – should they have the intelligence to back up their actions – would have confirmed King as a highly trained and highly motivated individual with a track record of kills for his country in wars, foreign and domestic clandestine operations across every continent bar Antarctica. At a shade under six foot tall, around fourteen stone and well-muscled King had the build of a light heavy/cruiser weight boxer and had indeed fought in the ring when he was younger – although the only organisation to hold such information was MI6 and none of his former handlers or overwatch were still alive. King watched as another figure drew near and squatted down next to the first man. Both men now formed a sizeable dark mass in the garden he knew so well, and as the clouds parted and allowed a brief sliver of moonlight to project cleanly onto the ground, it was clear that his enemy were not equipped with comms and that they still needed to communicate verbally. King estimated the distance to be approximately seventy metres between them. He took careful aim and took advantage of the gift the two men had given him. The nearest man was training his weapon on the cottage. His right arm was bent with his elbow pointing downwards and his hand on the pistol-grip of the assault rifle. King breathed out steadily, held his breath while he adjusted his aim, then fired.

  The crossbow made a dull and barely distinguishable thud as the bowstring sent the bolt out across the garden at eighty metres per second. Not even a second to reach the target, penetrate completely and go halfway through the second man. The first man stood up and started to run. He made it twenty-paces before his legs rapidly became more and more unsteady and he stumbled head forwards and lay still on the grass. The second man had slumped where he had been crouched, his rifle dropping into his lap. Neither man had made a noise, but their colleague had witnessed it and he opened fire on the cottage and within seconds had emptied thirty rounds of high velocity 5.56mm all over King’s garden, and much of his house as well. King remained still as he watched the man dive flat onto his stomach and start to change magazines. King was sizing up his opponent and his magazine change was smooth, and the way he thumped his left palm onto the bolt-release button on the left-hand side of the weapon’s frame told King the man was armed with an AR-15 variant rifle.

  There were gunshots behind King now. Pistol rounds. Short, sharp reports without the resonance of the assault rifle. Several rounds pinged close to King, and he lowered himself onto his stomach and worked the bowstring backwards. It was an awkward angle, and it took every ounce of strength that King had to cock the weapon without the foot stirrup attached to the fore-end of the weapon. King aimed at the third man, but he was already moving – running hard and fast across the open ground to a belt of evergreens. King quietly cursed. He had been meaning to take down the conifers and enlarge the orchard, but the thick, bushy trees hid the man once he stepped amongst them. Someone less experienced may have taken a hopeful shot into the foliage, but King knew the odds against that, and even a bolt fired from such a powerful crossbow could be deflected by the thinnest of branches. Besides, he only had four bolts remaining and was loath to waste one unless he had a clear shot. King turned and faced the oncoming threat, footsteps crunching on the gravel behind him. The man had focused on this too and came out shooting. Confused, King used the night sight to survey the ground behind him. Four men, but unlike the three who had entered from the direction of the creek these men were dressed in casual clothes, one of them even wearing a suit. King studied the weapons, fearing for a moment that the men could be police officers, but discounting that as soon as he identified one of the weapons as a Kalashnikov, given away by its long, curved magazine. He aimed at the furthest one and fired. The bolt reached the target within two seconds and the man doubled over and dropped to his knees. The men in front of him had no idea that they were a man down and King reloaded, taking a bolt from the quiver rack underneath the weapon and slipping the bolt between his teeth as he pulled back the bowstring, then slipped the bolt in place. His movements were methodical and fluid, but clearly not as stealthy as he would have hoped and bullets tracked across the grass in front of him, sending mud up into his face. King threw himself clear and pushed his way through the foliage and rolled to his right once he was clear. A volley of gunfire followed him through the bushes, but he was already clear as the gunman fired blindly, and his bullets headed for the creek beyond. King changed tack and backtracked around the cottage. He slung the crossbow over his shoulder on its sling and drew the Sig Sauer 9mm. He had only reached the gable end when a man running towards him stopped suddenly, his shoes skidding on the path. The man raised his weapon, but King dropped down and fired three shots from his hip. The man squirmed as the bullets struck him in the stomach and King straightened his arm, aiming true and shot him in the forehead. He changed over magazines despite still having eleven rounds remaining, but now with the last bullet chambered, he now had sixteen 9mm bullets at his disposal. King pressed on; his eyes well-adjusted to the gloom. He had timed blinking with each gunshot, the muzzle flash briefly lighting the rear of the house as if it were daylight and threatening to snatch his night vision from him. His ears were ringing, and despite having fired weapons thousands of times, there was nothing like the first salvo to assault your senses. King could see the next man firing across the rough gras
sy area at the front of the house, too unkempt to call it a lawn, but not a meadow by any means. King switched to the crossbow. No sense in giving away his position, and the night sight and shoulder stock of the crossbow made it a far more accurate prospect over the distance of sixty metres or so between King and the gunman. King aimed, but he did not tighten his finger on the trigger. What were the chances of a simultaneous attack by separate forces? But they were certainly opposing forces, as the battle on the front garden ahead of him was in full flow. King was about to fire, but the man moved forward. He soon found another target and took aim on a man wearing a leather bomber jacket and carrying a sawn-off shotgun. He fired and the bolt shot past the man’s face and off into the night. The man turned and at the same time, he flicked on a head torch and King was blinded by a blue-white LED beam that cut through the night like something from a sci-fi movie. The man fired and King felt himself peppered with shot. King dropped the crossbow – far too slow to load now – and answered with the pistol. The man threw himself onto his stomach and fired again, but King was rolling across the grass and the wide spread of shot missed him and he heard the shot spraying the hedge behind him instead. King could feel the shot on him now, his clothing had taken the brunt of velocity out of the shot – and thankfully it was travelling at only four-hundred feet per second – but he knew that some of the shot had broken the skin as he could feel something warm and wet on his chest that he knew wasn’t perspiration. King answered with three shots from the 9mm, and the bullets were travelling at almost four times the velocity as the shotgun pellets. The man went down and rested still, his headtorch beam shining a motionless searchlight in the sky.