The Hunt (13 page)

The pilot grunted and flipped onto her stomach, kicking with her feet to enter the shadowy cabin. Rose cupped her right hand with her left, winced as the cool pain turned blazing hot, and fired two more times.

Both shots found their mark. The woman jerked on her stomach and then lay still, legs hanging out of the cabin, right foot twitching slightly as her nerves danced towards death.

Rose stood and approached the aircraft, senses alight, ready. If anyone else was inside they’d have entered the fight by now, but she had to make sure. She moved quickly, crouching behind the woman to search inside the cabin. No one.

She climbed in, lurching forward into the cockpit. Both seats were empty.

Her arm was blazing hot and leaking blood, she needed to tend her wound, the Trail men might have heard the shots and would rush back, leaving the hunter’s corpse to retrieve later
…

Time crunched. A faint lightened her muscles and turned her stomach, and Rose bit her lip, hard. The taste of blood did nothing to distract from her injured arm. It was screaming at her, pain surging in close waves that broke even higher whenever she moved. She stood, swayed, grasped on to something to stop herself falling.

I’ve felt worse!
she thought, remembering those glorious, agonising moments of childbirth, and berating herself for being so weak. She glanced at the torn jacket hanging beneath her tricep. It was already dark and heavy with blood, speckles dripping onto her thigh and the floor. But it would have to wait.

She gave herself two minutes. Then she’d have to be away, and with her injury she couldn’t count on moving as fast as she’d like. It was doubtful that any of the men could fly the helicopter as well, but she couldn’t take that chance. She had to put the aircraft out of action, gather anything that might be of use, and get the hell away.

It was her first time inside a helicopter. She scanned the cockpit, bemused at the spread of buttons and dials, looking for something to rip out or smash or cut. But there was no time for subtlety.

She swapped the pistol to her left hand and fired five shots into the instrument panel. Sparks sizzled and jumped from one impact point, but she had no idea whether any bullet had made a difference.

Then realisation struck, and she cursed herself again. Only recently she’d been ready to bring the helicopter down as it flew, so now she knew how to
keep
it down.

Moving back through the cabin, she saw a first aid box pinned to the wall by several straps. She pulled it free and held it beneath her left arm. There was also a rifle leaning casually against one of the main cabin’s side seating. She slung it over her left shoulder. There were boxes of food strapped to the cabin’s rear wall, probably supplies to be dropped to the hunters. She wondered what was in there – proper food, probably, not the energy stuff she’d sent out with Chris. Caviar. Champagne. She laughed, a manic guffaw.

No time. Every second she remained here was a second closer to being shot again, and she had her wound to tend as soon as she was away. Maybe she’d faint. That would be more of a waste than being caught with a broken ankle.

Stop thinking and start doing!
Adam said.

She searched the pilot’s body, grabbed her dropped pistol, and jumped to the ground.

Her knees went and she fell onto her front, narrowly missing smacking her nose into rock. Vision swam. Blood ran hot. Wind breathed stinging rain across the back of her head.

Rose lifted herself and stood, wincing against the pain and willing the faint away. It was
only
pain, that was all, something to embrace and analyse, but not to let her down.

Aiming at the tail rotor, she fired the last few shots in the magazine. One blade snapped off completely, spinning away in the wind. Another slumped and hung by a twisted thread.

Got to make sure
, she thought. She pulled the pilot’s pistol and emptied it into the engine compartment. One impact thudded heavy, and fuel started to pour from the hole.

She walked away from the helicopter and another dead Trail bastard. Then she ran. Even if they
could
fix the damage she’d done it would take them some time. And now their blood would be up, their anger raging, their need for vengeance a hot, tactile thing.

Welcome to her world.

Vey and Tom came at them with knives, and Gemma really wasn’t sure whether she had any energy or feeling left.

Ever since the piss stop she’d been working her hands, shoulders, buttocks and legs, trying to keep the blood flowing and numbness at bay. She tensed, terrified but determined to fight back if she had the chance, defend herself and her family to the last. But they were only cutting their bindings.

Sitting in cooling, soaked underwear and school trousers was very uncomfortable, and even though it was warm in the van, Gemma had found herself shivering. Several times she glanced at the nail on the van floor. It was maybe four inches long, speckled with rust. It must have been there for a while.

She kept it in mind. In the box, in fact, although in a part of it hidden away from everything else. The nail was kept in the box’s false bottom, because for now Gemma didn’t even want to think about it herself. Maybe Vey could read her mind. Maybe she’d already seen her looking at it, knew what she had planned, and was just letting her continue thinking that she was a clever girl. A clever little girl.

‘Where are we?’ her mum asked as Tom sliced at the binds around her legs and waist. There was an edge of panic to her voice. Megs was sobbing again, and Gemma’s heart hammered.

‘Can’t you take the blindfolds off?’ she asked. Vey was kneeling in front of Megs, tugging the girl forward so that she could cut the ropes behind her. She paid no notice at all to the girl’s cries. She seemed not to hear.

‘Yeah, why not,’ Tom said. He ripped their mother’s blindfold off, and Vey did the same to Megs. They both squeezed their eyes shut.

Outside the open back doors, Gemma saw a gravelled parking area and the high wall of a building, one edge of a window just in view. A flower pot sat beneath the window with the drooping remnants of summer blooms. The air smelled sweet.

‘Everything’s fine, girls,’ her mother said. ‘We’ll be fine, this’ll all be over soon.’

But Gemma saw something that chilled her to the core – a small, wry smile on Vey’s lips.

As Tom helped her mother stand and step from the van, Megs followed, sparing a terrified glance for Gemma.

‘Hey, sis,’ Gemma said. Megs hated being called sis, but now she smiled, her eyes red-rimmed and sore.

Vey squeezed Gemma’s cut shoulder and pulled her forward so that she could slice the ropes tying her to the seat. Gemma cried out, even though it didn’t hurt that much, because she wanted the woman to think she was growing weaker, more scared, less inclined than ever to cause any trouble.

‘I know kids like you,’ the woman said, pressing her face close to Gemma’s. Her breath stank, stale and redolent of old meat and cigarettes. ‘You think you know everything because your tits are getting bigger and boys are looking at you. You think you’re indestructible and the world’s laid out for you to pick over. But don’t give me any trouble. Because I’ve killed little girls tougher than you.’

Fear bit in, sharp and stinging. Gemma tensed her wounded shoulder against Vey’s hand, and the pain fended off the fear and seeded that hot bloom of rage once again.

‘I’m not a little girl,’ she whispered.

Vey laughed, then stood and let go.

Gemma forced a soft cry and fell forward, rolling onto her back. She let her legs splay out helplessly across the van’s floor.

‘Up!’ Vey said. ‘Come on, shift it. Got some food inside for you, but only if you do as you’re told.’

I’ve killed little girls tougher than you.

Hands still tied behind her back, Gemma’s flexing fingers found the nail at last. She probed at its tip and the head lifted from the seam in the metal floor.

Vey jumped from the van and reached back in, grasping Gemma’s shirt collar, pulling her upright, dragging her to sit in the doorway. ‘Wait there for a bit, your legs have gone numb.’

Gemma swung her legs back and forth, pretending to wince at pins and needles that weren’t there, while she tucked the nail into the back of her trousers.

Whoever these people were, she had taken her first step in rebelling against them.

Chris sometimes wore a tee shirt bearing the slogan,
I Do Not Bonk
. It had attracted many amused and confused stares because, to most, ‘bonk’ was another word for screw. Strange to profess that. But to endurance athletes, bonking was the process of crashing during a race, energy levels at a minimum, glycogen stores depleted, muscles quivering their last. He knew how not to bonk.

He’d never been in a race where bonking would mean a bullet in the back of his head.

After his conversation with Rose he started running again, heading across the curving waist of a high mountain. The horizon he aimed for was always close, comprised of ragged rock formations or sometimes gentler slopes of small boulders and scree. He could not see what was around the next rocky spur or small ridge line, but he was confident that he would take it in his stride.

He’d been running for around four hours. The longest foot race he’d ever run had been an ultra-marathon, almost forty miles across a picturesque but challenging course in the Lake District. It had taken in a circuit of Coniston Water with a bow-shaped route out into neighbouring hills and back again for added excitement. It had taken him almost ten hours, which had put him in the bottom half of the finishers’ list. But he’d only been racing himself and the elements, and simply finishing had been a massive achievement.

Compared to that, his exertion so far today had been merely a warm-up.

But so much was different. There were no water and nutrition stops. No way-marked course, no marshals to show the way, no St John’s Ambulance in attendance in case of injuries or exhaustion. And no family at the end to cheer him home.

He felt like curling up into a ball and crying. He felt like raging, raving, finding someone to punch and kick. The unfairness of everything clamped around him, constricting his lungs and smothering him. Terri had always told him he was good at doomsdaying. He’d once been in a minor road accident with a hard-looking man who later turned out to be part of a local crime family, known for violence and intimidation. The man had refused to swap insurance details and Chris had very pointedly written down his vehicle licence number. The man had stared Chris out, then driven away.

A friend of Terri’s had recognised the description, told them with whom Chris had had a run-in, and from there his mind had worked overtime.
What if I report him and he comes here? What if he threatens us? What if he follows me home from work, or follows you and the kids one evening when you’re out for a walk? One phone call could lead to all that. They’ll firebomb the house. Run us off the road
.

Terri had told Chris that the worst did not always happen.

Chris never did call the police, and he paid for the damage to his car himself.

It had been unfair, out of his control, and he’d had many sleepless nights over such a minor event.

The injustice of his situation now screamed at him with every blink, every footfall on rock or shale or mountain grass. And he was doomsdaying.
What if …? What if …?

It was all out of his control. The Trail had set this up. The hunters were here to kill him to satisfy some perverted primeval urge. Rose was using him to exact her own vengeance, perform her own killing spree.

All he could do was run, filled with dread that any moment might be his family’s last.

He’d finished the second bottle of water, the bladder was almost empty, and he was keeping his eyes open for a mountain stream to replenish his supplies. He’d also eaten the bagel, stale sandwiches, and a second energy bar. There were several more left, and a handful of gels, but he knew that he’d need some more proper food soon.

But he should forget about food. He’d find none up here, not unless he came across some hill walkers or extreme sports enthusiasts running or climbing. If that did happen, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

Maybe it would be best for them if he avoided them.

It was almost six in the evening. Sunset would be around nine, and up here in the mountains darkness fell very quickly. The sun dipped below a mountain or ridge and that was it – shadows fell, and any further movement and navigation, even with a head torch, became very dangerous. He’d heard of many people who’d died in the Welsh mountains simply from walking over a cliff, falling into a ravine, or taking the wrong turning at a navigation point. There were probably bodies still up here, merging back into the wild landscape to form part of its future, and becoming a part of its history.

He would not be one of those. He only hoped the hunters did not have night vision equipment.

The thought almost stopped him in his tracks. Of
course
they’d have such equipment. It would be part of the whole package, wouldn’t it? These weren’t the sorts of people who’d want a ‘one shot’ type hunt, man against man. They’d paid fuck knows how much so they could hunt and kill another human being, and using an automatic rifle packed with a decent scope, perhaps carrying tracking hardware of some sort, and possessing night vision binoculars, would make them feel even more talented. More ‘special forces’. They’d probably been having wet dreams about this for weeks or months, and now they were in the game they’d be eager for the kill.

Blondie was keen. Driven enough to leave a badly injured man behind in dangerous surroundings, he already had Chris in his sights.

He’d seen them jumping and tumbling from the helicopter, and most of the five had looked like overweight, inexperienced buffoons. But that didn’t mean the Trail hadn’t equipped them with the best kit money could buy.

Come dusk, he would either have to find somewhere to spend the few hours of total darkness, or risk moving by moon- and starlight. The sky was relatively clear right now, but that didn’t mean that clouds might not come in later. This high up, the air could turn hazy without warning. More than once he’d been caught out on a mountain run when cloud descended, relying on good navigation to get him where he wanted to go.

And that was another problem. He still hadn’t figured out exactly where he was. He was doing his best to spot obvious landmarks for when he had time to sit and analyse the map, but for now heading south was his only priority.

The mountainside levelled into a relatively flat, easy area to cross, and he took the opportunity to assess his condition. His feet felt comfortable in his trail shoes. There were no hot-spots that might indicate the beginnings of a blister. His calves, shins and thighs felt strong, no niggling pains. His knees were stiff and warm, but he was used to that. Sometimes when he complained of stiff knees, Terri would gleefully diagnose old age. He could feel the impacts of his footfalls up through his hips, and he was used to that, too. Nothing new. His arms hung loose, he kept his back straight and shoulders back, leading with his chest. He was maintaining his running style, which was important both to preserve energy and be most efficient, and to prevent injury. Fit as he was, a turned ankle would be an ironic end to this race. He’d never appeared as a Did Not Finish on a race results list, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He tried to ignore the fact that he’d already run twelve miles that morning, and his body was also succeeding in disregarding those miles. It concerned him that stopping for a few hours during darkness might mean that he’d stiffen up. Maybe he’d walk. Maybe something else would happen. He could attempt to plan, but there was no saying where he’d be in ten minutes’ time, let alone three hours.

The close horizon could be hiding anything.

Above him, the mountain was slowly obscured by hazy cloud, and he could feel rain spots pattering against his scalp. Below, the valley was still swimming in sunshine, cloud shadows drifting like huge sea creatures. There were still no roads or buildings. He was happy with the route he was taking, and just ahead the hillside rose into a spine of jagged rock.

It was an ideal point to climb and take a look back, and when he did he saw movement. Two shapes, far back across the landscape. Too far away for him to identify, they were following roughly the route he’d taken.

Chris crouched down, then grew still.
They need to know they’re coming the right way
, he thought.
Need to know they haven’t lost me. As long as the hunt is on, Terri and the girls are safe
.

He climbed across the rocks until he was in sunlight once more, then rooted around in his rucksack for something to use. The penknife should do. He opened several blades and implements, then held it up and moved it back and forth, trying to gauge the right angle to catch sunlight and send a flickering reflection their way. It needed them to be looking ahead, searching for him, and if they were already growing tired they might only be staring at their feet.

‘Come on, Blondie,’ he muttered. He was the one man who would not give up. Chris waved the penknife again, twisting and turning his wrist and hand until—–

A gunshot, so distant that it was barely a cough across the landscape.

He ducked down, realising that the bullet would already have struck or passed him by. He had no idea of ranges, but figured that a hunting rifle wouldn’t be able to shoot accurately over such a distance. A sniper’s rifle, perhaps. Specialist stuff used by the military. There was no saying
what
they might be armed with. He was in the dark.

Now that he’d been seen, he couldn’t risk a lucky shot hitting him.

He started climbing again, and there was no more gunfire. Glancing back a couple of times he could see the two following him, and he caught hints of more movement further back along the slope. Seeing him had caused an excited reaction from one of them, but now they were preserving their ammunition as they tried to catch up.

He couldn’t afford to let them draw any closer. Once over this rugged spine of rock he’d assess the landscape beyond, then pick his route further south. Whatever mountain range he was in extended to the far horizon in that direction. Chris welcomed that.

But slipping over the head of the knife-edge ridge, picking his way carefully down the other side, he feared that he’d made a fatal mistake.

He should have checked over this side first before attracting their attention.

The lake was perhaps three hundred metres across. Half of it was still bathed by sunlight, reflecting the sky like a highly polished mirror. The other half was an inky, unbroken black. It was wide. To his right, sheer cliffs edged the body of water. To his left, a stark, steep ridge curved around from the promontory he stood upon, encasing the lake and shielding it from the gentle drop into the valley beyond. He could see at least two small streams tinkling into the lake from higher up the mountainside, and there would be points of egress for the water, too. Attractive streams cascading down the hillside, providing waterfalls where the adventurous could shower and gaze in wonder at mini-rainbows.

‘Shit!’ He should have looked! If he climbed back over the rocks to head down towards the valley, he’d be instantly in view, especially now that he’d so usefully given away his position. Heading directly up the mountain to skirt the lake involved technical climbing that he wasn’t experienced in or prepared for. Left from where he stood now was a precarious, exposed scramble. He might make it around the rugged wall skirting the lake, and over into the valley, before they arrived where he stood now. But he had his doubts.

Doubts he could not afford.

The lake’s surface was alive with countless tiny splashes where heavy raindrops landed. It actually looked quite welcoming, but he knew that it would be cold, deep, dangerous. In all the triathlons he’d entered, the swimming had always been his weak link, especially open water.

Some people feared heights, and that was also a monkey on Chris’s back. But he was even more scared of depths.

‘Oh, shitting hell,’ he muttered as he scrambled down the slope towards the lake’s edge. He tried to gauge the distance again to the other side. He’d guessed three hundred metres, though it was quite difficult to judge as there was nothing to measure against. A rock he was looking at over there could be the size of a man or a car. He threw a stone as far as he could, watched the ripples, observed how long they took to spread across the lake. Maybe a little less than three hundred metres. Fully clothed, carrying the rucksack, he reckoned he could swim the distance in eight or nine minutes. If he set off as soon as possible, that would be plenty long enough to reach the other side before his pursuers climbed the ridge behind him.

He shrugged off the rucksack and tipped it up. He’d spotted the sealable plastic bag earlier, and now he silently thanked Rose for her foresight. He threw everything into the bag – phone, GPS watch, map and compass, clothing and nutrition – sealed it, tied it to make doubly sure, and shoved it back inside the rucksack.

The lake was a good landmark. When he was across on the other side and away, having put time between him and his hunters, if not distance, he would make time to look at the map.

He shrugged the rucksack on again, made sure the straps were tight, and stood at the lake’s edge. Its bed sloped steeply down from where he stood – he could see the bottom, and the water was startlingly clear – and from experience, he knew there was only one way to get into a cold lake.

He jumped.

His feet hit bottom, slipped on the slick rocks, and he went under immediately, cold stealing his breath. He kicked and his feet found only water. He closed his eyes and kicked for the surface, or where he thought the surface to be. The cold was deep in his chest, stilling his heart, probing fingers from his core to his extremities. A pulsing pain started behind his forehead, forcing against his eyes. As he opened his mouth to groan he took in a mouthful of freezing water.

He broke the surface gasping, spitting water and kicking his feet to stay afloat.
Come on Chris!
He’d done this before many times, on early season triathlons when the water was still cold, and on previous adventures in the mountains. He liked nothing more than finding a secluded pool or lake in the hills and taking a plunge, usually clothed, sometimes not. He’d only been caught out once, emerging from a lake naked, cold and exhilarated. An old couple had been walking their dog and they’d paused to stare. Then they’d waved and laughed, the dog barking at his pale nude self as they’d gone on their way.