The Hunt (24 page)

‘And if he’d been killed, I’d have taken that fucker out when he went to check on him.’ She pointed at the shot man. He’d grown still, chin touching his chest. She could see no movement. He’d died while they were talking. She didn’t think she recognised him, but that meant little. He was Trail, that was all that mattered.

It still should have been her that killed him.

Chris looked stunned at what she’d said, but she didn’t care.

‘You called me, remember?’ Holt said. ‘Asked me for help.’

‘A long time ago. You refused me, told me I had to do all this alone. And you were right.’

‘I usually am,’ Holt said, a mild attempt at humour.

‘So did Michelle tell me the truth?’ Rose asked, though she was already certain. It was no surprise that Holt knew exactly who she was talking about.

‘She could only know their side of things.’

‘So what’s your side?’

‘What does it matter?’

She frowned, considering that. Really, what
did
it matter? But she found herself thinking of the reasons for his change, more than what he’d been and what he had become.

‘I just want to hear why you lied to me.’

Holt carefully slipped his pistol into a belt holster. He looked around, constantly alert. He barely seemed to notice Chris standing there. ‘Didn’t you learn even a shred of what I told you? Trust no one, Rose. Only yourself, and only then if your motivations are clear.’

‘You were teaching me all that for a hunt.’

‘And now you’re hunting.’

‘But it was meant to be the other way around. I was the one that got away, so the Trail thought it would be fun to hunt me down. But they wanted me worth the effort.’

‘Yes. I was supposed to make you proficient at shooting, running, fighting. And I was then supposed to hand you over to them. They’d have kept you on ice, locked up somewhere until they could set up their own hunt. Then they’d let you go, maybe even give you a head start. But I taught you more than I should have – how to hide and live below the radar, for one. And I did that because I grew to like you. Admire you.’

‘Bullshit.’

He sighed, looked around again. ‘We need to move.’

‘We?’ she almost spat. ‘No fucking way. You’re Trail, and there’s no way—’

‘Not any more.’ He waved the idea aside like an irritating insect.

‘How many people did you kidnap and kill?’

‘For the Trail, none. They didn’t care about anything, and I severed my ties with them the minute I left you in that restaurant.’

‘And you do care?’

He raised his eyebrows as if offended and surprised that she even had to ask.

‘Me,’ Rose said, suddenly understanding. ‘You care about me.’

The Frenchman turned away. ‘After you left, I made myself vanish. I knew I could look after myself, keep off their radar, and I was confident you’d manage that too. I’m pleased you did. They’ve got no honour. One of you is worth a hundred of them, and I—’

Rose dropped the rifle, stepped forward and struck him across the back of the head, a clumsy hit. He stumbled forward.

‘Don’t follow me any more!’ she shouted. She hit him again, more force behind this one. His head flipped forward, her knuckles sang. He almost slipped in the mud and she barged into him, shoving him down, falling onto his back and hitting his shoulder, his head, with her one good hand.

‘Rose,’ Chris said behind her, but she ignored him.

Holt took the blows. She felt no weakness in him, only strength. No submission, only a calmness. She wasn’t hurting him at all.

Not physically.

Rose pushed on his back to stand again, staggering back from where he lay splayed in the mud and shit. ‘Don’t track me, or try to be my guardian fucking angel!’ she said. ‘If I ever see you again, I’ll kill you.’

He stood slowly, wiping mud from his face, running a hand through his greying hair and flicking muck at the ground. He remained facing away from them, looking up at the mountain looming to the east, and for a moment Rose thought he was going to turn around and strike her back. But then he said, ‘No you won’t.’

She glanced at Chris and nodded towards the track. Chris hesitated, then darted to the wall, climbed over, and came back with his rifle. All the time Holt stood with his back to her, and Rose stared at the back of his head. There was no way she could even pretend to understand what was going on in there, but she thought she had an inkling. She’d come closer to knowing him than anyone else in a long, long time.

‘There’ll be at least two of them,’ he said at last. He paused, as if expecting her to shout at him to shut up. When she didn’t, he continued. ‘Wherever the family are being held, one will be close to the prisoners, the others further away, keeping watch. They’ll communicate with each other, but the only outside contact will be the regular calls to say the hunt is still on. They won’t receive those calls any more. This Trail cell is denuded, and this hunt effectively over. You have a few hours before that call fails to arrive and they kill your friend’s family. Then you’ll both be ones who got away, and they won’t stop looking until you’re both dead. Unless their hunter clients reach you first, of course.’ He laughed quietly. ‘Though I’ve no pity for them if they do.’

If he expected thanks, Rose disappointed him. She kicked the dead Trail man onto his side and searched his pockets. She found some loose change, a takeaway menu, a wad of tissues, a credit card, a condom wrapper, but no keys. The barn obscured his vehicle from view, but she thought it was a Jeep. They could use it, get where they were going much quicker.

Holt had taken a few steps and now sat against the farmyard wall, ankles crossed. Rose did not catch his eye.

‘Come on,’ she said to Chris. She picked up her rifle and slung it across her back, then climbed on the bike he’d found somewhere. He frowned, then started jogging along the track and away from the farm. She gripped the handlebars with her left hand. It was years since she’d ridden a bike, but it came back quickly.

The wheels made a constant wet whisper as they rolled through the mud.

After a minute she paused and put her left foot down, turned, looking for Holt. But he had disappeared. Of course. He was a shadow.

‘Who was that?’ Chris asked.

‘Someone who helped me after my family was killed.’

‘He was Trail?’

‘Seems so, for a while.’

‘And you didn’t kill him.’

‘No.’

He was confused. But it didn’t matter right now. The man had helped them, then melted away into the landscape once again. Whatever history there was between him and Rose, its telling would last until later.

‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘Hold the bike. If I find the keys I’ll wave you over.’

Chris took the bike and watched Rose crossing the uneven ground towards where the Trail man had left his vehicle. Even wounded she moved with an economy of effort that would have made a distance runner proud. He took the opportunity to assess his own wounds. The knee and ankle were both swollen, hot, stiffer than ever. He could run with them and ignore the discomfort, but he knew that he was doing more and more long-term damage. That didn’t matter. The fingertips of his right hand were still raw and burning, the wounds clogged with muck and clotted blood. He’d need antibiotics and a tetanus jab.

The dog had scratched him across his stomach and groin and down his right thigh. He lifted his shirt to check the wounds and groaned when he saw the rich red scrapes, pearls of blood blooming all along their length from his chest to his belt line. Holding his breath he pulled his running trousers and underwear out and checked his groin. The scratches continued, just missing his most valuable parts but scoring his right thigh in two vivid lines.

‘Put your cock away,’ Rose said. She was back already, breathing hard.

‘No keys?’ Chris asked, looking past her. The Jeep was parked almost out of sight behind a small hillock, but even the glimpse of white bodywork looked so welcoming.

‘Nope, it’s locked up tight. Maybe he hid them.’

‘Or maybe Holt has them.’

‘Maybe. Come on, let’s go.’

He almost suggested going back to ask Holt for the keys. But the man had already vanished, and Chris knew that time was ticking. The police would undoubtedly be on their way. And now that they had a firm destination in mind, every minute counted.

They moved out.

Rose had said the now dead Trail woman told her that his family had been taken out of Cardiff and were being held in the small village of Llwybr south of here. They’d been moved when Rose had interrupted the Trail’s plans, bringing them, the hunters, and the Trail cell sent to kill Rose closer together. The Trail had a converted barn in the area where they entertained rich clients. Feeding them well, drinking good wine, laughing and joking as they planned to kidnap, hunt and kill an innocent man or woman. They’d talk about what trophies to take – ear, nose, cock. Then open another bottle of wine.

The rain started hammering down again, turning the rough track into a quagmire. It was so heavy at times that it almost crushed him down, weighing on his head and shoulders, pushing him towards the ground. It washed sweat from his head into his eyes. It soaked him to the skin, weighing down his clothing, its coolness soothing his many aches and wounds. He usually loved running in the rain, but not today.

Exhausted, Chris ran faster. Rose called out for him to slow down, she wasn’t used to riding a bike, especially one-handed, and especially in such weather. But he could not slow down, only speed up. Accelerate towards the future.

Because now he
knew
how this could end. They had time to get there, just. And perhaps they still had the advantage.

When she was a kid, Gemma’s dad sometimes called her Big Ears. She’d drift around the house, not
trying
to be silent but doing so anyway. She liked to huddle down in the strangest of places to read – under the stairs, beneath her bed, behind the sofa – and more than once she had revealed knowledge of a conversation her parents had assumed was between the two of them.

‘Dad, what’s a fucking prick?’ had elicited howls of pained laughter and red faces from her mum and dad.

‘None of your business, Big Ears,’ he’d replied.

She was Big Ears again now. Leaning across the arm of the sofa as far as she could, ignoring her mother elbowing her foot in an attempt to urge her back into a seated position, hands once again tied behind her back, she tried to calm her breathing and swallowed to make her ears more sensitive.

A new person had arrived moments before and Tom, Vey and she were having an urgent, whispered conversation in the kitchen.

Gemma caught parts of it. Every part sounded bad.

‘
…
killed Michelle and Javier and
…
fucking unbelievable,’ the new woman said.

A mumbled question.

‘No, someone else is
…
from out of nowhere. A guy
…
’

‘And the target?’ That was Vey asking that. Her voice, though quiet, seemed filled with concern.

‘
…
yet, but
…
today.’

‘Today, one way or another.’ That was Tom.

Her mum nudged her foot, harder. Gemma kicked back at her mum’s leg, shook her head. This was important. They sounded unsettled. Something was wrong.

More mumbling, then a pause.

‘In there, tied up and gagged,’ Vey said.

Gemma heard the footsteps and squirmed, struggling to sit upright before Tom swung the door open. He saw her. She opened her eyes wide and he knew that she’d been snooping.
Big Ears
, she heard her dad saying.

What’s today, one way or another?
she wanted to ask.

Tom stared at her, his eyes cold and dead.

Gemma struggled upright and turned away from him, looking across the room to the window along with her mum and Megs. Vey had opened the curtains, and they could see past the simply maintained garden and stone wall to the wild landscape beyond.

Tom clicked the door closed and the mumble of voices continued, words now unknown.

Gemma wished she could talk. She looked at her mum, eyes wide, but there was no way to communicate everything she was thinking, not even a part of it.

Someone’s been killed, names I don’t recognise. I heard them say. We’ve got to try something. This is serious, Mum. They haven’t said what they want, or why, so I don’t think this is really about us but … it’s serious.
They’re
serious. They don’t carry guns for nothing
.

Her mother smiled and leaned sideways, pressing her forehead to Gemma’s.

Over the next few minutes, Gemma drew the nail from the back of her trousers, manoeuvred it so that the tip point was upwards, and started plucking at the rope around her wrists. She pricked herself several times, and the blood started to lubricate between the rope and her skin. Her hands turned easier. The binds felt looser.

It’s only pain
, she remembered her dad saying when she asked him how he could run so far, and how he kept going when it started to hurt.
It’s there to tell you something’s wrong, but if you know something’s wrong and are prepared to accept it, you can make it go away. And you never remember what pain feels like
.

Feeling the welcoming pain, and then instantly forgetting it, then doing it all again, she gripped the nail in her right fist and started twisting her arms back and forth against the rope.

‘Stop!’ Rose shouted.

‘No, there’s no time, we have to—’

‘Fucking stop if you don’t want to get shot!’

Chris came to a standstill and looked back. He seemed relieved when he saw that she wasn’t actually aiming a gun at him. Then he must have seen the look on her face.

‘The old coot’s wife really did go to the law,’ she said. ‘Come on. We don’t have long.’

Chris came back and helped her off the bike, following her away from the farm track and across the sodden moorland. He wheeled the bike with him, trying not to snag the pedals on ferns.

He pointed towards a copse of gnarly trees, and Rose followed.

The sound of a car engine was still distant, but the mountains kept the motor’s growl contained, echoing it back and forth. The track was in very poor condition, and even if it was a four-wheel-drive it would take a while to get here. They had to find cover close to the road, so that as soon as the vehicle had passed they could move on again. It wouldn’t take long for the police to make it to the farm and find Chris and Rose gone.

They reached the trees and the small hollow they grew around, a stream twisting along the bottom. The stream was wide, boiling, and Rose could see grasses swaying just beneath the surface. Before today this must have been a calm spot, but now the stream was in flood. It was a perfect place to hide. The trees would shade them, enabling them to look out towards the rough road.

But they had very little time to rest.

‘Don’t get comfortable,’ she said as they crouched down, and Chris stared as if she was a fool.

‘You think I want or need to rest?’ he asked. He looked at her supported arm and bloodied clothing. ‘I’ll have to leave you behind.’

‘No you won’t.’ She’d seen him hobbling, and his clothing was torn by the dog’s claws. He carried his own wounds, she knew.

‘If you slow me down, I will. I’m not waiting for anything or anybody. If I run as fast as I ever have before, I’ll reach the village in maybe three hours, without disruption. Then find the place, figure out how to get in
…
’ He stared at the ground before him, frowning intensely as if he could find the solution in heather and mud.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Rose said. ‘I’ll be with you, and I can help. Take this moment to catch your breath. They’re coming.’

It was a police Land Rover. It was too far away to be sure, but she thought the vehicle contained three people; the one in the back had grey hair. She wondered whether the officers were brave or stupid, driving up here on their own to confront an armed man wanted for multiple murders. But it was likely that they knew the farmers, and after calling in armed response, their first reaction would have been to go to help the old man. Stupid, then. But she could not help admire their bravery.

‘The track,’ Chris said.

‘What?’

‘Look!’

She looked. The long, snaking line of the wheel trail, filled with silvery water, was obvious. Beside it, Chris’s spaced footprints.

‘They won’t see them,’ she said.

‘You sure?’

No, she wasn’t sure. Rose touched the gun in her belt. She couldn’t do it, she wouldn’t – not police officers, or an old lady – but as far as they were concerned, they were facing at least one murderer. The fear would be enough.

‘Rose
…
’ Chris said, looking at her hand resting on the gun.

‘Of course not!’ she said. The fear in his eyes, and the doubt, almost shamed her.

As the vehicle passed them and bounced up the track, Rose nudged him. ‘Come on. No time to waste. Soon as they know we’re not there they’ll turn around. They’ll have put the call out. Won’t be long until this place is crawling with police helicopters and armed response units.’

‘And then?’

‘Doesn’t matter. We won’t be here.’ She struggled to push the bike up out of the hollow, thankful for his help when he grabbed the saddle and heaved.

‘You’re faster than me, even on this,’ she said. ‘So you set the pace. I’ll keep up.’

‘You sure you’re not going to—?’

‘I’ll keep up!’

Chris nodded and started jogging across the rough ground back towards the farm track.

She
had
to keep up. There was no alternative, no way she could do anything else. Grin was at the end of this, and Rose would use a knife to cut it from her face.

A few minutes later she heard a distant crack. She braked gently and tilted her head to one side. Another shot, from back the way they’d come. She didn’t want Holt’s help, but she could do nothing to reject it now.

At least if the police thought the shooter at the farmhouse was Chris, it would keep them there. She only hoped that he wouldn’t be shooting to kill.

‘What?’ Chris called from up ahead. He was panting, but he cut an imposing figure of determination and fitness. She’d barely noticed it before.

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Keep on running.’

They followed the farm track for another half an hour, and as each moment went by, Chris impressed her more. He’d always been a means to an end. A way to get to the Trail, draw them into the open, damage their plans and then hurt them. She’d done that, and would do so some more, for as long as she possibly could. But as she watched him running ahead of her, she saw him as a human being as well. A man desperate to help his family, and so close to ending up like her. All it would take was three gunshots, three slices of a knife, and he
would
be like her. Bereft, grief-stricken, lost. She couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Rose decided then that she would not let them ruin another life. This was now as much about helping Chris as satisfying her own need for revenge.

He’d been running for a day and a night, and looked as if he’d only just begun.

Chris was beyond exhausted. He’d moved into that zone where it was almost entirely mental attitude keeping him going. He’d been there before – during his first marathon, then his first ultra-marathon through the Lake District mountains, and then his Ironman race – and in some ways that made it a little easier. He knew he could run through the exhaustion and pain. He knew that a strong mental approach could defeat physical exhaustion, for a time at least. He was lost in the running, existing in a world where one step in front of the other was all that mattered. Each step took him closer to his wife’s smile, his daughters’ giggles. Against them, the pain in his knee was nothing, the dog scratches and hot-spots of blisters forming on his feet meaningless.

He felt time closing in, and the faster he ran, the better chance he had of beating it to the line. If that meant leaving the woman behind, so be it. If she fell off the bike and broke a leg, fainted because of her gunshot wound, or aimed a gun at him and ordered him to halt, he’d just keep moving forward. He was an unstoppable force, and the only immovable object that would stop him would be death.

Rose didn’t care about his fate or wellbeing. Everything was on his shoulders, and Chris discovered that he was strong. He’d developed a solid can-do attitude with his fitness and challenges, and he fed on that now more than ever before. Not finishing this race had never been an option.

His family drew him on. They were closer than they had been since he gave his dozing wife a kiss before leaving for his morning run. Closer than that last glance he’d given his sleeping daughters. He’d felt happy leaving them all, knowing that they still slept and dreamed, looking forward to his long jaunt through the hills and countryside that set him up for the day, made him feel alive.

He would never be happy leaving them again.

At last they came to the end of the farm track. It had been rough going, probably more so for Rose than him. But running out onto the potholed tarmac road, leaving the mud and puddles behind, felt good on his feet.

It also meant that they were getting nearer to civilisation.

He couldn’t be seen. The risk of being recognised was too great. He pulled his running cap from his pocket and slipped it on, then chuckled to himself as they started off again. He and Rose were carrying fucking rifles over their shoulders. Hiding his hairdo would do little to protect him from discovery.

The road followed the widening stream at the valley bottom, twisting left and right and crossing over low stone bridges when the terrain necessitated it. They passed several junctions, always heading south. He guessed the other directions led towards other remote farmsteads. It felt like they were really moving now. His left foot grew more painful, his knee stiffer, but he fed on the pain. It made him angry.

The bike wheels whirred behind him as Rose free-wheeled down a long slope. Then the road veered upwards again, and he heard her heavy breathing and grunting as she pedalled hard. She had to change gears partly by crossing her left hand over to the right. He didn’t slow down. Maybe she’d have been happier running, but he doubted it. Once she gave him the bike, he’d be gone.

He thought of shoving her off and just taking it. But he knew that he’d need her. The violence yet to come was her game.

As the road started to climb out of the valley, heading for a ridge that looked a long, long way up, they saw a car heading down towards them.

‘Off the road!’ Rose shouted. Chris was already jumping the narrow ditch and leaping from rock to rock, and he heard her gasp as the bike went over.

He turned around. She was down in the flooded ditch, bike on top of her with the back wheel still spinning. She struggled to keep her head above the water, groaning as it washed through her wounds, left hand slapping at the ground as she tried to haul herself out. They locked eyes.

Chris went to help, hauling the bike from her and slinging it over his shoulder. He held out his left hand and she grabbed on, squeezing, nodding her thanks as he pulled her upright.

‘Food,’ she said. ‘And water. Just until they go by, we can have a minute’s rest.’

Chris wanted to object but knew that she was right.

The car was an old VW van. It sped past without slowing, and there were no signs that Chris and Rose had been seen. They drank some water and ate the farmer’s bread and jam, crouched down behind a tumble of boulders. As soon as the van was out of sight, Chris stood to move on.

‘Can’t we just
…
’ Rose said, not even finishing the sentence. She could barely speak. Blood soaked her shirt and jacket arm again from the reopened wound.

‘No time,’ Chris said.

She glanced at her watch, nodded, and stood up.

Shooting shattered the silence. Whoever it was, they were close, and there was more than one gun. But they were also bad shots.

Chris dropped. Rose was already down, twisting to bring the rifle from her shoulder.

‘Trail?’ he asked.

‘No. This is scatter shot, and we were sitting pretty. If it was them they’d have made sure they hit us the first time.’

‘The hunters? They can’t have found us, how could
…
’

‘Fuck,’ Rose whispered.

‘Tracker.’ Chris looked down at his shoes. He should have ripped them apart, changed them, but with everything that had happened he’d forgotten. And honestly, he had never believed that these men could have caught up with them, not now, not this far away. He’d been trapped in the basement for over two hours, true. But had they really run through the night like him?

It didn’t matter.

‘Wait here,’ Rose said.

‘Don’t kill them!’ he said.

‘What?’ She sounded dumbfounded.

‘Just
…
shoot to injure, or something.’

‘That’s harder than shooting to kill!’

‘Please!’ So much killing. He felt sick at the thought of more.

Rose shook her head. More shots sounded, wide and wild. She peered around the rocks and looked for some time.

‘They’re coming down off the slopes,’ she said. ‘All three of them. Give me your shoes.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m going to lead them off. I know what I’m doing. Remember, they don’t know that we know about the chip. If we did, we’d have got rid of it by now.’ She shook her head. ‘Fuck sake.’

‘Hey, I’m not like you, I just didn’t think of it.’

‘I was swearing at myself. Come on. Shoes.’

He slipped off his trainers. It felt divine, but he knew it would be torture putting them back on again. Rose kicked off her own boots – they’d be too small for him – and pulled his trainers on.

‘Euch. Warm and wet.’

‘You should be honoured.’ He tried to smile, but his weak attempt at humour didn’t go that far.

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take the bike.’

‘No. Wait.’

‘Tell me where the Trail’s barn is.’

‘So you can go on without me?’ She shook her head. ‘No way. I’ve got as much business there as you. If you get there before me you’ll mess things up.’

‘But what if they kill you?’

‘They won’t.’ She nodded at the bike. ‘Take it, but wait for me. Couple of miles along the road, find a safe place and give me
…
an hour.’

‘Half an hour,’ Chris said. ‘Then I’m gone and I’ll find the place on my own. I mean it.’

‘Chris, we’ve got to shake these bastards from our tail, you know that.’

‘So hurry.’

Rose pursed her lips, and he thought she was going to argue some more. But she could see his determination.

‘Wait here for ten minutes, then go.’ And she was gone, creeping away from the road and across the countryside. Chris watched her until she disappeared, hidden by folds in the land.

He crouched down and waited behind the rocks, rifle resting on the ground before him. After a couple of minutes he risked a glance, looking across the road and up the gentle slope opposite. He saw two men lumbering down the hill, heading for a point several hundred yards along the road. One was the fat one, and he couldn’t help admire his resilience. The other had gone almost completely Rambo, stripping off his shirt to reveal a fleshy, pale torso, mud smeared across him, running in the rain. He could not see the third man.

He watched them struggling to run, obviously close to exhaustion. They remained close together, and every now and then the fat one consulted something in his hand. He pointed ahead and they continued, reaching the road and crossing quickly, guns held at the ready.