The Hunt (22 page)

Circling around the tent, keeping to high, soft ground where he could, he made sure he didn’t pass close enough to cast a shadow. And ten metres from the bikes, he heard a deep sigh. It was followed by a whisper and some giggles, a pause, and then a louder groan.

Chris froze. Looked at the bikes. Saw that one was a woman’s mountain bike. As he listened to the tent’s occupants making love like no one could hear them, he moved faster. He made a quick assessment. They were decent bikes, hardtails, still caked with yesterday’s mud even though they showed signs of some half-hearted cleaning. They weren’t locked up, and the man’s bike carried a half-full water bottle, a tool kit beneath the seat, and a bar-mounted bag. He couldn’t risk opening the Velcro fastener now, but he hoped there was food and other goodies inside.

He’d never done that much mountain biking, preferring the distances he could cover on the open roads. But he’d ridden some easy trails where he lived, and once or twice he’d been up into the local hills. He’d only fallen off a few times.

The sounds of lovemaking became more frenetic.

The satphone in his pocket rang.

You’ve got to be kidding me!

He grabbed at the man’s mountain bike. The handlebars were wet and they slipped through his hands. The bike toppled, knocking the lady’s bike over.

A surprised gasp, whispers, then louder voices.

He lifted the bike again and slung his leg over, his left leg stiff and heavy. Pushing off, Chris aimed at the nearest slope, wanting to put as much distance between them as possible.

Behind him came the stark sound of the tent zip being whipped open.

He pedalled hard, pressing the shifters to change gear, then launched himself off a gentle rise. He landed heavily but remained upright, wheels spinning beneath him. They threw water up into his face.

‘Hey, shithead!’

Chris did not dare turn around. He rode carefully but quickly. Now that he was lower down the mountain the terrain was easier, and his attention flickered further ahead and back to just in front of the bike, scouting his route and making sure he didn’t hit a rock or a hole. He stood on the pedals, crouched back when slipping down a steeper slope, used his weight to shift the bike around obstacles.

The satphone had rung off.

Behind him he heard a woman cry out, ‘But he has a gun!’ Chris felt ashamed. He didn’t want to scare anyone, and hated the idea that he’d be the bad guy in this couple’s story.

He slammed on the brakes and turned around. He’d already made two hundred metres. The man was shamelessly naked, standing astride his wife’s or girlfriend’s bike and ready to give chase. She was standing outside the tent with a sleeping bag clutched around her.

‘Sorry!’ Chris called. The guy gave him the finger. He supposed it was fair enough.

He rode on, glancing back once or twice just in case the man had decided to pursue him anyway. But he was alone on the mountainside, and within a few minutes the tent was out of sight.

Chris knew he shouldn’t go too fast. The hunters must still be after him, and he had to keep things that way. He worried briefly about what they might do if they bumped into the mountain bikers, but there was little he could do about that. He couldn’t really return to them and tell them to beware of men with guns, because he
was
one.

And it could be that they’d recognise him. If not now, then next time they checked the news on their smartphones.

He should have never turned around to show them his face. That was stupid.

The satphone rang again and this time he stopped, pulled it from the jacket pocket and answered.

‘Rose, you have no idea—’

‘We’re close, fucker.’ The man’s voice was high and excited, and even through the crackly phone Chris could hear the impending loss of control. He’d run them through the night, and now they were hurting. But hearing the voice of a man intent on killing him was utterly chilling.

‘What
are
you?’ Chris asked.

‘We see your little blue dot,’ the voice said.

‘Catch me if you can, you prick,’ Chris said. Then he clicked the disconnect button. That was good, the hunt was still on, and it was in his interests to perpetuate that.

But could they really be that close?

He dialled Rose. This time she picked up.

‘Chris, listen,’ she said. ‘I know where they’re keeping your family.’

Chris’s heart missed a beat. ‘Where?’

‘Closer than you think. I’m nearing you, but I’m hurt. Find somewhere safe, wait for me. I’ll be
…
an hour, maybe less.’

‘One of the hunters just called, he said he was close, too.’

‘Doubt it, they’re probably still up on the mountain. They must be frustrated, hoping you’ll rush and make a mistake.’

‘How can I believe you?’

‘Wise up. You can’t afford not to.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Almost down in the valley, closing on you. Now do as I say.’

‘Why are you suddenly so keen to help me?’ he asked. If she was the one who’d got away, he wondered how many hadn’t. Could he really trust a woman who had brought hell into his life?

‘I have my reasons,’ she said.

‘Screw you. Tell me more.’

‘Not like this. We’re using their phones, you think the Trail can’t listen in, pinpoint calls? Wait and I’ll find you.’ And she cut the connection.

Chris almost threw the satphone. She was using him again, leading him on, teasing him with what she knew and feeding him just enough information to keep him under her control. He should make her lose control. Find the chip he carried, hide it somewhere – better still, attach it to a sheep or something else – then go out on his own. Find his family. Save them.

‘Fuuuuuuck!’ he shouted, so loud that his throat hurt. Several small birds took flight from a few metres to his right, startled into the dawn sky. They dipped and swooped down into the valley, and he so wished for their speed and ease of movement.

Maybe Rose had lied about where she was, and where the hunters might be. Perhaps they really were close. It was possible, he supposed. With the exception of Blondie, they hadn’t looked like fit men. But perhaps the Trail had picked them up after they’d lost him at the lake, transported them through the night in 4×4s, depositing them close to him once the storm had died down and his location was pinpointed.

The more he thought about that, the more it made sense. These bastards wanted a hunt, but they also probably relished their home comforts. Would they
really
want to stalk him across a dark, storm-lashed landscape?

Uncertainty speeding his pulse, a sick feeling weighing heavy in his gut, Chris took a good look around before starting downhill on the bike once more. He couldn’t see any sign of activity. He felt very much alone. But there were times when he could not trust his instincts. Dulled by tiredness, unused to such situations, he had to grasp on to whatever firm knowledge he had rather than feelings and fears that might haunt him.

However much he feared and hated Rose, it could be she was telling the truth, and his family came first.

It started to rain again.

As Rose found the first rough track leading down into the valley – little more than twin ruts on the hillside with hardy plants still growing on the hump in between – she thought of that dead woman’s face, and wished she could kill her again. A handful of deaths wasn’t enough. A hundred final moments of terror and understanding in Michelle’s eyes could not soothe even a scrap of Rose’s furious grief.

She glanced at the satphone every few minutes to ensure Chris was making good headway. He was ahead of her and moving fast, but she was moving quicker now, too. She had purpose. The kills she had already made were nestled in the back of her mind, not celebrated, yet propping her up and holding back the fear of failure. Pain was consistent, but she was managing it better.

Soon she would reach Chris, and together they could move on.

A misty rain had blown in while she was standing there staring, the gunshot still echoing in her ears. The moisture was cool, soothing. It diluted blood on the woman’s face and washed it across her neck. The hole where her right eye had been still leaked, her left eye half-closed. If only a bullet could have negated all the wrongs those eyes had seen.

At least what she’d been told had stolen away some of Rose’s pain.

Holt. A man of the Trail. It was a shock, an agony, the revelation a bullet to the head, the sense of betrayal like acid in her veins. And yet as the haze of shock had faded a little, it had started to make perfect, shattering, sickening sense.

She followed the track, splashing through muddy puddles. The rain fell heavier. Her wound was screaming again, but the agony only added to her determination. She’d been through so much pain, and Holt had taught her how to channel and use it, turn it to her advantage. He’d shown how it could make her more adept at running and hiding, and how it could feed her fury. He said it sharpened senses and focused the mind.

The bastard had been right.

Rose checked the satphone again and saw that Chris’s tracking spot had come to a halt. It showed where she was in relation, and she reckoned she was maybe three hours behind him at the speed she was going. She hoped the hunters were further away, that their call to him had been a taunt, that they were still high up on the mountain, injured or exhausted. Because things had changed, and she so wanted to see Chris again.

She was convinced that Holt had already saved her once. News of his betrayal had given shape to the shadow on the mountain, and in her memory of it she saw his thin, gnarly silhouette. But she could not let that colour her judgement of him. She was confused, and she didn’t like that. Though much of what Michelle had told her made sense, it had also screwed up her thinking.

It was a good bet that what Michelle had told her was true – she’d believed that she was talking for her life, after all. As well as the information about Holt, she’d also revealed where Chris’s family were being held by Grin, and that in seven hours they would be executed.

Rose needed focus and clarity, and with Chris she hoped to find just that.

He’d never really experienced the adrenalin buzz that true mountain biking could inspire. Aiming down the mountainside, much of the valley floor still obscured by driving sheets of fresh rain and drifting mists, Chris found himself enjoying some of the more technical descents. Standing on the pedals, hopping down steep drops, using his body weight to switch the bike left and right, feathering the brakes and sometimes coming to an almost complete standstill, he had to concentrate and prepare for a tumble at any moment. But finding a long spread of relatively smooth hillside where he could put on some speed
…
that’s what really got his heart pumping. The wind in his hair, rain striking his face, clothes flapping, bike bouncing smoothly beneath him as the suspension handled the shock and vibration, he howled like a wolf. It was less an expression of delight than a welcome release of tension, both from his mind and the knotted muscles of his body. Mud splashed, soaking him and the bike as he sped down the hillside, confident in his abilities and welcoming the tang of danger. He’d often looked at the small sign he had pinned above his desk:
Do one thing every day that scares you
.

He’d certainly had his fill today.

At the base of one long slope he paused to look back and up the mountain. He thought he saw movement – a flicker of something bright, perhaps yellow, perhaps orange, slipping out of sight behind a rock. It might have been his imagination, or a trick of the light. The rain grew heavier, waves of it billowing across the mountainside like shaken sheets. It couldn’t have been them, not if they’d pursued him up towards the mountaintop. And they must have, because they’d have been tracking his blue spot. It
couldn’t
have been them.

But maybe Blondie had contacted them somehow, told them what had happened, and they’d continued along the lower slopes, just missing him at the cliff. If that were the case, they might be very close indeed.

Perhaps it was the mountain biker using his girlfriend’s bike.

Or it could have been Rose.

But Chris would not stop, not now. He was close to the lowlands, heading into the valley and whatever might be down there. Trails, roads, maybe even hints at civilisation. Once he stopped, Rose would catch up with him. Then he’d have a chance to see whether she really had anything to say.

And he had the rifle. If for some reason she wanted him to halt for the hunters to finally catch up with him – if that suited her plan more – at least he might be able to protect himself.

The thought came again to call the police, and at least try to let them know what was happening. The mountain bikers would have almost certainly made the call, and if they could describe him at least half accurately, the law would soon put the pieces together. The hunters would be joined by professionals, and the Trail would inevitably call off their hunt.

Maybe they’d kill him first, maybe not.

Time was compressing, and his future was a darker, closer place.

Topping a small rise half an hour later, Chris saw a slope leading down to the valley floor. It was crossed with rough tracks, and bounded a couple of hundred metres away by a tumbled stone wall.

A little way beyond that there was a farm. A sparse tree shaded one wall, a barn with a slumped roof was almost subsumed by bramble and heather, but a wisp of smoke rose from the chimney, soon washed away in the deluge. Sheep dotted the fields and hillsides. They’d have food, drink, and warmth, and if he hid his rifle – and if they didn’t instantly recognise him – he could plead ignorance. Just a mountain biker who’d got himself lost.

It was a good place to wait for Rose.

The old couple were only mildly suspicious. The fact that they seemed to speak only Welsh appeared not to hamper their understanding of his predicament.

‘Thought I’d be off the mountain much quicker. Fell, bent a wheel and broke a few spokes, then a puncture straight after that. So
…
yeah, spent the night up there, cold and hungry. And now this rain, it’s almost
…
biblical. Thank you. Thanks so much.’

The old man smiled, nodded, and gestured that he should enter. The woman had already retreated back into the house, and Chris could hear pots crashing and water flowing. He nodded his thanks, but took a moment to glance behind him one more time.

From down here in the valley, the mountains he had spent the night being hunted across loomed massive and imposing, a bulk of peaks and ridges behind the obscuring rain. The valley was still shadowed, the glow of the new day struggling against the clouds and barely pushing an unwilling darkness ahead of it. The sky seemed to reach the ground, as grey and heavy as the solid mountain it hid. For a moment he felt the sheer weight of it drawing on him, stirring his inner tides as if the landscape itself could steer his mood and fate. Perhaps that was true. He had always been aware of his relationship with the land around him, and even though he’d found civilisation he believed the mountains were still in charge. He suspected the old couple knew this. It certainly seemed to appear that they existed to the beat of the land’s heart.

The farm could have been part of a rural life museum. Other than an old, mostly rusted tractor parked beside the slumped barn, there was no other technology on show. If the couple owned another vehicle, it was parked out of sight. The farmyard was a mess of mud churned into complex shapes by thousands of boot prints. A rough stone wall extended from behind the house and swung around the yard, linking the house and barn and ending at the head of a track that led along the valley. The track itself was rough, and probably impassable by anything other than a four-wheel-drive.

A scruffy dog hid beneath a lean-to shed at the far end of the yard, looking suspiciously at Chris and the bike he’d so recently stolen. Beyond, sheep dotted the land. There were stone walls here and there, but no real demarcation lines, no patterns of fields. He could hear chickens calling from somewhere behind the house, and he could see the edge of a large vegetable patch.

There was no sign of any power or phone cables leading to the house. He was willing to bet they even had an outside toilet and a spring-fed well as a water supply.

‘Well?’ the farmer said.

‘So you do speak English.’

‘’Course. Don’t find any use for it, usually.’

‘Thank you,’ Chris said, meaning it. He went to enter, then thought of the bike. He paused, looking at where he’d left it leaning against the house’s stone wall.

‘No one to steal it,’ the old farmer said. His lip twitched, once, and Chris guessed that was a smile.

‘I’ll just
…
’ He grabbed the bike and wheeled it across to the dilapidated barn, limping alongside. The dog trotted across the yard and sat close by, staring at him, neither growling nor wagging its tail. The rain didn’t bother it one bit.

‘Hey, boy,’ Chris said, but the mutt seemed not to hear. He slipped the bike behind a timber door hanging from its top hinge, then hobbled back to the house.

The farmer was still waiting by the door, and as Chris entered he closed it tight behind them.

Stepping inside the farmhouse was like taking a step back in history. The woman was fussing at a Rayburn, a huge wood-burning stove that threw out massive amounts of heat and which likely heated the rest of their house, as well as their water supply. Several oil lamps hung from the ceiling and sat on the table and dresser, throwing strange shadows that jiggered and danced as he entered. A large wooden table took up one side of the kitchen, and beyond a darkened doorway led deeper into the house. Pots and pans hung above the Rayburn, the air was heavy with the smell of burning coal and cooking bacon, and two breakfast places were set at the table, with steaming mugs of tea, cutlery, and a loaf of knobbly bread.

Chris’s mouth watered. He could smell the bread, and he suspected the farmer or his wife had baked it fresh that morning. Warm bread. Butter. And there was a jar of preserve, lid off and greaseproof paper slipped aside. Homemade. Probably everything here was homemade, and if they didn’t keep pigs here then the bacon was probably from a neighbouring farm, or a farmers’ market close by.

There were no photos on the walls of the large dresser that took up one wall, no sign of any children. This old couple had themselves and their farm, and Chris felt an immediate affection for them.

‘Can you
…
?’ the man said. He nodded, and Chris realised what he was hinting at.

‘Oh, yeah, sorry.’ He shrugged off the dripping coat and hung it on a hook beside the door. His running trousers were also soaked. He touched them, looked at the farmer. ‘Er
…
’

The farmer shook his head and nodded at one of the breakfast settings. ‘Go on, then.’

Chris hesitated for a moment, then looked at the bread again and went to sit down. The chair’s feet scraped across the flagstone floor, and the woman looked. She looked as old and grizzled as her husband, but there were laughter lines around her eyes and mouth which screwed up again now.

She turned back to the Rayburn and flipped bacon on its frying surface.

Chris started slicing into the loaf of bread.

The woman glanced back at him. Her face had changed. Not so wrinkled with laughter lines now, but her eyes were darker.

‘Sorry, I
…
’ Chris said, pausing from cutting the bread.

The woman shook her head and returned to her frying.

‘I’m Arfon,’ the man said. ‘This is my wife, Jean.’

‘Chris,’ Chris said automatically, then something jarred inside.
I’m all over the news
, he thought. And though he’d seen no power lines, and the room was lit with oil lamps, he couldn’t believe that these people were totally cut off from the world. Maybe in the next room they had a laptop and a forty-two-inch TV, and they simply liked preserving the kitchen as it had been when they were kids.

‘Christopher
…
Jones,’ he continued. ‘From Bristol. Came here two days ago for a bit of an adventure.’

‘Well, you’ve had that,’ Arfon said. He sat in the other chair and turned the loaf towards him, cutting a thick slice. ‘Bacon?’

‘Please,’ Chris said. ‘Thank you.’

Arfon waved the thanks aside and started buttering his bread. He scooped a huge dollop of jam on, spread it with a spoon, took a big bite. He didn’t even look at Chris as he ate. It was almost as if he was no longer there.

I can’t relax
, Chris thought, listening to the sizzle of cooking pig.
Rose will see that I’ve stopped, she’ll be here in a couple of hours. But
they’ll
know that I’ve stopped too
. He was exhausted, and already the room’s heat was tingling his cold skin, making him aware of the wetness of his clothing, and just how sore his legs and feet had become. His hands, too, worn red at the palms by the rough bike handles. He could
not
relax.

‘Don’t look set for mountain biking,’ Arfon said.

‘I had a fall, lost my helmet over a steep drop.’

‘Mmm.’ The farmer chewed, still not looking directly at Chris.

The woman said something in Welsh. Arfon stopped chewing. He glanced at Chris, only quickly, then up at his wife again, talking through a full mouth. They swapped a few more sentences in Welsh, the guttural, difficult language managing to sound both musical and threatening.

‘Bacon’s ready,’ Arfon said, standing. ‘You’ll be wanting brown sauce.’

Chris looked over his shoulder at the man’s wife. She was holding a plate piled with fried bacon, staring at him with wide eyes that now held only fear.

Oh shit oh fuck
, Chris thought, and he went to push the chair back to stand, flee, grab the bike from the barn and the gun from where he’d hidden it behind the stone boundary wall, and his left leg seized, knee folding as he grabbed on to the table—

‘Nope,’ Arfon said. Chris turned, half crouched, and looked straight into the barrels of a shotgun. ‘Nope,’ the old farmer said again. ‘Just stay there for a bit while I decide what to do with you.’

‘Cellar,’ Jean said, in English for Chris’s benefit. ‘Door’s strong and secure, and you just fixed the lock.’

Arfon smiled, nodded, and said, ‘That’s why I love my wife.’

She was in too much pain to walk, so she ran. It was a headlong, desperate flight, but the speed and carelessness kept her senses alive. It defied logic. But the blood pumped faster, keeping her faint at bay, and the discomfort echoed through her body with each pounding footfall. She throbbed with it, and the pain needed to stay clear and strong. It was her driving force. However terrible, nothing physical could match her mental anguish.

Rose was pleased to see the new day, even though she knew she would not witness the dusk. She’d dreamed of her final day many times, and the chaos and vengeance it might see. Being there, it felt strangely sterile and blank. She hoped killing that bitch Grin would not come as an anticlimax.

Although she ran, injured arm tucked into her jacket, rifle slung over her shoulder, wallowing and almost drowning in a sea of pain, she had to be careful. She checked the landscape all around her for signs of movement. Paused every couple of minutes to listen for aircraft or vehicle engines. Doubled back once or twice to make sure she wasn’t being tracked or rushing towards an ambush. There were three hunters still pursuing Chris, and in truth she had little idea of where they might be.

And there were most likely Trail people still after her. She didn’t know how many, not for certain. Some would be with Chris’s family. Others might have retreated back into their complex, real-life cover stories as soon as this hunt went wrong, severing ties and readying to move forward. But there would be some for whom killing her would remain their prime concern.

She checked the tracker to make sure that Chris’s blue dot had not moved. It remained motionless. That could be a good thing, or bad. Maybe he was doing as she’d suggested and waiting for her, or perhaps he was dead. Or maybe he’d taken the time to find it and ditch it, thinking that might help. But she was too eager to reach him to call in and check, and either way she had to get there. She’d find out soon enough.

If you could see me now
. The thought of her family shocked her and she moaned as she ran, remembering some aspect about each of them as one, single thought. It was an intense, shocking sensation. And she was right, they’d never know her as she was now. She was glad of that. A killer, perhaps a mad woman, she would not have wanted her children to see her shot and bleeding, nor Adam to look into her eyes and know that she had killed. Rose was a new person.

But she still held her family close. Though they would not know her, she had never for an instant forgotten them.

I’d always know you, bunny
,
Adam said, and Rose sobbed. She so wished it could be him saying that, and not her hearing it in his voice.

She saw the smoke first, a smudge of white in the vast wilderness. Attuned for danger, senses alight from conflict, the first thing she suspected was a burning vehicle or the trace of exploded ordnance. But as she leaned against a sparse tree and looked into the rainswept valley, she saw the small huddle of buildings.

Checking the satphone’s screen, placing the blue glow of Chris’s tracker, she knew that she’d found him.

They had a little under five hours left until Margaret Vey expected another call to confirm that the hunt was still live. That call would not come. A few minutes after that, she would murder Chris’s wife and two young girls, then flee the scene and vanish. It might take Rose years to find the bitch again.

She took only a moment to survey the scene before starting down towards the farmhouse.

There was a rifle at the base of one of the stone walls. It wasn’t hidden very well, but Rose could see that it was one of the hunters’ weapons.

Must be the one Chris took. But why leave it?
Then she realised why. He was a normal guy, and he’d never have considered taking over the farmhouse by force. Which was stupid.

They might have already called the police.

Hunched down, Rose approached the building across a muddy field. It looked old, ramshackle. No sign of a phone line, but that didn’t mean they had no means to call out. The smoke indicated the place was occupied; surely Chris wouldn’t have been stupid enough to light a fire in an empty house?

As Rose slumped against the farmhouse’s stone wall, dizziness threatened. Her vision faded and senses receded, dulling her surroundings.
Come on
,
she thought.
You’ve only been shot!

She moved along the wall to the doorway. It was inset slightly, shadowed, the small porch containing two pairs of upturned boots.

Something growled. Rose froze, hand going slowly towards her pistol. Across the yard, close to the dilapidated barn, a black and white shape emerged. The sheepdog growled again, hackles rising. It stepped out into the downpour, unfazed by the rain. All of its attention was on her.

‘Good boy,’ Rose whispered.

The dog barked.

Rose knocked on the door. It was the only thing to do. She stood slightly aside from the door, and sideways on so she could see across the farmyard as well. The dog was not moving forward, but it remained crouched low to the mud, growling, teeth showing. If it sprang, it would be on her in a few seconds.

Could she have the pistol out by then?

The door opened. There was no cautious shout, no hesitation. An old man stared out at her. In his face she saw years of hard experience, a man well versed with this land and all the dangers it could throw at those who tried to tame it. He was carrying a shotgun, barrel aimed down at the ground in a non-threatening way. His eyes flickered from her face to the rifle on her shoulder, back again.