And Then You're Dead

by Dan Latus

The sheer ferocity and speed of his attack won him a precious second or two. The man he hit first took the blow on his head and went down as if poleaxed. A second man he hurled aside. The third hit him, but not hard enough. He delivered an elbow to the face and then took off, running hard, the adrenaline pumping. It had started.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By now, under the Reviving Homes banner, the Taits had rebuilt, restored, refurbished and sold on upwards of a dozen houses and cottages. John did a lot of the work himself, bringing in local builders and tradesmen mostly for the big and the specialized stuff. The work gave him something to do and kept him fit, and he’d found that he liked it. The challenge of working with his hands gave him a sense of satisfaction he wouldn’t have got from the office work alone. Sam – officially the in-house interior design consultant – enjoyed her role, too. Together, they were a good partnership, both at home and on site.

  The profit from their work had given them their income, and their living. They had never decided what to do with the bulk of the money John had brought with him from Slovakia, but they hadn’t needed it and they hadn’t used it. One project funded the next, once a start had been made. And the profits had given them enough to live on. More important than financial considerations, though, the work had given them a life, a life enriched.

  At present, they owned three properties they were working on. All were within a half hour’s drive from home. One was an abandoned manse, another a ruined farmhouse and the third was a cottage in a neighbouring village.

  The work was at different stages. The manse needed more negotiations with English Heritage before anything much could happen on site. The farmhouse had been a total ruin. Now it was rising again, like a barn conversion. That was where John had mostly been working of late. Sam had been focusing on the cottage, and the fixing and fitting, decorating and cleaning it needed.

  Sam could have headed for any one of those three properties, when she left home without warning or preparation. She could have been reasonably assured that her husband would find them, and soon, if she and Kyle went to one of them.

  But John’s guess was that she had not opted for any of them. As well as being in their ownership, each of them was very accessible by road, too accessible. Much better, he could almost hear Sam thinking, to head for somewhere more remote, somewhere that no-one would think to associate with them. No-one but him, that is.

  He was betting she had headed for Gimmer Hall, another ruin. It was a simple building in the hills, with a name that told of its ancient Scandinavian lineage, and there was no road to or anywhere near it. It was a long abandoned, tranquil place that they both liked. A couple of times they had picnicked there with Kyle, and once Sam had fantasized about it being a good place to escape the modern world. John had agreed with her.

  If that really was where she and Kyle had headed, he knew they would need help soon in this weather. He even doubted they could actually reach it. What was it – five miles? That was a long trek over moorland at night in bad weather with a small child. Crazy even to try. So it was a risky bet, but he was putting all his money on it.

  There was nowhere else that came to mind so readily, and he knew Sam. They had been through a lot together and understood each other well. Theirs was no ordinary relationship. It had been forged in fire, and tested. Contingency thinking, if not actual planning, had long been part of their life together.

  If Gimmer Hall was where they had gone, Sam must have been truly desperate or terrified. Perhaps both. He had to get there fast. If they were not there, there wouldn’t be much time left to search anywhere else for them – not if he was to find them still alive.

  From the house he headed straight up onto the moor, moving fast despite the darkness and the weather. He knew this country, this patch of much-loved ground. It was his backyard, literally.

  He hit the path he wanted and kept going hard, moving at a pace between a fast walk and a jog, neither the one nor the other, that once had been customary to him. It wasn’t so easy now. He was older and long out of practice. But it was necessary. The incentive was greater than any he had ever known, and it drove him on relentlessly. He should reach Gimmer Hall in a couple of hours. There would be time then to rest.

  As for the men behind him, they were the least of his worries. He wasn’t even going to think about them, or who they were and what they wanted. Not now. He couldn’t afford the distraction. If they followed him, he would divert and lose them. At night, in these conditions, and on this ground, he believed the odds were in his favour.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam knew someone was there. She had sensed it, seen the signs, for a day or two. Nothing terribly tangible. Just a hint, a suggestion. Once, she thought she saw movement in bushes above the house. Another time there was a brief flash of light on the hillside that reminded her of how guarded you needed to be when using field glasses surreptitiously.

  Then there was a big four by four with darkened windows she didn’t recognize. People around here didn’t have that kind of vehicle, not one with darkened windows. They wanted to see and be seen. First, she saw it in the village a couple of times, and then it was on their own road, looking even more out of place.

  Not much, but for someone with her background it began to add up, especially with John being away from home. Possible danger. Her old instincts came alive, putting her on guard, just as her father had advised she should always be. She wished John was here, but he wasn’t. That was that. He wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening.

  She didn’t say anything when he phoned her, and she certainly didn’t call him with her concerns. It would be silly to worry him about what might turn out to be nothing at all. She resolved to be careful, watchful. Maybe it really was nothing. Maybe her antennae would stop bristling. If that didn’t happen, she would talk to him when he got home.

  The next morning she woke up early and got herself and Kyle ready for school in good time. Before they left, she looked around the house and garden, looking for … well, for anything, really, anything out of the ordinary. There was nothing. The garage and the shed had not been broken into. Nothing had been stolen. There were no new footprints in soft earth, and no broken twigs near windows to suggest anyone had been prowling. Nothing at all that she could see.

  Perhaps she was imagining it, she thought with relief, as they were about to leave for school. All the same, it was a long time, years even, since she had felt on edge this way. Life was so calm and settled here. They had nothing to worry about, and nothing had worried them. Why now? Why had it all started up again? The anxiety symptoms and the unease, the fear even. She didn’t want all that to come back and take over her life once more.

  Stop, she told herself firmly. Just stop – right now. Stop thinking and worrying about something that hasn’t happened. Don’t make a self-fulfilling prophecy out of it. Don’t let it take you over. Divert yourself, woman!

  She tried to put it all to one side, and concentrate on what Kyle was telling her about what they were going to do in school today. Making things, seemingly. Out of cardboard. That was why they had all been taking empty cereal boxes to school every day the past week.

  ‘I’m doing a castle,’ Kyle declared.

  ‘A castle? Not a house, like Daddy builds?’

  He shook his head. ‘A castle’s better. You can keep bad people out, with a castle.’

  Just what we need, she thought. Just what I thought we had here. She corrected herself: what we do have here!

  She smiled at her son, so earnest about his intentions. Where does that come from, she wondered? She hoped it wasn’t from her, from what he’d seen in her the past day or two.

  When John returned, she would make him laugh, telling him how jumpy she had been. He would just think she had missed him, and been lonely, which was true. She never had liked being apart from him. Since she came to England, separation had been a rare occurrence. They had made sure of that. But occasionally their business required it, as it had this ti
me.

  John had gone off for a few days to meet and discuss a possible project in the Scottish Borders, where a different legal system meant there were problems they didn’t usually have in Northumberland. But he would be back soon, she thought with relief. This evening, in fact.

  It wasn’t exactly a busy day for her, but she did have things to do and people to see. As they were all in the village, she walked Kyle to school. It was a day when she could leave the car at home. In fact, she could leave everything at home. She had no need to return there either until she collected Kyle from school.

  There was old Mrs Armstrong to visit, for a cup of tea and a chat. Then there was the man in the paper shop to see about getting in some special stationery. The bank manager wanted her to call him about something to do with their payments schedule. All little tasks and commitments, but they ate up the time and filled in her morning. Just after twelve she stopped by the cafe to grab a bowl of soup and to have a chat with her friend, Wendy, the owner.

  In the afternoon, John called and told her he would be home in a couple of hours. Before she knew it, it was nearly time to collect Kyle. She gathered herself together and made tracks to the school.

  By then, she had forgotten about her forebodings. But they all came back to her in an instant when she saw the unfamiliar four by four parked in a side street. Then she caught a glimpse of the passenger, sitting smoking with the window down.

  She stopped, aghast. Yugov? Surely not? But it was. She was sure of it.

  Shocked, terrified, she ducked her head and forced herself to hurry on, heart pounding, somehow resisting the temptation to stand and stare.

  Her brain started working at feverish speed. Her focus was on Kyle. She needed to collect him and get him out of harm’s way. Now!

  Kyle wasn’t the first child to appear through the school doorway, but he came soon enough. With only a brief smile and nod for other mothers, Sam took Kyle by the hand and led him away quickly.

  She didn’t take him the usual way, down the hill and through the village. She couldn’t walk the gauntlet past that car, and risk discovering what Yugov wanted. She knew that anyway. She wasn’t in any doubt.

  Instead, she led a puzzled Kyle in the opposite direction, up a narrow footpath that led behind the school up onto the moor.

  ‘Where are we going, Mummy?’ Kyle protested.

  ‘This way, for a change, darling,’ she said.

  She knew Kyle wasn’t persuaded it was a good thing, but he didn’t protest. Her only thought was the need to keep away from Yugov. Beyond that imperative, she couldn’t think. She had no idea where they were going.

  They couldn’t go home. She knew that instinctively. There, they would be isolated and trapped. She couldn’t involve anyone else, either, and risk endangering other people. On a practical level, there was no police presence in the village. So there was no possibility of asking them for help, even if she had been so inclined. And she had no phone with her to call John. She had nothing! They were on their own, she and Kyle.

  She was still terrified, but her brain was working flat out. Even so, the only thing she knew for certain was that she had to keep herself and Kyle well away from Yugov.

  Nothing else really mattered.

  But where to go? What to do?

  The light was fading. Soon it would be dark. It would be cold, too. She had to find some refuge for them both. Where, though? It had to be somewhere John would think to look. It had to be a place where they would be safe until he found them, somewhere Yugov couldn’t possibly know about. Where could they go? Where was there such a place?

  As they toiled up the steep path, the answer suddenly came to her. There was one place no-one else but John would think of. And he would! John would think of it. She was sure of it. He would find them there, and rescue them.

  Then they would stand together and deal with Yugov. She couldn’t fight him alone, not when she had Kyle to protect, but together with John she could. And, together, they would avenge her father.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tait set a burning pace up the hillside and onto the moor. The way was steep and the night dark, and the rain was slanting into his face. None of that made any difference. He had to crack on. His wife and son were dependent on him finding them, and doing it soon. He had to rely on his strength and his knowledge of the hills to keep him ahead of the men on his trail while he searched for his family.

  His thigh muscles were soon aching from the prolonged assault on the steep slope. His breath was coming in deep, lung-bursting gasps. Grimly, he forced himself on. He had to keep up the pace and try to burn off the pursuit.

  Twice he paused, just for a moment, to listen. Each time he grimaced and set off again harder than ever. They were coming. He could hear them. Not voices. Just the rattle of loose stones slipping down the hillside.

  He thought there were two, maybe three of them following. No more. They hadn’t thought they would need more than that. They shouldn’t have done, but he’d got his retaliation in first. Then he’d got lucky, and been able to get away.

  They weren’t far behind. He was hoping they would give it up, the chase, but they hadn’t yet. On a night like this, that told him something about their capability, as well as their intentions. They were tough people, whoever they were.

  He hoped to lose them when he reached the top and got out onto the moor. There was no single, well-trodden path up there. Just narrow sheep trails in all directions, in a sea of heather stretching for miles. He knew where he was going. They didn’t.

  It wouldn’t be possible to see much up there on a night like this. Even here, on this broad, stony track, he couldn’t really see where he was going. He was navigating more by memory, and the feel and sound of the ground underfoot, than vision.

  The men following him couldn’t know this country like he did, he kept telling himself. They were doing all right at the moment, but on the moor it would be a different story. Once he was up there, and off the path, he would be able to lose them and disappear.

  He ducked his head to shield his eyes. Driven by a shrieking wind, the rain was heavier than ever now he was near the summit ridge. It was in his face, trickling down his collar and streaming down his back. There was nothing to be done about it. He couldn’t stop. And if he pulled the hood of his jacket up, he would hear nothing.

  The wetness didn’t slow him down. He was more concerned by the many parts of his body that hadn’t been tested like this for a long time and were complaining loudly. His thigh muscles were shrieking with pain. Threatening to go on strike. His lungs were raw with the harshness of his breathing.

  He gritted his teeth and ignored it all. He ignored the pain in his back and legs. He ignored his bursting lungs. His focus was on reaching the top of the slope. His wife and son needed him. They needed him now – and alive.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving the house, the gradient slackened off at last. He breasted the ridge and came up onto the open moor. Immediately, he shifted direction and turned hard to the north, leaving the track and taking a direct route through knee-high heather. There was no possibility of finding one of the sheep trails in this soggy, wet blackness. It didn’t matter. He knew where he was going. Nobody behind him did.

  Ten minutes later he paused to listen. Nothing at first. Then, in a lull in the wind, he heard a swishing sound. They were still there, brushing through the heather, and not far behind. He grimaced and changed direction again, heading westwards now.

  Still the heather was high, but he knew he was close to grassland now. He would be able to move faster on that. But so would they, he thought with a grimace. That was no good.

  He changed direction several times in his attempts to get rid of them. It made no difference. They were still there, and far too close. Closer, if anything. They were good, too good. Experienced hunters? Special Forces trained? He began to feel increasingly desperate. Whatever he did, he couldn’t lose them.

  How the hell were they doing it? They didn�
��t know this country. They couldn’t see any better than he could. And surely they couldn’t hear him? It was uncanny.

  Then it struck him. Either he was carrying a homing beacon they had managed to insert into him or his gear, which was virtually impossible, or they were using night vision equipment. That was it! It had to be. Gear that used his own body heat to expose him.

  Jesus! No wonder they were still there. They had a huge advantage. They hadn’t been able to catch up with him yet, but they would wear him down eventually. He was one guy; they could swap pacemakers. What the hell could he do?

  He’d better come up with something soon. Charging across the moor like this was not helping. He had to find some way of breaking things up, and causing confusion and uncertainty. He had to get far enough away from them that they lost all trace of him.

  He thought fast. His mental map was good. He knew almost exactly where he was. He saw a possibility. About a quarter mile to the north there was a sandstone escarpment, Friar’s Edge. If he could reach that, something might be possible. He knew how to get down it fast. They didn’t. It might make enough of a difference.

  He reached the scarp edge. It was a half mile long, a thirty foot high tangle of sheer faces and huge boulders. Great fun to explore and climb around on a warm, dry summer’s day. Impossible on a black, wet night this time of year – unless you knew your way around.

  He headed straight for a gully he remembered. Without hesitation, he slithered down it fast, ignoring the bumps and scrapes. This was one place where the scree was only gravel. There were no rocks and boulders to break your leg, or your neck.

  He reached the bottom of the gully without crippling himself. Just scrapes and knocks to knees and elbows, and once a hard jolt to his back. He scrambled back to his feet and set off to jog down a long slope of rough grassland, desperate to get out of the range of whatever equipment they were using.

  They hadn’t been close enough to see exactly what he’d done, and even if they had head lamps, they would struggle to find a quick way down the escarpment. The next few minutes were absolutely crucial. He had to get away from them now, or he never would.