by Karl Hill
Black eased him to the floor. Suddenly the white carpet was red. Black waited, nerves stretched. The noise may have attracted others. The house seemed still, unoccupied. Black raced up the stairs. He was looking for the bedrooms, any bedroom. Somewhere he might find warm clothing.
More doors. He went through the rooms, until he found what he was looking for. A large room, double bed, and along one side, a series of built-in wardrobes. In them was what he needed – warm fleece-lined trousers, shirt, pullover, and in one section, a row of coats. Black put on a black snorkel-hood parka. He found a shoe cupboard, and in it, several pairs of winter boots. Black put a pair on. Slightly tight, but Black didn’t have the luxury to care.
He had no weapon, except the knife. But in the dark, when people were scared, a gun wasn’t essential.
Black raced back down the stairs, past the dead man on the hall floor, and out the front door.
Time to join the hunt for the man Peter Grant hated most in the world. Adam Black.
66
Black zipped up the coat’s hood over his head, rendering him unrecognisable. He jogged past the burning guest house, still fully ablaze, the roof structure fallen in on itself, the flames reaching high into the night-time sky. He got to the line of trees and plunged into the darkness.
He saw flickers of light ahead, not far away. Torch beams. Also, it was impossible not to hear them, thrashing through the undergrowth, shouting to each other, and distinct was the voice of Peter Grant, bellowing commands. Their intention was not to capture him unawares. Rather, they were like hounds hunting the fox, following their prey until it could go no further, spent and exhausted. Black moved as quickly as he could, unconcerned about the noise he was making, the sounds of his passing blending in with the general clamour.
The eight men were moving slowly in the same direction, in what appeared to be a relatively straight line. Black caught up, but kept back fifty yards, working out their position by each bobbing flashlight. He targeted the man at one end of the line, and nearest him. With the dark parka, and virtually zero natural light, he was invisible.
He increased his pace, until he was a yard behind, pulling back his hood for better vision. The man he had chosen was wearing a pale-blue ski jacket, dark woollen hat pulled over his ears. He had a torch in one hand, and a rifle slung over his shoulder. Looked like a bolt-action Winchester. A hunter’s rifle. Black had to move quickly and silently. The kill had to be efficient.
He executed the manoeuvre exactly as he had been trained. Placing one hand over the man’s mouth, he thrust his knife hard into the side of his neck, the collar of the ski jacket offering little resistance. The man made a faint coughing spluttering sound, and collapsed immediately, Black taking his weight, lowering him gently to the ground. Black relieved him of both torch and rifle and left him shuddering in some long grass.
Now Black was part of the line. The man across from him waved and pointed his torch in his direction.
“Any sign?”
Black shone his torch back and shook his head.
They moved slowly on. Black could hear Grant cracking out the orders from the middle of the line. “Nice and slow. He can’t get past us. Keep your torches straight ahead. We’ll head him off. Don’t shoot him. Nowhere he can go at the foot of the hill. We’ll get the fucker. No problem.”
Black decided it was time. He stopped, raised his hand.
“Here!” he shouted. “Here!”
The line stopped, and seven torches trained on him. He had pulled the hood of his parka back over his head, hanging loosely so that he still had good periphery of vision, but still enough to hide his face.
“Fucking brilliant!” he heard one man shout.
“Stay there!” cried Grant.
You can bet your life on it, thought Black.
The seven men angled towards him.
Black got down on one knee. For the men approaching, it would look innocent enough, as if he were crouching down to inspect something on the ground. Instead, Black switched off his torch, positioned the rifle butt in the pocket of his firing shoulder, rested his cheek on the stock, aimed the iron sights dead against the torchlight of the first approaching man, and fired.
The shot echoed through the crisp forest air. The torch dropped suddenly to the ground. Clean hit. The other torches suddenly stopped. Black didn’t, working the bolt smoothly, and firing again within two seconds, aiming directly at the next beam of light. It was twenty yards further away, but well within Black’s range. Another shot cracked through the winter’s chill, another torch dropped to the ground. Two men down in less than five seconds. The odds were improving.
67
“What the fuck is going on!” Grant screamed.
“It’s Black!” Nathan shouted. “It’s Black shooting at us!”
“Jesus. He’s got a gun,” another shouted.
Then another voice. “Kill the torches! Kill the fucking torches!”
Too late. A third man went down, close to Nathan. Nathan saw it happening – the bullet ripping through the man’s chest, his back erupting, like a volcano spewing dollops of body parts.
The torches were extinguished, the wood falling eerily silent after the noise of gunshot. A stillness settled. Nathan had leapt to the ground and crawled up behind a tree trunk. He strained to see something, anything which might indicate Black’s position. But he was looking at a tangle of darkness and shadow.
His uncle was also flat on the ground, twenty yards away.
“Can you see him?” Grant hissed.
“I can’t see a fucking thing! We should head back, to safety. Regroup!”
Grant did not respond immediately. Nathan imagined his uncle’s mind working furiously. He was in a dilemma. If he started a gunfight, and Black was killed, he’d lose a fortune. If he did nothing, then Black might disappear, vanish in the night – or worse, continue picking them off.
“Black!” shouted Grant. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
“I know you can! I only want the fucking password. You give that to me, and we all walk away from this. You go your way, I go mine. You have your life back, and we forget this. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”
A voice responded, suddenly, not from the spot Nathan thought Black was hunkered in. From somewhere behind them. Nathan jumped when he heard it.
“Then we forget the whole thing?”
“That’s right, Black!”
“And I forget my wife and daughter?”
“We can’t go back! We both suffered. You took my son! What the fuck did you expect?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. You’ll never get the password, Grant. Accept this. Tonight, you’re going to die.”
Suddenly Grant stood, rifle pointed. “Kill him! Kill the fucker!” He fired in the direction of Black’s voice. His men fired, including Nathan, the sound deafening. Deep down, he knew there was no chance of hitting Black in these conditions. Four rifles unleashed volleys of bullets with no idea of where they were shooting. After ten seconds the firing stopped, and again that strange unearthly hush descended on the world.
“I think I got him!” someone shouted.
A noise, forty yards away. The sound of twigs snapping, branches breaking, footsteps trampling on sticks and hard ground. The man closest to Grant was moving. Running. A sudden beam of light appeared. He had switched on his torch.
“I hit something!”
“Stay where you are!” Grant bellowed. “Turn the fucking torch off!”
The man ignored him. Another rifle shot boomed out. Nathan heard a rustle of bushes, a groan. Then silence. The torchlight disappeared.
“Where are you?” shouted Grant.
No response.
“Shit!”
Eight down to three, thought Nathan. Who’s next?
His uncle was lying flat again, rifle pointed ahead. He crawled towards Nathan, who was still crouched behind a tree, hardly daring to breathe. He got to about six feet from him, and then sp
oke in a rasping whisper. “We can’t go back. He’ll take us out when we try to get to the house. We keep going. We follow the slope, until we reach the loch shore. If we can get to the boathouse, then we can get away on Shadow. Once we’re on the loch, we’re safe.”
“Unless Black gets us first.”
“Keep it together, Nathan. We can’t see him, he can’t see us. It’s not far. We do it slow and careful. Keep close behind me. And don’t put your torch on.”
“There’s still one of our men out there.”
“Fuck him. It’s you and me.”
Nathan nodded, despite his uncle not being able to see the gesture. Nathan tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. It occurred to him these might be the last moments of his life. He roused himself, started to move in a creeping gait, second by painstaking second, body braced for the life-ending impact of a bullet. His uncle was five steps ahead, crouched low, heading for the boathouse at Loch Morlich.
68
Black was unsure of Grant’s next move. To turn tail and make for the safety of the big house was the obvious course of action. But Grant was fighting for his life and knew that Black had already second-guessed him. Also, there was a clear kill zone between the edge of the trees and the entrance to the house. Grant might not wish to take the risk.
Black also assumed that Grant knew the lie of the land. It was Black’s guess therefore, that Grant would continue onwards, to try to shake him off, lose him in the trees, and then veer back. Plus, they would not use their torches, just as it was dangerous for Black to use his. Which meant Black could easily lose them in the darkness. Black fought a sudden rise of panic. He was so close; he could taste Grant’s fear. To lose him now was not an option.
He was kneeling in the midst of a cluster of pine trees. He didn’t move, listening for the slightest sound, the rustle of branches, twigs snapping, any noise indicating human presence. Overhead, he heard the hoot of an owl. To his right, the vague murmur of a stream. He reckoned he was about a quarter of a mile from the burning remnants of Grant’s guest house. But here, in the thick of the woods, the flames were too distant to see, so Black had to guess his bearings. The ground was sloping. Perhaps to a road? Grant had mentioned they were close to the Cairngorms. Black had once trained up in this area, climbing the mountain known as Ben Macdui with a forty-four-pound Bergen pack strapped to his back. But his knowledge of the land was limited.
There! Away to his left, perhaps a hundred yards or so, the crack of a snapping branch. Black moved carefully forward in the direction of the sound, trying not to disturb his surroundings. The going was slow. The ground beneath him was markedly sloped, the trees thinning. The clouds shifted above – the sudden moonlight gave a wan illumination. Black saw vague shapes and outlines. Trees, branches, bushes. He was walking in a strange netherworld, full of phantoms and shadows. He kept onwards, step by delicate step, careful not to make any noise. He was a ghost.
Forty minutes later, the wood gave way to a narrow, sandy beach, beyond which was the still, black surface of a loch, flat as glass, the soft sound of its waters lapping on the sand.
He stopped at the foot of a thick tree, and hunkered down, gazing left and right. Two figures were jogging along the sand, heading for a structure built on the edge of the open water. Peter Grant!
A movement close to his side. Black spun round. A man was standing, staring at him, rifle pointed in his general direction. He was as surprised at seeing Black, as Black was seeing him. The man lifted his rifle. Instinct cut in. Black dropped onto one knee, aimed, fired all in one smooth motion, hitting the man dead centre in the stomach. The man uttered a rasping croak, clamped both hands over his guts, and toppled into the shadows.
Black was out of bullets. He tossed the rifle away.
He turned back to the two men on the beach, who had obviously heard the shot, and were sprinting towards the boathouse. Black chased after them, keeping to the cover of the thin periphery of trees.
69
Grant and Nathan got to the boathouse. It was a structure in the shape of a super-sized wooden shed, protruding at least twenty-five yards into the water, the wood painted maroon. There was a door at the side, unlocked.
“Did you hear that?” Nathan glanced behind him, towards the trees, and the source of the rifle shot.
“Of course I fucking did!” snapped Grant.
“Black might be shot.”
“Don’t count on it.”
They entered the building. Grant slammed the door shut behind them, securing two bolt locks at top and bottom. He flicked a switch. The interior was suddenly illuminated by a series of strip lights fastened by brackets on the high, flat ceiling. They were standing on a narrow wooden walkway. Docked to a piling was a twenty-foot speedboat, reinforced fibreglass body, a sleek black shark. The word ‘Shadow’ was emblazoned in bright-white lettering on the hull. His ‘fun boat’ as his uncle described it. Nathan had been on board before and had never enjoyed the experience. It made him nauseous. Tonight was different. Tonight, the boat and the water were his best friends.
“You’ve got keys?”
“Don’t worry.” Grant made his way to the back of the enclosure, to a set of cupboards and shelves, containing rope, tins of paint, petrol cans, other oddments. He pulled open a drawer, and took out a metal toolbox, which he opened. In one of the compartments was a set of keys.
“Spare,” he said. “For emergencies. There’s enough fuel in the tank to take us where we need to go. We’ll get to the main road on the other side. It’s midnight, but the Osprey is open till one. We’ll phone a taxi and get the fuck out of here. Then we’ll see what happens next.”
Nathan knew the Osprey. A pub sitting on the shore of the loch, selling cheap beer and whisky. A popular haunt for those fed up with the tourist prices of Aviemore, twenty miles down the road.
“But what does that mean – what’s next?” Nathan said, his voice rising to almost a whine. “Black’s alive. There’s a bunch of dead bodies at the lodge. What do we tell the police?”
“Fuck the police! I’ve got the chief constable in my back pocket. We’ll blame it all on Black. Fucking psycho killer on the loose.”
In the raw glare of the strip light, his uncle looked ghastly – the perpetual tan seemed to have drained away; his lean face looked gaunt, his eyes sunken into his skull, his cheekbones harsh and prominent. For the first time ever, Nathan saw him as much older than he was, frail and bitter. And mad.
Grant climbed into the cockpit and started the engine. It thrummed into life. Nathan untied the mooring rope, flung it into the boat, and climbed in after him. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
70
When Black heard the bolts on the door slam shut, he had no choice. The cautious approach was no longer a viable option. There were no windows in the boathouse, as far as he could tell, no obvious places a person could fire a rifle from. He sprinted from the trees, and across the sand, past some wooden picnic tables, a metal rubbish bin.
He got to the door, just as the low drone of the motorboat engine started up. He pulled, but it was locked solid. He ran around the back, and to the other side – there! A plastic drainpipe running from ancient guttering edging the flat roof, fifteen feet high. Black gripped the pipe with both hands, its surface slick. He shinnied up, the pipe barely holding his weight. He got to the top, pulled himself over. The roof was flat, consisting of hard, black asphalt. Black crept to the far edge, overlooking the water. He squinted down; the light from the interior of the boathouse reflected off the water’s surface, giving it an oily, black glimmer.
He waited, poised. This was his only chance. He sensed movement. The bow of the boat emerged from the enclosure.
Black jumped.
71
Nathan remained behind Grant as he navigated the boat out its enclosure, the exiting manoeuvre slow at the beginning. Nathan, eyes fixed stonily ahead at the dark landscape, felt he was in an endless nightmare, unable to wake up. He was in hell. De
ad men everywhere. The night was not yet over.
He sensed a blur of movement, above and behind him. He whirled round. From nowhere, a figure hurtled onto the boat, landing with a hollow thud on the stern.
Black!
He landed clumsily, the boat rocking at the sudden weight.
“What the fuck!” screamed Grant, turning to look.
Black almost bounced off, but managed to grip onto a side cleat, preventing him falling into the water. He hauled himself up and onto the boat. Nathan was too stunned to react.
“Shoot the fuck!” Grant pushed hard on the throttle. The boat picked up speed instantly, skittering across the water.
The sudden acceleration caused both Nathan and Black to lose balance, Black again almost toppling into the water.
Nathan had placed his rifle on one of the cockpit seats. He snatched it up, and pointed square at Black’s chest, only six yards from him.
“Shoot him!”
Nathan nodded.
Black stared back, directly into the barrel of a bolt-action Winchester, unflinching.
Nathan felt an overwhelming sense of elation. Black was going to die. Nathan, who detested getting his hands dirty, detested any form of violence, had no trouble acting out this final scene. Still, he couldn’t keep the tremble from his hands.
“Goodbye, Black.”
He pulled the trigger.
72
Black could have dived into the icy waters of the loch, but he chose not to. It had come to this. He was so close to Grant, he could almost touch him. He could smell his fear. After the ordeals he had endured, the traumas inflicted upon him, to let it go was unthinkable. Impossible. So let it play out. The man he recognised as Grant’s nephew – Nathan – was pointing a rifle straight at him. But the boat was moving at high speed, bouncing and lurching across the surface of the water. And it was dark. And he knew the man facing him was scared shitless.
