by Tim Heath
The Hunt Series Books 4-6
The Hunt Series Boxset
Tim Heath
Happy Content publishing
Copyright © 2018 by Tim Heath
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
The Machine
Character Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Menace
Character Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Meltdown
Character Glossary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Tim Heath Thriller Boxset
T H Paul Series Starter
Author Notes and Acknowledgments
Mailing List
The Novels by Tim Heath
The Boxsets––Tim Heath
The Boxsets––T H Paul
About the Author
The Machine
The Hunt series Book 4
Character Glossary
Who’s who in The Hunt series
MI6 - Alex Tolbert, Anissa Edison, Gordon Peacock (head technician), Charlie Boon, Zoe Elliot.
FSB - Sasha Barkov
Former T10 members - Mark Orlov (Grey Eagle), Roman Ivanov, Lev Kaminski (Lion Man), Vladimir Popov (the Priest), Matvey Filipov, Viktor Gavrilyuk, Dima Petrov, Yefrem Fyodorov, Valery Holub, Timur Budny (Iron Man)
Former T20 members - Foma Polzin, Arseni Markovic, Rurik Sewick (Mr Grey), Akim Kozlov, Aleksey Kuznetsov, Dmitry Kaminski, Motya Utkin, Andre Filipov, Dmitry Pavlov, Osip Yakovlev
Matvey Filipov––father of Andre Filipov, oligarch and Presidential hopeful.
Andre Filipov––son of Matvey.
Dmitry Kaminski––Presidential hopeful.
Anastasia Kaminski––wife to Dmitry, of Belarusian origin.
Pavel Kaminski––father of Dmitry.
Lev Kaminski––brother of Pavel, uncle to Dmitry, though raised Dmitry after Pavel’s death.
Sergej Volkov (the Wolf)––Billionaire and husband of Svetlana, with huge influence within Russia, though otherwise unconnected to the Games.
Svetlana Volkov (the Lamb)––Wife of Sergej, world famous actress and founder of the Games.
The Machine Leadership––Mark Orlov, Sergej Volkov and Lev Kaminski.
1
January 2018––St Petersburg, Russia
The first shot hadn’t killed him. That had been their first mistake. Yes, he realised they were after him now and as a trained FSB agent he knew a little about defending himself, especially if it was just a couple of street punks trying to get an easy score.
Neither of them was that, however.
Besides, their target was weaponless––his gun had gone flying when they’d taken the shot, sending the Russian agent crashing to the ground. Now they were moving in for the kill. There was no way the target could avoid the fatal shot.
One minute later, the two men who were each still carrying a handgun and dressed in black combat gear, were walking away from the scene at speed, back down the street from where they had come just ten minutes previously. They put their weapons away, the barrel of one still hot.
The larger of the two Russians pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket.
“It’s done,” he said, speaking once more with the man who’d ordered the hit just an hour before.
“He’s dead?”
“Yes, we left him where we shot him. The FSB won’t be interfering anymore, sir. Do you want us to come back in?” It’d been months––nearly eleven in fact––since they’d had any contact from Command. It’d been almost five years since they were last in the one facility the organisation used exclusively for their own matters.
“Yes, it might be time. Bring them all back in now, comrade.”
The call ended.
“He’s ordered all teams back in. Make the call,” the larger man said to his next in rank, a man and soldier whom he’d fought alongside for over two decades.
The other man got on with the task, making several calls to the various team leaders, each group of five now ordered back to base––for some, recruited over recent years, it would be the first time they had ever been there.
The early 1990s––Moscow
A young man sat on the only piece of furniture that wasn’t their bed, putting together yet another cigarette. In the communal flat, the sound of other residents was an ever-present reality––people moving around, waking up, doors banging––all neighbours stuck in the same situation.
A young female––the man’s girlfriend of fifteen months––came back into the room, not looking at all happy.
“Water’s off again!” she screamed. She’d gone to take a shower just moments before as the shared bathroom was free. It was unusual to find no one in there but the reason became clear once she started running the hot tap. “Damn! I don’t need this today.”
The man––Vlad, who was nineteen and nothing more than a typical street criminal––had started smoking by now, having assumed he would have had a few minutes alone. M
onths back, she would have cursed him for smoking inside. Now, she’d learnt to say nothing––it made no difference.
“Relax, Svetchik, you could always jump back into bed with me.” If he wasn’t having sex, then Vlad was thinking about it. In truth, he couldn’t believe his luck with this one. She was way out of his league, which was evident to anyone.
She, however, had had nowhere to go at the time and knew her chances were a hundred times better taking Vlad up on his offer to live with him than living out on the streets. Gangs and criminal organisations made that part of the city particularly dangerous––so much for the new era in the Motherland. It was all falling apart around her, the whole country in chaos.
She’d actually grown to be quite fond of him over time––the sex was just her way of paying the rent. She wouldn’t tell him that.
All she needed that morning was to get a shower, get to the latest audition, and she might finally be able to step out on her own two feet at last.
She’d left home a year and a half before, aged just fifteen. She’d come under Vlad’s protection a few weeks after leaving behind the only family she knew––a mum and dad, her father working three jobs by the end of it and her sole male role model whom she never saw. That had evidently got too much for her mother as well. Her parents’ marriage collapsed. At one of the hardest of times in her country’s dark history, the secure world she thought she had around her suddenly collapsed. She ran away the same night her mother told her about the divorce. She’d not been in contact since.
Her mother––an alcoholic at the best of times––had probably drunk herself to death already, for all she knew.
For the young teenager she was then––as she still was, though the last year and a half had aged her beyond her years––she was well rid of the lot of them. When she’d complained to her father on one of the rare occasions he was home that she was being molested by her uncle––her father’s own brother––the brush-off had cut to the bone. The two brothers had sided with each other.
She often wondered a little about what she’d once had. Life wasn’t comfortable now. It couldn’t have been easy for them then, either. She’d largely been shielded from all that apart from her drinking mother and abusive uncle. Her father being out all the time was only to make ends meet. She knew that now.
Her own life hadn’t turned into anything special since then, either.
She’d moved in with Vlad the month before the first McDonald’s opened in Moscow––she could see the queues of thousands of people from the window in their room, as the line snaked its way around the park down below. She felt sadness, not hope. She was as desperate for escape as those people were for a taste of an American burger. She didn’t even have the money for that.
“You look fine,” Vlad said, at last. She’d been fussing for five minutes in front of a small mirror––the glass broken in one corner, damaged by one of the numerous previous tenants most likely.
“I’m going, then. Do you think you could get some bread while I’m gone?” Bread and milk were about the only things Russians could rely on being available. They couldn’t have afforded meat, anyway, even if it was on offer.
Vlad didn’t respond, he was already rolling the second cigarette. She hated the smell, always had. His whole body now seemed to ooze smoke from every pore––the flat was bathed in the smell though that was a welcome coverup from what it had been like before.
Twenty minutes later she was walking in through the doors of the latest production company with whom she’d come to audition. It was her third such audition––the first two happening nearly a year before, and she didn’t really know what she was doing back then. Plus she’d been too young––she looked too young. She still was young, though her identification papers, something Vlad had been able to sort through one of his contacts, now at least had her down as eighteen.
“Ms Zolnerovic,” a lady said, having scanned down the list of names in front of her a few seconds before and confirming she was expected. “Please, come this way,” and she was led down a small corridor and told to sit down on one of the black seats. There were three other women in front of her, all about her age––her pretend age––or maybe a little older. They all looked a little disheartened when she was led in. Ms Zolnerovic looked stunning, as she always did.
The three in front of her had been called in over the next hour. She’d been joined by another two women behind her in the queue, each apparently waiting for their chance, their big break. Anything to get out of Russia, and that was precisely what this particular production company offered. Yes, it was Russian run, but they were one of the few Soviet-era firms that had permission to work with American studios. McDonald's was far from the only Western influence in a now more open Russia.
The three women ahead of her had been in the room for varying amounts of time. The first was in for nearly half an hour, and came out slowly, but had not seemed too disappointed. The second was led out by two men after being inside for just five minutes––could her audition really have been that bad? The third lady––who left moments before Sveta was called in––walked out fast, head down, not even glancing at any of the ladies waiting, after about twenty minutes.
“Ms Zolnerovic,” a man behind a large desk said, as three others joined him in the room. All around the walls were photos of various stars of the screen––some she recognised, most of whom she didn’t. In one corner of what turned out to be more of a mini studio than an office, there was a pile of lighting equipment. There was a small staging area opposite the desk that all four men were now sitting behind.
“Please, take your position on the stage,” the same man said, motioning for her to stand in front of them.
She was handed a script––she knew what was often expected of her in these situations, though she had never been given an actual screenplay before, usually just handed a book by Pushkin or Tolstoy and told to read it theatrically. This was an altogether different experience. Her heart started to race. She glanced down at the lines––they were in English.
“You are able to read English?” the Director said, speaking in English, picking up on her initial surprise.
“Yes, of course,” she replied in the same language. She’d spent much of the last fifteen months watching American films on Vlad’s stolen television set––that being by far the most appealing thing about her entire connection to that man.
Fifteen minutes later the Director ended the exercise.
“Thank you, Ms Zolnerovic. That’ll be enough for now. You’ve done a wonderful audition,” he said, calling her over to them, and she handed back the script.
“I can see you going a long way,” the Director said.
“Really?” She was more shocked than actually questioning.
“Absolutely. You deliver your lines with passion and precision, you have a fantastic accent, and you are very beautiful,” he said, standing up at this point and coming around to the front of the desk. The other three followed behind, standing alongside him. “Very beautiful,” he said, now standing facing her. “Of course, these parts don’t come around easily,” and he started fiddling with his belt. “We will make someone a star––it could be you,” he said as he continued and unbuttoned the top of his jeans. “The question is, how much do you want it? How much are you prepared to do for us to get the part?” By now it was obvious what they wanted her to do. All four men had their belts undone.
“On your knees, actress!” the Director said, a smirk of power, of control and mockery firmly planted on his face. Of course, they wanted something. She felt sick to her stomach as she lowered herself to the ground––lowered herself to their depraved level––but if this were to be her big break, she’d take it. Then she’d show them all.
2
Polkovo Airport––St Petersburg
January 1st, 2018
When the gunfire had started––the men who were behind the attacks that had taken place around Russia against perceived oppositi
on had mainly fired at the airport security personnel who had commanded Sasha to freeze––the Russian FSB agent had immediately hit the deck. He’d taken a bullet in the thigh, but five minutes later, bullets no longer flying through the darkness, he had managed to drag himself away from the situation.
