The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  The real world seemed like a foreign invader, an imposter who shouldn’t be there. Life in the cabin was almost perfect.

  “I have to go to my place this morning,” Rad said, after finishing his first mouthful of porridge. He’d not eaten that in years––probably not since the orphanage days, his time there yet another piece of information that Nastya didn’t know about him. At least her porridge tasted halfway decent.

  “Great, I’ll come with you,” she said. She didn’t want to leave Rad for one moment, not now she knew. Not now he was back.

  “I need to work.”

  “I’ll help.”

  “It’s not that type of work,” he said, a little sharply. Nastya realised she had no real idea what he did, besides some sort of writing job. She thought he had meant he needed to do physical labour associated with living in the forest, primarily as it was wintertime and he'd only just arrived back.

  “Oh,” she said, somewhat put out.

  “I won’t be all day. I’ll come back by dinnertime.”

  “So I’m just here to provide you with warm meals and sex when you need it, is that it?” She seemed genuinely annoyed. Yesterday afternoon had not been anything meaningless.

  “No, of course not, I just thought…I assumed you would want to eat together. If that's not possible, I’ll-” but she cut him off, as if fearful of pushing him away when all she wanted was him to be close.

  “No, I’m sorry. Of course, we can eat together. I'm just silly. Ignore me. You didn’t come all this way in winter to see me. You have work. I get that, of course, I do. You would have to be crazy to choose to live in the forest at this time of year.” Rad had learnt that Nastya often had a way of putting herself down.

  “I did come here to see you,” Rad said, honestly. There was nothing at his dacha that he couldn’t have got elsewhere. She smiled at that compliment.

  “Very well then. I’ll get some meat from the freezer. We’ll eat well tonight. I do a good shashlik.”

  “That sounds amazing,” he said, finishing his porridge in three spoonfuls and taking the bowl over to the sink.

  “Leave that,” she said, Rad about to wash it up. “Focus on getting back, do what needs doing. I’ll sort all this out. I don’t want you any more delayed than you otherwise need to be.” She paused. “By the way, I don’t actually know what type of writing you do for a living?” He apparently wasn't doing creative writing. An author had control over his own work patterns. A writer wouldn't be leaving her for a time in a frozen, unheated dacha.

  “I’m in recruitment,” he said, pulling on his winter gear. It was real enough for that day’s task, anyhow.

  “Oh,” she said, a little surprised. She let it pass. Five minutes later Rad was skiing away from the cabin, following the same tracks from the day before, some snow overnight giving everything a fresh feel, but the trail firmly established in the otherwise untouched white carpet.

  Once back at his own dacha, which was cold and empty, as uninviting as he could possibly have imagined, Rad got to work as quickly as possible. Working in the cold was hard. The temperature inside his unheated dacha was just a few degrees different from outside. He kept his outdoor clothing on, the ski back at least building up some heat inside his layers, which was now proving helpful as he sat behind his computer.

  Over the next five hours, Rad lighting all the candles he had, as well as the fire––which didn’t add a lot of heat, but did at least stop the place feeling cold eventually––Rad had pulled together a list of names. His usual approach was always more by stealth than brute force, though he wondered in this case if a combination of both was needed. The area where the Machine had their HQ was remote. It was also Russian land, which helped. Getting away was not, therefore, such an issue. On the frontline, it always was the primary issue, which is why he went for small teams with himself as the lone shooter. He could be as far away as two kilometres and still make a kill. Far enough and with as few men as possible to make a clean getaway.

  Siberia was different. Remote and empty––aside from their target property––nobody would come looking for them, apart from those connected to the target. That meant having more men than the enemy had employed would give them an advantage. Brute force was needed after all. But the attack would run the way Rad always worked. Snipers from a distance, at least at first.

  Rad had selected five candidates from the sniper ranks within the Russian army. Most had no combat experience yet but were all top of their class. They would be thrilled with the coaching Rad could offer them. He would build his attack around the six of them, using the additional troops as a backup, and then move in closer when tactically possible. Aerial support had been ruled out, for whatever reason.

  Rad then selected a force of thirty men, six team leaders with four soldiers under each of them. One group of five would be stationed with each sniper, their positions as yet to be decided but all sure to be surrounding the property from all sides. When the time came, they would be able to cover all escape routes and move in when needed.

  Rad wrote down a list of the weapons and missiles they needed. A few rocket launchers would also enable the ground forces to operate from a distance, though Rad feared close combat was inevitable. It was something Rad had always tried to avoid in his battleground scenarios.

  Rad spent the last hour––light outside already fading, the sun down not long after three in the afternoon––writing emails to the various people he was recruiting. Authorisation from the Kremlin that gave Rad complete control over them was also attached, for good measure. Rad finished with an email to Svetlana and a list of all the materials he would need. He asked for it all to be on the plane waiting for him when they flew from Moscow. He then switched off the computer.

  The fire was nearly out, the only light once the screen had powered down being from the still burning candles, though these did not have a lot of life left in them, and Rad did not have any spare. He pulled his torch from his jacket and blew out the candles. The hut was plunged into darkness, save for the beam of light coming from the torch.

  Rad hung his rifle around his shoulders again––there were all sorts of animals in the forest after dark––and located his skis, which were standing next to the door. Opening the door, the outside as dark as the inside now was, Rad pressed out into the cold. The torchlight could make out the path back reasonably well, and once the trees thinned, it would be a little easier to see, though not a lot. There was no moonlight and no artificial lighting. It was just his torch. He carried a spare battery in his jacket pocket, just in case, like all good hunters.

  Rad locked the door and set off on a path he knew well. He’d been fishing in the lake for years, and now also had memorised the route to Nastya’s. The three-inch ski tracks took him almost automatically, anyway.

  Ten minutes into his crossing, the pace a lot slower given the dark, Rad heard the deathly howl of a wolf pack. He quickened his pace. By the time he reached the lake, where there was no cover, he knew they had his scent. They were getting closer with every stride, the howls harrowing, the size of pack alarming. His rifle was loaded, but he didn’t have a lot of spare ammo. He didn’t usually need it. One shot was all he needed to down a deer but the three extra bullets he had––forgetting the time to reload––would not be enough to stave off a charging pack of dogs which could number into double figures. Rad skied harder. He knew the wolves’ eyesight, especially at night, was many times better than his, and despite his torchlight bouncing off the snow and illuminating his path before him well enough, the pack would be able to spot him as soon as they broke cover. He was confident of that fact.

  He was also too far away from the cabin ahead of him to make it before they caught him. He knew that much.

  Rad was in a dilemma. Should he stop, take aim and take out the lead dog––kill him in one go and the pack would probably flee––or keep going? To stop and miss, or not take out the lead, would only see him surrounded in no time. With little light, the
y would be on top of him before he could have a chance of another shot.

  Rad was two hundred metres from the other bank when the pack broke onto the ice, their pace picking up, as they moved in for the kill. Rad swung around briefly. He could hear them, but they were lost to him in the darkness until he shone his torch up and saw the sparkle of multiple pairs of eyes coming at him in the distance. The beam of light had at least stopped the wolves in their track, but they were smart. On his own, and without moving, Rad was a sitting duck. He had to do something but didn’t know what to do. He was short of bullets, and in the dark, could have no way of knowing which of the pack was the alpha male.

  He started to despair. For the only time in his adult life, he didn’t know if he was going to get out of this one alive.

  At the point he realised this, a flare shot high up into the sky suddenly, surprising and unexpected. He watched it like it was a shooting star, as it arched over him and landed at the edge of the lake, beautifully highlighting the pack of twelve hungry wolves. Rad picked up his rifle, and in one smooth action fired at the front dog, a howl of pain heard as the dog hit the ground.

  “Move!” Nastya screamed from behind, Rad glad to hear her voice, but fearful that she was out of her house. The pack started running towards him, Rad skiing hard. Nastya crouched to her knees, rifle in hand, as the flare began to burn out, the light about to fade. She fired twice, Rad sensing the bullets whistle past, though they couldn’t have been as close as he feared. She was aiming at the dogs. Another loud howl could be heard. The dogs stopped running. The alpha was down.

  Rad followed Nastya up to the cabin, lanterns lit in the space between the lake and the cabin, presumably a welcome scene for his return. He didn’t stop to take it all in, reaching the front door only ten-seconds before she did, but the wolves were not following him anymore. He kicked off his skis, and she closed the door. Both were out of breath, their hearts racing, adrenaline pumping through their bodies. Despite what had nearly happened, they burst out laughing.

  “Thank you,” Rad said, his face red from the exertion. She helped him out of his gear, the cabin warm and the kebabs on metal skewers were cooking over the fire.

  “I heard the wolf pack as I was lighting the lanterns outside,” she said, indicating the snow-covered grass area in front of the cabin and leading down to the lake. “I wanted you to know where to aim,” she smiled. “I was scared when I heard them. They aren’t usually in this part of the forest at this time of year. Then I saw your torchlight. I knew they were hunting you.”

  “Don’t cry,” Rad said as she stopped speaking and put a hand to her face. “You saved me.” That confirmation brought some pride to her face.

  “You missed the alpha, but I spotted it leading the chase,” she said, confirming what Rad realised had happened. It was why the pack stopped following him after her two shots and not after his initial attempt. Rad kissed her. It wasn’t the passionate one from the day before, but equally meaningful. He’d not met anyone like her before and she wasn’t a bad shot either, it seemed. It must have been six hundred metres in poor light with a moving target, and Rad himself probably partly in the way, obscuring her view. A shot he would have been proud of himself.

  “We’ll go out tomorrow, see what we can find,” Rad said, turning to the food being cooked at that moment. “But right now, I think we’re ready to eat. After what just happened, I’m starving.” He’d not eaten since breakfast, not that he would tell her that. There was no food at his dacha.

  22

  The North London Hospital, London

  “Did they suffer?” Anissa asked. It was the morning after she had regained consciousness, just her and Sasha, though MI6 had been informed that Anissa was now speaking. The Director General was personally on his way to greet Anissa and promised all the help that they could offer.

  “No,” Sasha said. The explosion had led to a quick death, that much was clear. She seemed relieved about this.

  “The funeral? When was it?” So she knew she’d missed it.

  “How did you know?” Sasha asked. He’d been with her the whole time, and nobody had yet told her that the funeral had already taken place, that she’d missed the burial of her husband and two sons.

  “The flowers, there,” she said, pointing to a wreath on the far wall. “They hardly say get well soon, now, do they?” It was true that a lot of the flowers had been brought from the church. Sasha hadn’t spotted the wreath. Most of the other bunches were long dead by then, all thrown away. Clearly, the funeral wreath had lasted longest.

  “You always were very perceptive,” Sasha said. He didn’t know what more to say. “It was a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Were you there?”

  “I was.” She nodded and took a few seconds to compose herself.

  “Tell me about it, please,” she said, her eyes pleading. Sasha paused for a moment, keeping eye contact with her, before opening his mouth. Over the next ten minutes, she listened as he talked about what he’d seen, how many people had been there, everything Sasha could think of to say about his time at the funeral.

  “It was a beautiful send-off,” he assured her, finishing his account. He’d not mentioned the weather, which was anything but beautiful.

  “I wish I could have been there,” she said through tears.

  “I’m glad you weren’t,” Sasha said, his meaning lost on Anissa for a moment, but she soon understood his sentiment. “I’m glad you are going to be okay,” he added, realising what he’d said could have been understood the wrong way.

  “So what else is new?” she asked. Sasha didn’t know what to say. He started with Rad, explaining his connection to the sniper from childhood, the fact Rad had been the one to find out what was planned, how Rad had been sent to kill Sasha only to have recognised him instead and pulled out.

  “You knew him from childhood?” she said, amazed at the account, though troubled they could have both been killed had things worked out differently. Had her own son not damaged his ankle, she would have left for work before Sasha had been able to call her. The delay in getting him patched up had made her late. Sasha too, had anyone else been sent, might have been shot. They both would be in the grave. What then of everything? At least her husband and boys would have been spared. She would have wanted it that way, regardless of how much Sasha was happy she’d survived. She would have made the switch in a heartbeat if it meant them all surviving.

  “Yes, and he recognised me, thankfully.”

  “And Filipov?” It was the first time his name had come up. Both knew it was the President who’d ordered the killings.

  “He’s been fed the line that we are dead.”

  “By who?” There was intrigue and confusion in her tone. The last time she was aware, MI6 did not have an open line to Russia, especially not to the President.

  “Bethany May,” Sasha said. He realised there was a lot that Anissa didn’t know about the latest news regarding their former Deputy Director General. Sasha explained what had happened over the next twenty minutes, from the moment Sasha had instructed Gordon to hand in all the information, to May's arrest and questioning. He finished with the deal she was trying to make––though stated he didn’t know the details of the arrangement––and the fact she would move departments if everything was signed off but still something with an equivalent rank.

  “They are seriously considering letting her off?” Anissa seemed crestfallen with the news.

  “She’s making a deal. Offering more to MI6 than the harm she’s done. You know how it goes.”

  “But my family is dead.” It was a poignant point.

  “She wasn’t behind that,” Sasha said, though realised the rationale around that sentiment was deeply flawed. Bethany had to have known something about it.

  “Sasha, she’s the only reason Filipov would have known anything about you.” He hadn’t thought of it like that before. “And they would simply let her off? Just like that?”

  “I’m sorry, An
issa. It’s not anything to do with me. The Director General will make the call himself, after spending time talking to her.”

  “Talking?”

  “Yes, they aren’t going hard. Bethany offered up some information quickly.”

  “She’s been expecting to be discovered. Knows we were onto her, she had to have done.”

  “Maybe, but she’s onside again now,” Sasha said, keen to move the subject away from Bethany May and onto other matters.

  “I broke up with Helen Cooper,” he said. He had no idea why that topic was the one to come out of his mouth next.

  “For god’s sake, why, Sasha?” She’d known the two were serious. Sasha had confided in Anissa that he thought this was the one.

  “She became jealous.”

  “Jealous? Of what?” Sasha went quiet, didn’t really know how to answer that.

  “I’m not really sure. After the accident, I was here a lot. I wasn’t answering her calls. We’d argued, and I just wanted to be here, to make sure you were okay.”

  “She was jealous of me? But that’s ridiculous! Surely she didn’t think…” but she cut off mid-sentence, taking in Sasha’s reddening face. She got it at that moment. It wasn’t as ridiculous as she was making out. “She thinks you have feelings for me?” It was safer to put it like that than ask him directly. Anissa was far from ready to have that conversation, anyway.

  “I don’t know,” he said, weakly as it happened, before adding. “Yes, I think she did.” Helen had accused him of that very thing in her last call, so he was without any doubt that this was the reason behind the split. He couldn’t help but feel there was some truth in her words, however, though he was yet to process what, if anything, it meant. It was utterly inappropriate to even consider, however. It was ludicrous. The worst time possible. Anissa was not yet out of the hospital bed that she’d been put into following the explosion that had killed her husband. That had butchered her sons.