by Peter Boland
Table Of Contents
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Other books by Peter Boland include:
Acknowledgements
Savage Games
Peter Boland
Savage Games (John Savage Action Thriller Book 2).
Copyright © Peter Boland 2019.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the author.
Chapter 1
The body had been hidden in a tree, high in the branches, at least fifty feet up, where no one could see it. At that height, the tree’s dense crown with its highly evolved, tight-knit matrix of branches and needles fanned out in every direction, maximising the surface area for catching sunlight. Perfect for camouflaging a body. From the ground, it was impossible to tell it had been stashed there. The two men certainly didn’t know about it until it was too late.
Most people would have called them lumberjacks. But Steve and Joel were employed by the Forestry Commission and had their jobs rebranded years ago with the fancy title of ‘Forest Craftsman’. The job was essentially the same: cutting down trees.
They worked in the New Forest, a vast area of ancient woodlands and damp marshes. Stretching from the edges of Southampton in the east to the borders of Christchurch in the west, the forest was nearly one thousand years old, having been planted as a giant leisure park for William the Conqueror to satisfy his lust for popping arrows into unsuspecting wild deer and pigs.
To make it easier to manage, over the centuries the forest had been divided up into a patchwork of smaller enclosures. Joel and Steve’s work schedule had sent them to one of the oldest and most isolated enclosures—the macabrely named Dead Maids Wood.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Steve said, as their Forestry Commission Land Rover turned into a lonely gravel car park, surrounded on three sides by dark, dense forest.
Joel shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me. Just another day at the office.” He opened the door, slid off his seat and headed to the wide metal gate that prevented the public from driving into the forest. There was a small gap next to it to allow walkers through one at a time. He unlocked the gate and waved Steve through, then locked it behind him and got back in the Land Rover.
Joel wouldn’t admit it, but he actually agreed with Steve; Dead Maids Wood did nothing to support the chocolate-box image of the New Forest with its roaming ponies and pretty streams and villages. A place where families could have device-free holidays, and children could run around as nature intended, building camps and having Swallows and Amazons-style adventures. Dead Maids Wood was more likely to give them nightmares.
As they drove along the hard-packed pebble fire road, the wizened trees looked as if they had been designed by the production team on a slasher movie. Fat, twisted trunks, claw-like branches and weary low-hanging boughs all conspired to make any visitor, even the most ardent cynic, believe in wood spirits and tree deities, or that one of the painfully gnarled limbs might suddenly reach out and ensnare them.
At first the drive was relatively smooth, but further into their journey the road gradually faded, succumbing to nature under thick wild grasses, dirt and mulch, as if the forest were trying to reclaim the road, slowly digesting it. As the Land Rover bobbed and clattered along, it was clear the forest was winning. About half an hour of off-roading later, they reached their destination according to the GPS co-ordinates printed on their shift paperwork.
Steve and Joel exited the Land Rover. The tightly packed trees around them conjured up an eerie atmosphere. Even on windy days, the air barely moved here, creating a hushed, oppressive silence that pushed against the body, hefty and suffocating. And with a dingy, muted light at any given time of day, thanks to the dense roof-like tree canopy, it was easy for a person to think they were seeing things.
Steve shivered. “Let’s get on with this. I want to get out of here.”
Joel made a ghostly moan. Steve shoved him and went to retrieve the clipboard from the Land Rover’s cab to check their work details.
In a woodland where most of the trees had been around since men hunted with crossbows, cutting down the wrong tree was about the worst sin you could commit. There would be no such mistakes today, as the tree in question was a mere youngster. A towering Douglas fir, just over a hundred and fifty years old. Shaped like an arrow head, the monumental evergreen dwarfed the deciduous trees around it.
“Sure this is the right one?” asked Steve. It was easily a hundred feet tall with a trunk as wide as a small car.
“You having a laugh?” asked Joel. “You see any other firs around here?”
“No, but it says here,” Steve licked his finger and flipped through the paperwork, “that it’s diseased. Looks fine to me.” Douglas firs were prone to fungal infection, turning their needles brown or stripping them altogether. As both men stared up at the dense green crown, they could see no signs of infection.
Joel shook his head, “You just want to get out of here, you big wuss.”
“No, I just don’t want us to fell the wrong tree.”
“Ours is not to reason why,” Joel replied. “This is the one on the paperwork, so this is the one coming down.”
“I don’t know, we should call it in. Make sure.”
“No way, it’ll take hours for an answer, you know how slow they are back at the office,” Joel replied, circling the tree. “Besides, look here.” Steve joined Joel on the other side of the tree where a big yellow X had been marked on the trunk with spray paint. “It’s been marked.”
“Who marks trees anymore?” Steve asked. “I thought the whole reason they brought in GPS is so we didn’t have to traipse around looking for yellow X’s.”
“Dunno. Maybe one of the old-school managers like Fletcher, he hates change.”
“I thought he’d retired.”
“Who cares,” said Joel, impatient to get s
tarted. “You get the gear out, I’ll do the honours.”
Steve returned to the Land Rover while Joel began sizing up the giant, thoughtfully twisting the bristles of his soul-patch beard below his bottom lip, considering the task ahead. Stepping back a few paces, he checked the trunk for stability and lean. The tree had grown at a slight angle, which meant any attempt to cut it down would make it more likely to fall towards that angle, putting it directly in the line of an old oak. Second deadliest sin a forestry worker could commit was cutting down the right tree, only to have it fall onto a healthy one, or worse cause a domino effect, toppling tree after tree. Luckily, there was a clearing nearby that would easily accommodate the fallen fir. Joel would have to get it through a bottleneck formed by the ugly oak to the right and a modest beech tree on the left.
Joel took his time. Like a sculptor preparing to carve a statue from solid rock, he examined the trunk from every angle, rubbing its surface to get a feel for its shape. His first series of cuts would determine the fall path of the tree. It had to be perfect.
Satisfied with his decision, Joel pulled on his helmet with its mesh visor, his ear defenders and a pair of Kevlar chaps to protect his legs. Steve had already prepared Joel’s chainsaw, a Swedish-made Husqvarna, oiling and filling it with petrol. Joel fired it up, revving it a few times. He never got tired of its aggressive whine; it was the same brand as the dirt bike he loved to ride. A complete petrol head, Joel always got a warm glow in his belly whenever anything noisy and mechanical was involved, especially as this weekend he’d be getting the keys to a shiny, new pickup truck. Only one owner and less than seven thousand miles on the clock. A smile broke over his face at the thought of slinging his dirt bike in the back and going in search of new far-flung trails.
“What are you grinning at?” asked Steve.
“Nothing,” said Joel, gripping the chainsaw with both hands. “Just love my job.” He pulled the throttle trigger and plunged the metre-long chainsaw into the tree at a steep angle, wood chips flying everywhere, the scent of freshly cut pine mixing with the petrol stench from the engine. Joel cut a perfect arc just above the base of the tree, then retracted the chainsaw and made a horizontal incision that joined up with the one he’d just made, creating a segment of wood, like a slice of orange on its side. He let the chainsaw idle, examining the shape he’d made. It looked good, so he gave the nod. Steve came in with an axe and knocked away the segment of wood, revealing a large notch in the side of the tree like a gaping mouth. Joel circled round to the opposite side and pushed his chainsaw horizontally into the tree. Gradually the screaming chainsaw sliced almost across its entire width, stopping just a few inches short of the notch he’d made on the other side. The tree didn’t budge, and it wasn’t supposed to, not yet. Joel retracted his chainsaw, while Steve used the back of his axe head to hammer three plastic wedges into the cut, which would gradually force the tree to topple towards the notch. Nothing happened. Steve took a fourth wedge and hammered it in. A second later, an almighty crack came from deep within the bowels of the trunk. That was the signal. Joel and Steve edged away at a right angle to the proposed fall line, putting plenty of safe distance between them and the doomed fir. Another loud crack, this one sounding like a firework. Then another and another. The two men stood back and watched as the mighty Douglas fir lost its battle with gravity and began its descent, painfully slow at first, then gathering more and more momentum. With a loud hiss like a wave crashing on shingle, the once proud tree smashed against the forest floor.
Then they saw it.
As the tree struck the ground, from deep within its branches, as if it had been spat out, flew a large dark object, soaring high into the air, then landing heavily on the ground a few feet away.
Steve and Joel looked at each other. Partly in confusion, partly to check if the other had witnessed what had just occurred.
Simultaneously they ran and stumbled towards the lumpen dark-green mass. As they got closer, curiosity and confusion quickly turned to horror when they realised what they were looking at.
A dead body.
With its back propped up against the tree, legs out in front as if he were taking a rest or having a nap, sat a dead, white, middle-aged man, dressed in a heavy green parka and hiking boots.
Both men swore then clamped their hands around their mouths as if to stop more profanities from escaping. Eyes darting around, they desperately searched for some clue as to why the man had been up the tree. That was when they noticed hooked bungee cables, the kind you use to lash luggage to the roof of a car, scattered everywhere on the ground like dead snakes. Several were entangled around the man’s chest and arms.
To add to the surrealness of the chilling discovery, a pair of in-ear headphones were plugged into the man’s head, connected to an old-school Sony Walkman of the cassette variety, its casing splintered and smashed from the impact. Lengths of dark-brown magnetic tape were strewn across the man like dirty streamers.
Steve went as pale as the man lying on the ground before them, his voice quivering. “I think we just killed someone.”
Chapter 2
Savage felt the blow before he saw it. Not a good sign. Either his reactions were getting slower or hers were getting faster. He guessed it was a combination of both. She followed it up with a hard slap to his right ear, nearly rupturing his eardrum. Then a stamp to the toes of his left foot. Lucky she was wearing Doc Marten boots, the soft, air-cushioned soles taking some of the sting out of the impact. If she’d been wearing anything harder, Savage would be looking at several broken bones. It still hurt like hell. But he wasn’t out of the fight yet. To ensure she’d hit her target, Tannaz had made the mistake of looking down. Only briefly. It gave Savage the split second he needed to score a double hand strike to her chest with both fists. He missed her solar plexus, a favourite target of his, striking her just below the base of the neck near her collar bone. Tannaz went flying backwards. Converting her momentum into a roll, she came right back up, onto her feet. Fists raised, she lunged for Savage then stopped short.
Savage had his hands up. “Enough,” he said, in between gasps for breath.
Tannaz danced around on the balls of her feet with the energy of a caffeinated flea. “Come on, I’m ready to go again.”
“Yeah, well, you’re not sixty, are you?”
“Neither are you.”
“I’m nearly sixty.”
“Well that’s not the same as being sixty, and even if you were it wouldn’t matter. Stop with the self-sabotage.”
Savage straightened up and stretched. A few weary joints popped. He rubbed the cheek where Tannaz had struck him.
Tannaz relaxed, dropped her guard.
Savage darted forward, snatched her left hand by the wrist, twisted it anti-clockwise forcing her to turn her back towards him. In a second he had his other arm around her neck in a choke hold. “Don’t ever assume the fight is over,” he said, then let her go.
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Tannaz protested.
“Fights aren’t fair. Not real ones. Get used to it.”
Tannaz sulked and flopped down on the sofa that had been pushed against one wall to make space for their sparring session. “Damn it,” she complained. “I keep making dumb mistakes.”
“Hey, mistakes are good. Mistakes are how you learn.”
They’d been using Savage’s flat for their daily fighting sessions for over a year now. It was a miracle nothing had been broken. But then there wasn’t much in Savage’s sparse flat to break. Five days a week, Savage taught Tannaz everything he knew about fighting or, more precisely, fighting dirty—the only way to fight, as Savage said. Tannaz’s enthusiasm was insatiable. She’d wanted to train every day. Savage told her it was good to give the body time to recuperate, more for him than her—his bruises were taking a lot longer to heal than they once did.
Tannaz grumbled. Looked away. One of her moods was
about to set in and he needed to snap her out of it quickly. Tannaz was a brilliant student but criticism could easily send her into a tailspin.
“One thing I will say,” said Savage. “Your speed is off the chart. I’m going to start calling you Twitch.”
“I’m not a titch.”
Savage shook his head. “I said Twitch, not titch. As in fast-twitch muscles.”
“I don’t understand.”
Savage sat down beside her. “Two types of muscle fibres in the body. Fast and slow twitch. Slow-twitch are responsible for endurance like long-distance running, while fast-twitch are responsible for bursts of speed. Everyone has both. I’d bet you’ve got loads more fast-twitch fibres than most people.”
“Really?” She looked up at him, tearing her gaze away from the floor.
“Honestly, I’ve never seen anyone as quick as you, not on the street, not in the army. I mean it. You’re going to be one hell of a fighter.”
“Already am.” Tannaz brightened up. Though she was prone to pessimism, she could easily flip the other way with a few choice words, going from wallowing in self-pity to overconfidence in a heartbeat.
“Don’t get cocky. More fast-twitch muscles mean you tire out quicker, no good for running long distances.”
“That’s fine, I don’t intend to sign up for the London Marathon just yet.”
Tannaz got up and rifled through her leather biker jacket hanging on the back of the lounge door and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
“Those things don’t help,” said Savage. “Give me a hand putting the furniture back, then you can give yourself emphysema.”
“Have you given up white sugar yet?” she replied.
“No—”
“Double standards! Owned!” Tannaz shouted, doing a little victory dance.
Savage shook his head. “Nicotine is way worse than white sugar.”
“White sugar kills more people, it’s in everything, tobacco isn’t.”
“Rubbish. Cigarettes kill more people.”
Tannaz stuffed the cigarette packet into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out her smart phone. “Let’s ask the Internet.” She spoke into her phone’s voice-activated search facility. “What kills more people, sugar or nicotine?” Tannaz scrolled through the results, frowning.
