Hunter Killer

by Chris Ryan

  Clara’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. She tried to master it, but couldn’t.

  ‘Where’s my fucking money?’ shouted the Pole.

  Kyle didn’t move. Even with her head yanked back, Clara could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

  He took a step backwards.

  ‘You think we’re fucking stupid, junkie?’

  Kyle shook his head vigorously, but he also took another step back.

  ‘We should just kill her,’ the second Pole said, loud enough for Kyle to hear. ‘Kill her and stick her in river. No one will find her for weeks.’

  Kyle’s knees seemed to buckle. Clara simply couldn’t stop herself from whimpering behind the packing tape wrapped round her head.

  All feeling seemed to drain from her body as the Pole raised the knife slightly, as though preparing to fillet her neck.

  Indescribable horror crossed Kyle’s face.

  Then, suddenly, behind them, coming from the other side of the bridge, there was a beam of light.

  It cast long shadows on the towpath, of the Poles and of Clara, that stretched as far as Kyle. Clara could see the elongated shape of the Pole’s arm and hand, and of the knife he was clutching.

  A moment of silence, broken by Kyle. ‘Y. . . your money,’ he called, stuttering. ‘Here’s your money.’

  The Poles seemed to move very slowly. With care. The tattooed one let go of Clara, who collapsed on to the towpath. She saw her two assailants turn round. And beyond them, on the other side of the bridge, the gloomy side, maybe 25 metres away, she saw a single beam of light, like a headlamp, burning through the rain. It hurt her eyes. Dazzled her.

  A figure stepped from behind the bike and into the beam of white light. The light distorted its shape, made it seem somehow ghostly as it stepped forward. Clara blinked as the figure stopped and removed a helmet from his head.

  He spoke.

  Clara swallowed hard. She recognised the voice, of course. She’d recognise it anywhere.

  ‘I’ve got your money,’ he said.

  The Poles looked at each other. ‘Put your hands up in the air,’ said the tattooed one.

  The figure paused. He dropped his helmet. Then, slowly, he raised his hands.

  Danny took everything in through a filter of incessant rain.

  The two Poles, standing side by side, 15 metres from his position.

  Clara on her knees, just a couple of metres behind them, her head bound with tape, her wrists behind her back, soaked. She looked like shit, and it made the anger in Danny’s blood burn even hotter.

  Ten metres beyond Clara, Kyle, shuffling nervously in the rain from one foot to the other. A bad cut on his face. He looked like he was about to leg it.

  ‘Where is it?’ called one of the Poles, stepping forwards slightly. Danny instantly marked him out as the leader of the two.

  ‘In my jacket,’ he said.

  Silence.

  ‘Come closer,’ said the Pole. ‘Keep your hands in the air.’

  Danny walked towards them. Rain coursed down his face. The gap closed to ten metres.

  Five. He was under the bridge.

  ‘Stop,’ said the Pole.

  Danny stopped.

  His hands, still high above his head, were close together.

  He saw now that the leader of the two Poles had tattoos on his neck. He also had a blade, which he held low. He looked like he knew how to use it. The second Pole had his arms by his side and was clenching, then releasing, his big hands. But not feeling for a weapon. There were no firearms here, Danny decided. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous, especially for Clara. If things went to shit, they’d go for her first.

  The Pole looked him up and down, his face wary, yet still strangely arrogant.

  ‘Any bullshit,’ he said, ‘I cut your fucking throat.’

  Danny didn’t reply. He just stood there, and waited for the Pole to get closer.

  Because before he made his move, he needed less than a metre’s distance between them.

  Clara was making noises from her throat. He zoned them out. He needed to focus. On the Poles.

  And on the violence that was going to happen in just a few seconds.

  The tattooed Pole raised his knife.

  ‘I’m going to look,’ he said.

  Danny nodded.

  ‘Which side of your jacket?’

  He looked down to the left.

  Then back at the Pole.

  Eye to eye.

  The Pole took a step forwards through the driving rain. Danny could see his thumb caressing the handle of his knife. Like a pet.

  Another step.

  He kept his hands still.

  The Pole stopped. Distance, two metres.

  He looked back over his shoulders to where Kyle was still cravenly shuffling. Then he turned back to Danny. His eyes were sharp.

  ‘Why you bringing money for junkie?’ the Pole said.

  Danny sniffed. ‘He’s my brother.’

  The Pole grinned. He seemed to relax. If they’re brothers, his demeanour seemed to say, they must be equally fucked up.

  ‘Bad luck,’ he said.

  Danny kept perfectly still. ‘You’ve got to help family,’ he said.

  The Pole’s shoulders relaxed. He clearly felt in complete control of the situation. ‘Fucking idiot,’ he said. ‘You should have come tooled up.’ He took another step forwards.

  ‘Maybe I did,’ Danny breathed.

  Ripley’s motorbike security chain was secreted inside the length of Danny’s left sleeve. One end was just peeking out of the cuff. At the other end, just above Danny’s armpit, was the padlock. With his right hand, he grabbed the end of the chain and pulled. It slid easily from the sleeve. In the same movement, and with all the force he could muster, he swung it round. The heavy metal padlock cracked hard against the side of the Pole’s skull. He roared in pain and fell to his knees, his hands clutching his suddenly bleeding head.

  Before he hit the ground, Danny was stepping towards the second one. He barely seemed to have registered what had just happened and was staring dumbly at his collapsed mate. The second swing of the chain brought the padlock smashing against his left cheek. There was a sound of breaking bone. Blood sprayed from his lips. He staggered, but didn’t fall. Danny swung the chain for a third time, bringing the padlock crashing against the other cheek. The Pole’s eyes rolled. He hit the ground.

  ‘Jesus!’ Kyle’s cracked voice sounded distant. And as Danny turned back to the first guy, he was only remotely aware of Clara’s wide, horrified eyes, and of the increased, slightly panicked, protests that came from her throat.

  The first Pole was dazed, but still conscious and trying to push himself up off the ground. Danny went to work on him with the chain. He whacked the padlock against his face three times in quick succession. It was like bruising a piece of ripe fruit. With each contact, the skin on his face split and started to weep with fresh blood. The final blow hit him in the left eye – a dull, wet slap. The Pole grunted, but not loudly. He was on the verge of unconsciousness now.

  Danny turned to the second guy. His eyes were rolling, his limbs twitching. It only took a single crack of the chain to force his body to lie still.

  There seemed to be blood everywhere. Streaks on the padlock. Spots on Danny’s hand. The beam of the headlamp illuminated the swollen, bloodied faces of the two Poles, but also Clara’s horrified eyes. Kyle staggered towards them. His hands were shaking, and he was cursing under his breath: ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .’

  ‘Shut up,’ Danny said. He looked down at the two figures lying five metres apart. They weren’t dead. Their chests were softly rising and falling.

  He looked over at Kyle. ‘This is what you wanted, right?’ he shouted.

  Kyle stared at him. He looked horrified, not just at the violence but at the state his brother was in.

  Danny grabbed the second Pole by his ankles and lay him back to back with his mate. He took the bike chain and bound their necks tog
ether, before clasping the bloodied padlock through its links to keep it firmly in place. He looked around the towpath. Just a couple of metres away, by the bank, he saw a boulder, a little smaller than a football, but solid and jagged. He picked it up, then brought it over to where the Poles were lying.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Kyle said. ‘What . . . what the fuck are you doing?’

  Danny gave him a stony look. ‘Two drug dealers,’ he said. ‘Police won’t give them a second look if they turn up dead. But only if we make it look like a drug killing.’

  Kyle swallowed. Clara made impotent noises behind the tape.

  ‘What did you think it was going to be, Kyle? A few sharp words and rapped knuckles?’ He suddenly grabbed his brother by the throat with one hand. ‘You want to know what I do for a living, Kyle? You want to watch me at work?’

  He released Kyle, then put the boulder on the ground just next to the two Poles. He grabbed an arm, laid it out on the boulder, then smashed his foot down on the wrist. There was a splintering, cracking sound as the elbow broke. The Pole’s body went into spasm. The eyes opened briefly and a gurgling sound escaped his throat.

  ‘What the fuck . . .’ Kyle whispered.

  ‘They’re going in the river,’ Danny said. ‘And I don’t want them swimming to the surface.’

  It took less than a minute to break the remaining three arms. Danny was only vaguely aware of Kyle dry-heaving just behind him, or of Clara’s whimpering. When he was done, Danny squeezed the rock into the pocket of one of the Poles. A bit of extra weight to help them down to the bottom of the river. They’d float back up, of course, after a couple of days. But by then, their bodies would be bloated and starting to decompose, and any trace of foreign DNA would be long gone.

  The two Poles were a dead weight, but there was no point asking Kyle for help. So it was with difficulty that Danny dragged their chained-together bodies across the muddy towpath towards the water and rolled them into the river.

  The water was deep. The bodies sank immediately. A flurry of bubbles confirmed that the Poles were still alive as they sank, but they had no chance of saving themselves. Danny stood quietly at the bank waiting for the bubbles to subside as the rain hammered against his body.

  Then he turned.

  Kyle was on his knees, ashen-faced. Danny looked down at him.

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ he said.

  Kyle stood up, then staggered back, slipping in the mud. For the first time ever, he seemed lost for an insult. He wasn’t looking at Danny with contempt. He was looking at him with fear.

  ‘Go!’ Danny shouted.

  Kyle turned, and sprinted down the towpath into the night.

  Danny didn’t watch him go. All his attention was on Clara.

  She was kneeling too, only half protected from the rain by the edge of the bridge. Her eyes were clenched shut and she was shuddering. Danny walked up to her, stopping only to pick up the tattooed Pole’s knife that was lying on the towpath. The blade was gritty and splashed with blood. Danny wiped it on his trousers before kneeling down in front of Clara.

  He placed one hand gently on her hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he breathed. He paused. ‘I shouldn’t have walked away.’

  She opened her eyes. They bore a strange expression. Danny had never seen it before. He couldn’t read it.

  He examined the tape wrapped round her head. ‘I have to cut your hair,’ he said.

  She didn’t respond. Shock, Danny told himself. He took the knife, and gently sliced at the hair just above the tape. The tape fell loose from the back of her head. Now it was only stuck around her cheeks and lips. It would be very painful to remove.

  Danny decided to free her wrists first. He walked behind her and carefully sliced the tape that bound her hands. It was clear that her arms were stiff, because once they were free it took a few seconds for Clara to move them round to her front and bend them at her elbows.

  Danny crouched down in front of her again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s going to hurt.’ He raised his hands to start pulling the tape from her mouth.

  But suddenly she stood up. She staggered back into the rain. And when Danny stepped towards her, she pushed him away. Her hands felt for the tape. She yanked it away from her mouth, then gasped with the pain of it. She doubled over – involuntarily, it seemed – but then straightened up almost immediately. The area around her mouth, her lips especially, was raw and bleeding, but the rain washed the blood away. When she spoke, her voice was dry, painful. Almost inaudible.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she said.

  Danny blinked.

  ‘Don’t even come near me.’

  ‘Clara, what the hell?’

  She was shaking. Pointing at him, threateningly.

  ‘I know you’re angry,’ Danny said. ‘I shouldn’t have walked away. I’ve been regretting it ever . . .

  ‘What . . .’ – she interrupted him – ‘what did you do to those men?’

  Danny looked towards the river, then back at Clara. ‘They would have killed you,’ he said.

  ‘But what you did,’ she whispered. ‘How could you do that?’ She brought one hand to her mouth, then snapped it away when the fingers touched the painfully exposed flesh. She stared at him in undisguised horror. ‘What sort of a monster are you, Danny?’

  ‘Clara . . .’ He felt his brow creasing in confusion as he stepped towards her again. ‘The bombings,’ he heard himself saying. ‘I found out who . . .’

  ‘Don’t . . . come . . . near . . . me!’ She stumbled backwards. ‘Don’t ever come near me again!’ Her eyes flickered towards the bridge, towards the beam from the headlamp, then back in the direction Kyle had run.

  That was the way she chose.

  She didn’t run quickly. She wasn’t able. She staggered through the rain and the mud. But she didn’t look back, as she disappeared along the towpath into the night.

  Danny didn’t chase her. He barely even moved. His shadow, cast by the light of the motorbike, extended along the towpath, long, thin and stretched. The sound of Clara’s footsteps disappeared as he stood there.

  He was alone, as he always was. And as always, he was surrounded by darkness and by death.

  He heard the words he had whispered to his brother.

  You want to know what I do for a living, Kyle? You want to watch me at work?

  He stared at the black river. Then he turned, bowed his head, and walked back towards Ripley’s motorbike, his eyes blinded by the light.

  Epilogue

  ‘The mastermind behind the recent bombings in Paddington and Piccadilly has been killed, according to Downing Street. The radical cleric Amar Al-Zain, also known as Abu Ra’id, is thought to have died along with at least 50 other militants when a drone strike “completely destroyed” a terrorist base in northern Yemen. Abu Ra’id’s wife, dubbed the White Witch, is thought to have taken her own life on hearing the news.

  ‘In a statement outside Number Ten, the Prime Minister has praised the work of the security services: “Our intelligence professionals have shown, yet again, that there is no hiding place for anyone who threatens our peaceful way of life. Every man, woman and child in the country owes them our thanks.”

  ‘Responding to rumours that personnel from 22SAS were in Yemen at the time of the strike, an MoD spokesman said, “We do not comment on the activities of UK special forces.”

  ‘While Abu Ra’id’s death will be welcomed by the families of the victims of the two bombings, questions are still being asked about his ability to remain in Britain for so . . .’

  A knock on the door. Buckingham looked up from his copy of The Times.

  ‘Come,’ he called.

  The door opened. Harrison Maddox stepped inside. He stared at Buckingham for a moment. ‘I won’t lie, Hugo,’ he said. ‘You look like shit. What the hell happened to you?’

  Buckingham lowered the newspaper on to his desk and touched his bruised face lightly. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘A couple of kids went for m
y wallet. I saw the little buggers off.’

  If Maddox disbelieved him, he didn’t let it show on his face.

  ‘You fly this afternoon?’ Buckingham was happy to change the subject.

  ‘Out of Heathrow,’ Maddox said. ‘It’ll be good to get back to Langley. Not that this isn’t . . .’ He vaguely indicated Buckingham’s rather small office. ‘Of course, it wouldn’t surprise me if next time we meet you’ll be running the place. Or the one across the river.’ And to back up his statement he held up a beige foolscap file. ‘Hard copy,’ he said. ‘Safest way these days. Can’t trust those geeks at the NSA and GCHQ.’ He laid the file on Buckingham’s desk and pushed it lightly towards him.

  Buckingham took the file. Only when he had it in his hands did he say, ‘You’re sure about this?’

  Maddox inclined his head. ‘All Langley ever wanted to do was get to the truth about her. You should think of that file as your golden ticket, Hugo. It’s all there, everything about Victoria’s past. Pass it on to whoever you need. Rest assured that nobody will find her body. They’ll put it down to suicide. It’ll get hushed up, of course – I can’t imagine your PM will want it to be known that a member of the security services was involved in all this, but there’ll be plenty of slaps on the back for you for bringing it to their attention.’ He smiled a broad, sincere smile. ‘And when you’re the grand fromage, Hugo, perhaps you’ll be able to do us in Langley a favour some time. That’s the way the world works, no?’

  Buckingham nodded slowly. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Of course.’

  Maddox stood up. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.’ He stood up and headed towards the door. But before he got there, he stopped and turned. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘Something bugs me.’