The Hunt series Books 1-3: The Hunt series Boxset

by Tim Heath

  Entering the café as well had been two of the Trackers, the rest staying on the street outside. With only two Contestants in the Hunt this time, there was more personnel to go around, and they wanted to be more prepared than they had been last time––when two people had got away from them because they had not been able to keep a constant watch on the Contestants.

  The two in the café sat down three tables from Phelan, with no one in between them, but their appearance did not register one bit with the Irishman who was tucking into what turned out to be three delicious savoury pastries.

  Usually, the Contestants arrived the night before, a note being slid under their hotel room door the preferred method of alerting them to what was on offer. That had not been possible with Phelan, who’d only just arrived on the train. Something else was in store for him, and it went smoother than they had imagined, a waitress coming to clear something from his table––a small conversation taking place––and an envelope placed under his tablet while the tray was removed.

  Finishing the last of his cup of tea, Phelan started to collect his things together, spotting the envelope as he picked up his device, its contents soon examined. He looked around briefly, seeing if anyone was watching him, but focused quickly on what the message inside said. A photograph was attached to the back of the note––and those in the Games Room watched silently on the main screen, the anticipation growing with every minute.

  “Stand by,” the Tracker said into a hidden mike as he sat watching in the café, Phelan standing up, looking around him once more before moving towards the exit. “He is on the move––black jacket, dark jeans. He has the details, and we must believe he’ll be in possession of the ticket in a matter of minutes.”

  Phelan was back out onto the street, the note giving him directions that suggested he go around to the back of the building, a photo hinting at what he might find. He’d been expecting something to happen since arriving, but the way it had––so sudden and subtle––had surprised him. Now he wanted to find out what was coming next.

  The traffic had increased even more since he’d been inside, buses and cars cutting each other up it seemed for the sake of a few metres. He easily outpaced them as he came out of the café and round to the right. He went down the side of the building for about thirty metres then right again around the back.

  Behind him, in an upstairs window of a building with a good line of sight, one of the Trackers had him on camera, as he made his way to the spot the note was indicating. Once there, Phelan easily spotted the piece of paper attached to the lamp post, something that might have seemed like just another advert illegally taped to the metalwork––had it not been a lottery ticket. He stood there taking it in, looking around once more, turning a full circle before standing there, in the shelter of his current position.

  “He has the ticket,” a second person confirmed, a woman at ground-level further down from where Phelan was standing, his back facing the camera in the upstairs window blocking their view somewhat.

  “Game on,” rang out in the Games Room at Temple Mount, the interest picking up immediately.

  The other Contestant, a Frenchman by the name of Matthieu Dubois, had also not long ago started his Hunt, so with two active Contestants, it made for a good day.

  21

  Phelan McDermott, pulling on his hood against a little wind that was picking up, the day otherwise sunny, started moving along the streets, apparently working through what he needed to do. He’d jumped back into the café, the Trackers watching him, knowing he was about to do what all Contestants did––check the credibility of the ticket of which he was now in possession. He did, pulling his tablet out, a Wifi signal located, and within minutes he had found the confirmation he wanted.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered under his breath, his Irish roots and accent showing in moments of extreme stress. He’d discovered this during the birth of his first child when his wife screamed at him, in the end, to cut out the accent, something he’d not even twigged he was doing.

  He entered the toilet before jogging out a minute later, and hood pulled up high, a cap on his head––a man apparently on a mission. The team of Trackers followed him across the road, as he headed back towards the train station.

  Inside the Games Room, Twelve was in full control of what he now expected would be a very successful Hunt for him––and a very profitable one at that. Through his Bluetooth headset he was in and out of calls in seconds, instructions were given to his team of people now keeping a close tab on the man filling the television screens they were watching.

  “Take out the next two trains to Moscow,” he ordered, wanting to limit that route should Phelan opt for it.

  They followed the man into the station where he was indeed seen trying to work out the ticketing system, the boards now displaying the lack of trains, the ladies behind the windows not speaking any English, either, it seemed to him. Frustrated, he pulled out his tablet, though there was no signal.

  He made a fascinating figure as he stood there––feeling helpless in the vast concourse of the station entrance way––his body wrapped up and protected from anyone that might come and take his prize, eyes glued to his tablet, for which he couldn’t get any connection. He placed it back in the rucksack that he’d carried on his right shoulder the whole time, and proceeded to leave the station.

  “Take out the internet in the café,” Twelve said, knowing his Contestant’s next steps before they were even certain––his company the one that supplied nearly eighty per cent of the cities internet connection. “And we need that device. Send two men to steal it from his backpack. That will really set things rolling.”

  They watched as Phelan entered the same café he’d already been to twice that morning, tablet out and searching for the connection once more before he’d even sat down. This time nothing happened, there was not even the icon showing that there was a signal in the place. He tried a second time, still nothing coming up.

  They watched him lower his head as if wondering why this was all now happening to him.

  A crowd of tourists entered the café at that moment, standing around the entrance, making him stand to one side. He contemplated asking someone in the restaurant what had happened to the internet signal, but couldn’t see anyone available to ask––nor fancied trying to communicate what he needed. He put the tablet back into his rucksack and moved out slowly through the crowd of people that had seemingly emerged from nowhere, a tour guide speaking to the mainly Chinese group in English, explaining how the café worked. He exited back out onto the street.

  “We have the device,” the confirmation came, one of Twelve’s men in the crowd of tourists, pressed up momentarily against the Irishman’s backpack, the tablet out within seconds as only the very best pickpockets knew how.

  It was fifteen minutes later, as Phelan was followed––always at a distance––into another venue, a hotel this time, before the frantic search through his still open backpack confirmed his worst fears: he’d been robbed.

  Within the Games Room, there was now a growing excitement and interest in this particular Hunt. One that had seen two oligarchs lock horns with each other; a bet neither man could now afford to lose. It was all going wrong for one of them, as Twelve continued to stay one step ahead of his prey, out-thinking his Contestant, just part of his plan to stop the man even leaving the city––as the bets had now dictated.

  Phelan sat in the hotel foyer for a while, head in hands, very much hidden away from the city around him, apparently working through what to do next. He had been robbed, and part of him wanted to sort that element out with the police, but obviously, there was a timing issue going on here, too.

  Besides, the language barrier––not to mention the rumoured widespread corruption that he’d no doubt face––made going to the police an option he soon rejected.

  Picking up his bag, he was back out onto the streets, now blending in well with many of the underworld characters that walked the same stree
ts––his hood covering his head, baseball cap in place. At least it wasn’t obvious he was a foreigner, he was dressed more like a little thug, and no city tour sellers bothered even to approach him now. That was something at least.

  He still had money. They tracked him as he walked down a long stretch of Nevski, entering the doors of a tourist agency that he came across, the signs visible from the street and written in English. The Trackers kept their watch, staying outside.

  Twelve, standing in the Games Room, pulled up details for the firm his Contestant was now approaching. They dealt mainly in package deals, though they did have access to flights. Twelve already had that angle covered, a few traffic cops on hand to stop any route to the airport, migration personnel ready to pull him to one side should he somehow still make it there. He hadn’t yet needed to contact them with specific details––there was no certainty he’d even get that far.

  Finding no real luck at the travel agency, he was seen leaving the building just minutes after entering, the team of now five Trackers on his tail constantly, spread out in each direction, at least one with a live camera feed which beamed the images the short distance it was from there to Temple Mount.

  They continued to track him further down Nevski, ambling as if he’d lost the plot, the urgency now primarily gone from his stride––Twelve was sure he’d already defeated him.

  Passing an apparent Russian take on an English pub, they watched Phelan enter it, two of the Trackers going in moments later, the deflated Contestant already sitting down at the bar. Thankfully, they spoke his language, and the two Trackers watched as their man had a brief conversation, the distance too far to make out what was said, but the beer was placed in front of him shortly after.

  “Not another Irishman who’s going to get drunk and piss away the money?” was the mocking cry that went up in the Games Room, a few laughed along with it.

  “If that is the case, Fifteen, we won’t be seeing you around these parts again now, will we?” There was a menace in Twelve’s words, the man feeling attacked and targeted by someone he knew thought very little of him––and how he couldn’t now wait to destroy him for it.

  It was three hours later, the day already moving into the evening, when they left the pub, the Contestant finally deciding to go at a time they thought they would need to send someone to retrieve the ticket, the Hunt already called.

  He found a taxi cab, and the driver was heard repeating the word airport as the car pulled away, a pair of Trackers finally in place to listen in on what was said.

  “So, he’s still going to make a try for it?” Twelve said, pulling up flight details on the screen in front of him, nothing showing as flying directly to London that evening. He’d missed his most obvious path out of there. The Hunt was becoming easier than he thought it would be. It disappointed him a little, though winning now was all that mattered.

  He called through to his contacts within the traffic police, details given of the car that they were to pull over, and the vehicle was stopped as it headed south, still forty minutes from the airport.

  Not knowing what they were meant to check for, and being told merely to delay the driver, they did all they could for forty minutes, before the passenger waved some money and they let him go on his way again. The delay would leave him little chance of making a flight out of there, but still, with the airport considered outside city limits, there were some bets he would lose if he even made it that far.

  The final straw came at the airport, the Hunt––as much as they’d all enjoyed it––progressing no more. Migration services had been altered, Twelve taking the hit on the chin, a small piece of business given away by losing the bet about city limits, but it was worth it. He didn’t want to have to come down too hard––drawing attention to his reach––which would otherwise alert the other oligarchs to his connections during future events.

  “We have a problem,” the female voice came through into Twelve’s earpiece, his contact at the airport sounding concerned.

  As Phelan had entered the café that morning, confirming the validity of the lottery ticket he’d just collected, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He had a Russian bought one which he’d used in Moscow, and spoke with someone briefly, entering the gent’s toilet at the back of the café as he did so. Inside the gents, he took off his hooded sweater and his cap and gave them to the man now in front of him––chosen because of his close resemblance, matching Phelan in height and build. Phelan watched as the man quickly dressed, pulling up his hood around his head, putting the cap in place, before taking the bag, initially placing it on his left shoulder before Phelan corrected him.

  “Right shoulder,” he said, the switch made, the man leaving the toilets less than sixty seconds after Phelan had entered. Phelan put the phone to his ear once more.

  “It’s done,” he said, silence following for a moment.

  “Very good,” the accented voice spoke back, “one moment.” Phelan felt more alive than he had ever done so, pacing around the small area while holding the handset to his ear, awaiting his next command.

  “Okay, leave right away, turning left as you exit, which will take you through the kitchens. Go, now,” the voice said, Phelan following exactly what he was told to do, guided out through the kitchen area, without seeing another person, a fire exit opening to his touch. Moments later a car pulled up. “Get in,” the voice in his ear said, as Phelan climbed into the back seat, the car pulling away without further words spoken. They travelled through small side streets for a while, turning regularly, crisscrossing that part of town, before pulling out onto a more substantial, apparently more major road.

  He had everything with him, having travelled light.

  The voice came back on the phone; “They’ve bought it,” Phelan understanding that the switch had gone unnoticed. They would now be following this other person all day, attention diverted, allowing him to slip out of the country.

  “You shouldn’t have a problem getting through security, though I’ll keep a watch out for you. If there is a problem, which I strongly doubt, you can use the name I mentioned. That would be enough to get you through.” The name had meant nothing to Phelan––it wasn’t the name of the man he was speaking to, but he was sure it would mean something to the person with whom he would use it. Nothing about the man talking to him was anything but thorough and meaningful.

  They got to the airport in just over thirty-five minutes, clearing through migration without a problem, and at the gate in plenty of time as the first people were just starting to board that late morning flight to London.

  He’d made it.

  The first and most likely stage of the plan to face a complication was nearly done––just as he’d been told it would be.

  “What do you mean we have a problem?” Twelve said, loudly without meaning to be so, the entire floor at Temple Mount alerted to the fact the Host was suddenly losing his cool.

  His female Tracker ran through what they’d found out, that the guy they were following––had been following the whole day in fact––was not Phelan McDermott. They’d been tracking the wrong man.

  As if to confirm what was being said secretly through his earpiece, the giant screen on the wall in front of them all now showed a video feed of the guy’s hood being pulled down, his cap already removed.

  The face was wrong. It wasn’t the Irishman after all.

  There was a collective intake of breath. To have made such an error meant all sorts of things.

  Twelve began frantically making calls––the airport, the migration services, his contacts within the police. He ordered all non-Russians to be screened, the name he was after released to everyone he could influence.

  They were now the actions of a very desperate man, all several hours too late because Phelan had already landed at London’s Heathrow Airport by that point, a car having met him and taken him to Lottery HQ. He was at that very moment going through the final processes of claiming the €33 million prize fund, the mon
ey to be wired to some prearranged accounts in various European banks, with further offshore accounts in place to move the money on later, as he would require.

  He requested his identity be kept secret, which wasn’t an unusual thing to do, but he had a pre-signed court order enforcing his right to remain anonymous, which he’d shown them for good measure.

  At three that afternoon in London, the money was wired to the account of Phelan’s choosing, the last piece of action required from the Lottery organisers. They congratulated him once again, and after warm farewells––despite only meeting each other that afternoon––he made his exit.

  Two hours ahead of the UK, in St Petersburg, it was gone five when Fifteen, the man with the most to gain from this particular Hunt, started checking something online.

  The other Hunt, where Twenty had put forward his French Contestant, a €12 million prize on offer there, had ended two hours before and in the Russian’s favour. All eyes were, therefore, on the unfolding saga that had befallen Twelve, something all the other oligarchs were secretly revelling in, none more so than Fifteen. Finding what he was wanting, he called out to all the others, waving his laptop in the air.

  “It’s claimed, the ticket that Phelan has, it’s been claimed already.” He was unable to keep a smile from breaking out on his face. The others came over, a few checking the facts on their own devices, all confirming within a minute that the Hunt had been successful––the money claimed.