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

by Tim Heath

  Within the team of security, there were at least four groups with eyes on Anissa at that moment. Two from buildings opposite in the same street, another from a van parked a little down the road but still only thirty metres or so from her location, and a final team through hidden cameras that surveyed anyone who might approach the building. The four men in the van, the unit closest to apprehend anyone who wasn’t meant to be there, were on alert.

  Anissa moved on, however, after one minute and continued aimlessly along the street. One team kept a watchful eye, but as she turned out of sight, it was clear to them at least she was just another lost tourist––a foreigner probably––mistaking their building for one of the many hundreds of historic buildings that were, in fact, open to the public. This one, though, was strictly off limits.

  Alex and Sasha took their time to catch up with Anissa but did so after three minutes.

  “So?” Alex said as they gathered together under a tunnel that took cars into the courtyard of a building they were standing next to.

  “Couldn’t see anything from the street. The door was locked, of course, but more secure than any other door down the entire street,” Anissa said, her attention to detail coming through as it always did. “At least two cameras were watching me as I stood there for that minute, and I would bet my life on there being some people in a van I passed parked up by the restaurant.”

  “Added to that the two teams I spotted high up in the buildings facing the mansion, and we have one very secure location.”

  “Yes, it seems like this must be the place,” Anissa said. The fact that, in a building, only a few minutes’ walk from them, these Russians they’d been investigating were meeting at that very moment, brought fresh life to all they’d been doing for the last twelve months.

  “What now?” Alex asked, mostly to Sasha, the two Brits already aware that they were very much in his hands.

  “Is there another way into that building?” Anissa added.

  “No, there’s a shopping centre which backs directly onto the rear of all the properties along that street. I checked earlier when we were looking up the address.”

  “There must be some roof access? Most of the roofs I’ve seen seem pretty flat.”

  “It’s possible that we could get access from within the shopping centre, though that would be far from safe. Don’t forget that they have a lot of security in place. Probably much more which we haven’t seen, also. I think they would keep the roof as secure as anything else––probably more so. Anyone on the roof is intent on gaining access.

  “The shopping centre was also built through money the Volkov’s gave to the city administration. I think it means they would know the moment we asked those in the shopping centre for access to the top floor.”

  “Then we don’t tell them,” Alex said.

  “No, we have to wait, Alex,” Sasha said. Anissa nodded her head in agreement with the Russian at that moment. Blowing their cover like that would do them no favours. The longer they could investigate without the Russians knowing, the better chance they had. If it got nasty, it wouldn’t be a fair fight––neither were they there on official business anyway. Sasha’s role within the FSB was the most at risk. His employer wouldn’t take any sign that he’d been working with foreign agencies lightly. He would be finished for sure––and then some.

  “So do we monitor the building? I mean, if people are there, they have to leave at some point. Knowing who is involved exactly would give us something.”

  “Yes, that’s true, though how do we do it without being spotted ourselves? Besides, it’s not against any law to be meeting together at someone’s home. We don’t have anything else to go on. We need more. We need to catch them in the act, understand what they have going on.”

  “How do you propose we do that, Sasha?”

  “I don’t know. Give me time.”

  7

  Dmitry Kaminski

  Known within the Games as: Sixteen

  Few people had as much natural charm as Kaminski, a man who’d been based in London for several years already. Most of his $1.7 billion fortune had come from natural resources, gas mainly. His company owned the pipelines that delivered gas to western Europe, and primarily the UK. That made him a desirable individual to know, and his influence had grown following his move to the capital six years before. He already owned many companies in England, one listed on the FTSE100, and had seen his reputation grow considerably over time.

  He’d become increasingly interested in politics, and even now was hopeful of one day being the President of Russia. He’d shared this thought once while around some high profile people at Westminster, and the comment had made its way to the very top. MI6 had then developed a relationship, all off the record, of course, encouraging him in that ambition, to the point that they wanted him to run in the upcoming presidential election. A man to oppose Putin and all his influence, a man on whom the West could rely. A man who was becoming one of them the longer he was around.

  There had been huge interest at the very top in this ongoing situation. Could the British help get a Russian, the man they wanted, elected at the next presidential elections in Russia? Could they kick Putin out altogether and replace him with a man more suitable for their needs? The longer they spent with him, the more the idea appealed.

  When he’d shared with the Deputy Director General of MI6 about his involvement within an exclusive group of Russians, while keeping the details of what they did a little sketchy, the response had only been a positive one. Britain would be the silent partner, but they were watching and would not involve themselves with the affairs of Kaminski as long as he kept them in the loop, and so far he’d been doing exactly that.

  Kaminski knew he needed to keep everything he did above board, and while Kaminski had withheld the nitty-gritty of what happened within the Games from those within MI6, he didn’t want to risk everything by getting involved in criminality.

  For the New Year event he needed someone who could handle themselves, wouldn’t be easily beaten, and most importantly would be seen to remain within the law. He found what he was looking for on the outskirts of Paris.

  Josée Allard was thirty-five, a former cop turned personal trainer. She mostly taught self-defence to the growing numbers of women coming to her in her home city, wanting to know how to defend themselves from the increasing risk of assault.

  Immigration had done many things to improve her nation, though this latest trend was a worry to her. She’d been attacked once, and thankfully could fend off the two African men who’d jumped her in an alley one night as she left the gym where she taught. Both men were bigger than her, though, with the type of self-defence she taught, it didn’t matter what size the opponent was, there was always something you could do. She did enough to show them she wouldn’t be an easy target and that had been enough, that time. They’d backed off, a smirk on their faces as if to say she’d got lucky this time, and their next victim wouldn’t be.

  She’d seen the reports the following morning of a nineteen-year-old who’d been raped just one street from where she’d been attacked, the rape happening minutes after her incident. It made her feel sick.

  When she’d been offered the opportunity that Kaminski was putting before her, coming only three days after another rape was reported on local news, she took particular interest and accepted the challenge.

  A change of scenery would make an excellent break, and the money she was given merely for accepting the invitation would be more than she would ever make in three years of teaching self-defence. Much more was promised.

  She was on the plane before she knew it, destination––Russia’s second largest city.

  Josée’s van was the last of the five to arrive, as she was soon to realise. Only a few seconds after walking into the darkness, she heard the doors locked behind her, the game already started.

  Being thrown into sudden blackness once more reminded her of the streets of Paris. Now she couldn’t see if anyone
was coming, though her hands could fight off someone even twice her size. Vision would only be a bonus.

  All around there were noises. Someone moved past her as if heading back to the doors. She heard the unmistakable sound of a collision followed by someone falling to the ground. Instinct said she needed to do something to help, but she had to override that now. This was a contest, and she was a part of it.

  She moved forward slowly, with arms outstretched all the time though bent at the elbows. She needed them poised, ready to defend herself should that be required.

  After about fifty metres, she found a concrete wall, which she moved around. It was part of a square with an opening on the far side, which turned out to be a stairway. Still, there was no light.

  As she made it up the first flight of stairs, she heard what sounded like an explosion, though it was very distant. Then a gunshot. She kept climbing the stairs, moving away from whatever threat there was, concerned already that there might be weapons in play. She could disarm someone coming at her with a knife, but guns were another issue. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  On the third floor, there was a little light seeping through a gap in the boarding around what would have been a window at some point. It was enough to see the broken glass on the floor, as well as ropes and bottles of water. The water was unopened. Clearly, it had been provided for the event. She drank half a bottle, taking another unopened bottle with her, and picked up the rope. There wasn’t anything else evident in the room.

  Not too far away, she heard the sound of someone walking over broken glass. She instinctively crouched low against the wall.

  8

  Motya Utkin

  Known within the Games as: Seventeen

  Around some of the most valuable yet remote mines in central Russia, Motya grew up among those for whom this was the family business. For generations, various people like his folks had worked the land for their government. The region was known for its gold, but there was also plenty of silver and even platinum. Coal was the other principal substance they mined.

  During the height of the Soviet Union, Motya gained an education as best he could. He spent the other four days a week in the mines. The man who ran everything around that part of the country was a hard man, and he became more outspoken on his views, unusually blunt towards the leaders in the region.

  Motya had barely turned eighteen when a large force of what he assumed to be soldiers, but were mostly KGB enforcers, turned up in his small town overnight. The whole region was on lockdown. They’d come, in fact, for the man who ran everything. He’d spoken out once too often and was never seen again.

  Like many people during those dark years, he just vanished. Motya’s father was then put in charge at the mines, being the right man in the right place.

  Three decades went by, and Motya had grown in influence. He’d gone to university in Moscow, where he’d met many up and coming people––men who rose in control in the Soviet Union and who were ideally placed when the Cold war came to an end.

  Motya was given full control of the mines, mostly long forgotten by Moscow, and everything signed over to his authority in the last two months of the Yeltsin reign. He’d essentially become a multi-millionaire overnight and kept that knowledge to himself. Over the next decade and into the following one, he’d grown that business into a $1.6 billion fortune, an empire that included one of the most valuable platinum mining operations found anywhere on the planet.

  He’d joined the Games in its third year through connections, specifically through Arseni Markovic, who was into metals himself, a friendship going back to their university days. Motya was a popular, if unassuming, member of the group.

  With his Contestant for the latest event, he’d wanted to make a bit of an impact and had managed to recruit a professional wrestler into his ranks. Hilary Barber was thirty-three, active and fit and brilliant at all sorts of unarmed combat. She’d competed in two Olympic games in her early twenties before becoming a professional wrestler, travelling around mainly in her native England, though she did still take a few international invitations. She didn’t yet have a family and was, in fact, straining the last few years out of her career before she would stop and hope to settle down.

  The offer put before her by a team of women who worked for Mr Platinum––as they’d described him––was for one extensive career ending payday.

  She’d been to Russia several times during her career and spoke a little of the language, though it was rusty.

  Her flight to St Petersburg had left on December 30th––giving her over a day to explore the city and to remember any Russian that she still could, plus the chance to see in the New Year.

  The van came on time to pick her up from outside the hotel. She’d checked out just before and asked to leave her one bag in the baggage area. She hoped to be able to come back and collect it, but it had nothing of any real significance left in it if she had to abandon it. The truth was she didn’t know what to expect.

  Hilary climbed into the back of the van, as one Russian man opened the door for her, another Russian visible in the driving seat. She sat where she was indicated to sit––in the front row––another man already at the rear of the van.

  She glanced at him momentarily, though he didn’t say a word. He was older than her, and instinct told her he was German––she’d seen enough of them during her Olympic wrestling days. She’d been told not to speak with anyone during the journey, and while she assumed that meant not talking to those driving the van––her lack of real Russian meaning that was obvious anyway––she hadn’t expected to see anyone else in the same situation in which she found herself.

  When the van pulled up outside the warehouse, she jumped out, ignoring her companion, and followed the gesture from the Russian to enter into the room in front of them. There was no one else in sight. Maybe they were the first ones there?

  She opted for the shadows to the right of the doorway, the wall not too far behind her. She got a good look at all the other eight Contestants when they arrived––watching them for signs of fear––most of them showed a little apprehension, as she had.

  Just before the doors closed, she had only worked out the locations of three of the others, the darkness and deep reaches of the space making it impossible to position anyone else. No one had been near her, and she’d turned, feeling her way along a wall and out through the first gap she found. She wanted distance from the others, and from what she saw anyway, had fitness on her side. She’d always been a decent runner, had done less distance work once she’d added muscle, but the engine was still there. She could keep going for a long time without getting tired.

  She was in what was the front right section of the warehouse. There was a little light there, which helped her navigate the rooms and corners open to her quickly. There was nothing of interest. She climbed one set of stairs, ignoring the sound of an explosion of some kind, assuming it was merely theatrics until the gun sounded which made her momentarily slow before carrying on anyway.

  She explored the second floor of the same corner of the building, access to one room seemingly blocked. She climbed one more storey, and then descended a stairway that she assumed took her into the previously inaccessible room. Here she found food and a range of knives. She’d never been one for weapons––didn’t usually need them––but picked up two of the blades on offer, slipping one into the top of her jeans at the base of her back, and the other against her leg into her right sock. She then started moving again, returning to the third floor, exploring as much as she could, getting a sense of what the building had to offer, like a wrestler moving around the whole ring, getting a feel for the place.

  Inside the Games Room, the watching Russians gave a momentary gaze towards Motya, his girl now in possession of two knives. They couldn’t help but feel the contest came down to whoever had control of the weapons. The victory was theirs to lose.

  Svetlana Volkov gave nothing away, watching the men in front of her as mu
ch as the screens beyond them all. This was her arena; this was her contest. And the show had barely begun.

  9

  Dmitry Pavlov

  Known within the Games as: Eighteen

  To some degree, Pavlov was born into wealth, and even if that was nothing compared to the $1.4 billion he was now worth, the influence surrounding that wealth had been the making of the man. His great-great-grandfather was the celebrated Ivan Pavlov, one of the pioneers of modern psychology who won a Nobel prize in 1904 and after whom the Pavlovian response is named. Pavlov had inherited some of Ivan’s scientific ability, making him one of the country’s key chemical producers in the closing years of the Soviet Union. He turned that into the billions it was all worth, becoming exceedingly rich himself in the process.

  Now aged sixty, he’d been looking to expand himself a little over the last few years and had got more personally involved with this exciting group of mainly Russians, who made up the Games.

  For his Contestant for the ten-year anniversary event, he’d stayed within his field of expertise and lured in Benita Rosales, a thirty-six-year-old chemist formerly from Spain. She was an expert in various chemical compounds and ran a channel on YouTube which highlighted, for her viewers’ enjoyment, of course, certain more explosive combinations.

  When she had first been approached, she’d heard of Pavlov already, and the name struck a chord with her immediately. She’d agreed to it almost straight away and the promise of substantial investment in her various research projects, as well as an allowance for significant personal expenses to be met in full, had only confirmed her decision.