by T. J. Lebbon
Maybe she should have taken the dead bastard’s rifle after all. But she’d hoped that seeing his weapon still with him would ease any suspicions they might have.
Moving back into the depression, then away from the shale slope and across the mountainside, Rose climbed carefully uphill, always maintaining cover between her and them. It meant that she was moving blind – if they’d caught sight of her, if they had suspicions, they could move across the shale slope and be upon her before she saw them. But it was a small gamble loaded in her favour.
They’d check out their injured client first.
She came to a spur of rock, twelve feet high, easy to climb, but she’d be dangerously exposed while doing so. Hesitation and doubt had no place here. She started climbing, pausing as she rose above the surrounding cover and glancing back across the hillside. She could see the dead man and much of the shale slope, but the spur still hid the upper parts of the mountainside. If the men were descending, they still hadn’t come far.
Climbing on, trying to move fluidly so as not to perform any sudden movements, Rose soon reached the head of the spur. She rolled onto the rough heathers growing there and paused on her stomach, face pressed to the ground.
Now she could see them. One was leaping quickly from rock to rock down the other side of the spread of scree, the other two were trying to crawl down the scree slope on their behinds. Good. They weren’t used to the mountains, didn’t know what they were doing. It gave her a flush of optimism for her and, curiously, for Chris as well. She’d not entered into this believing that she would help him in any way – she intended striking as hard as she could at the Trail, then melting away to face them another day, leaving Chris to his fate – but maybe that was misjudged. Perhaps she and Chris really could help each other.
She wondered which Trail members had come. She knew more about them than they could have believed possible, but even that was negligible. But she was too far away to identify them.
The first man had drawn level with the dead hunter beyond the scree, and now he stood shielding his eyes and calling.
‘Mister Lyons!’ His voice carried across the hillside.
Rose pushed herself backwards across the heather, glancing to her left. She’d be hidden from view in a few metres.
‘Hey! Max! You okay?’
Not long until they found out. Rose moved faster, slipping behind a thicket of sparse shrubs. She didn’t wait to see them approach the man, check him over, find that he was dead, because she knew what their first reaction would be.
They’d climb quickly back up to the helicopter. And they knew exactly where it was.
She made sure the pistol was tight in her belt and started to climb, pulling with her hands, pushing with her feet. Where the slope levelled a little she pushed on her knees, and where it grew steeper or more technical she used her hands again, grabbing rocks and pulling. She kept a careful eye on where she was in relation to the mountaintop, and also on the scree. If she could see the slope of loose stone, then they could see her.
Five minutes passed, ten. They’d have realised by now that their hunter was a corpse, and she hoped they wouldn’t overreact. If they did, Chris’s family would be dead in moments and then the hunt would be off. The other hunters would be gathered in, and then the Trail would come in force to make the kill themselves.
But there was so much money involved, she was confident that they wouldn’t yet abandon something that had taken so long to set up.
She reached the ridge a few minutes later. She’d emerged from cover and had to ascend a rocky slope, darting from boulder to boulder and doing her best to not be seen. She could see way down the scree slope now, and the three men were still visible around the dead man. One stood cradling his rifle and keeping watch while the other two did something. She was too far away to see what.
The ridge was wider this high up, and exposed to the elements. A strong breeze blew from the north, carrying stinging raindrops that impacted her face and hands. She leaned into the wind, crouching, and pushed on.
As the slope behind her disappeared from view, she took one last look. The Trail men had lifted the body and were trying to drag him uphill. One still stood guard, scanning the mountainside all around. Making sure she wasn’t seen, Rose crouched lower and hurried from view.
Dragging the body across the scree slope then all the way back up here would take them at least half an hour. Time was on her side.
She was looking for somewhere flat, a convenient site for the helicopter to touch down. It should have been easy to spot the helicopter, but she scanned the ridge leading up the mountain and what she could see of the slopes beyond, and there was nothing.
Had it lifted off again? She hadn’t heard it, but she could not be sure. Sounds were distorted up here, confused by the wind, echoes, and the deceptive distances. She moved across the ridge closer to the drop down the other side. If she looked carefully, if she had binoculars and a better sense of direction and distance, she might be able to see the place beside the road where this had begun. But mist drifted in swathes, and the rain was increasing.
She moved up the ridge, jogging now to try to warm up.
Should have looked after yourself, Adam said.
‘Yeah, right, I’ve always been great at that.’ She laughed, the sound surprisingly loud. A few minutes later she had to climb a steeper jumble of rocks, careful not to slip on the wet surface and snap an ankle. How ironic that would be. They’d come back up here eventually, find her crawling for cover with pistol in hand, and take their time to shoot her from a distance. ‘Fuck that,’ she muttered. ‘Swallow a bullet first.’
Fuck that, bunny! Adam said. You’ve got too much to live for.
She coughed a laugh, ducked down, looked around to make sure no one had heard her. Sounds carried.
‘Let me do my thing, baby,’ she said. ‘You rest and just let me … ’
She topped the rise of tumbled boulders, many larger than a family car, and there was the helicopter. The slope beyond opened into a wider shoulder between mountains a little higher up, a rock-scattered escarpment that had a few flatter, windswept areas. The wind blew hazy sheets of rain and mist across the ridge, wavering clouds that brought the helicopter in and out of focus.
Rose moved quickly, scrambling further up the slope so that she could approach it from above. They would not have left it unguarded, but if she was too cautious, too slow, she wouldn’t have time to get away.
And that’s what she wanted. Once those three Trail members were trapped up here in the mountains, her own hunt would begin.
The dead man’s satphone in her pocket crackled.
She dropped to the ground, snatched it out and switched it off, lying flat and searching for signs of movement around the grounded aircraft. A waft of smoke was plucked from the helicopter’s open cabin door. Whoever they’d left behind was sitting inside, smoking and sheltering from the elements.
The satphone might have been one of the other hunters calling back to see if Max was all right, but she doubted it. They weren’t friends, or companions. More likely it was one of the Trail. They’d have found the bullet wound, figured out some of what had happened, and were trying to contact her.
She almost returned their call, but it wasn’t the time. Not quite.
Circling around, keeping to cover as much as she could, she started approaching the helicopter from uphill, closing on its tail end. Holding the pistol in one hand she kept the other held out for balance, scouting the ground before her.
Another gust of wind blew a sheen of rain across the escarpment, and Rose took advantage to move rapidly closer. Close up, the helicopter was even larger than she’d thought, and the smell of fuel and heat hung in the air. Even above the breeze she heard the ticking of cooling metal. She took a deep breath, readying herself for confrontation.
After one more glance around to make sure there was no one else, she emerged from behind the machine and walked confidently towards the doors, st
aying wide. She held the pistol down against her leg. Surprise would give her a couple of seconds’ advantage, and looking like she belonged there would confuse the pilot.
A woman was sitting up in the helicopter’s main cabin, legs dangling out the door. She wore a flight suit and smoked a cigarette, and when she saw Rose her eyes went wide. She made no sudden movements, other than glancing quickly around the escarpment. She looked at the gun in Rose’s right hand.
‘I’m just the pilot,’ she said.
Rose hadn’t expected a woman. It should have made no difference – she knew that some Trail members were women, including Grin – but for some reason it threw her. Perhaps some deeper, motherly part of her, a base instinct stronger than learning and experience could touch, still doubted that a woman could really be so brutal.
As Rose wondered how to handle this, the pilot rolled to her right and pulled something out of the flight suit’s pocket.
Rose knelt and lifted her pistol, squeezing the trigger in the same movement, right knee slamming against rock, gunshot thundering in her ears, and she felt an ice-cold kiss across her right arm.
The pilot grunted and flipped onto her stomach, kicking with her feet to enter the shadowy cabin. Rose cupped her right hand with her left, winced as the cool pain turned blazing hot, and fired two more times.
Both shots found their mark. The woman jerked on her stomach and then lay still, legs hanging out of the cabin, right foot twitching slightly as her nerves danced towards death.
Rose stood and approached the aircraft, senses alight, ready. If anyone else was inside they’d have entered the fight by now, but she had to make sure. She moved quickly, crouching behind the woman to search inside the cabin. No one.
She climbed in, lurching forward into the cockpit. Both seats were empty.
Her arm was blazing hot and leaking blood, she needed to tend her wound, the Trail men might have heard the shots and would rush back, leaving the hunter’s corpse to retrieve later …
Time crunched. A faint lightened her muscles and turned her stomach, and Rose bit her lip, hard. The taste of blood did nothing to distract from her injured arm. It was screaming at her, pain surging in close waves that broke even higher whenever she moved. She stood, swayed, grasped on to something to stop herself falling.
I’ve felt worse! she thought, remembering those glorious, agonising moments of childbirth, and berating herself for being so weak. She glanced at the torn jacket hanging beneath her tricep. It was already dark and heavy with blood, speckles dripping onto her thigh and the floor. But it would have to wait.
She gave herself two minutes. Then she’d have to be away, and with her injury she couldn’t count on moving as fast as she’d like. It was doubtful that any of the men could fly the helicopter as well, but she couldn’t take that chance. She had to put the aircraft out of action, gather anything that might be of use, and get the hell away.
It was her first time inside a helicopter. She scanned the cockpit, bemused at the spread of buttons and dials, looking for something to rip out or smash or cut. But there was no time for subtlety.
She swapped the pistol to her left hand and fired five shots into the instrument panel. Sparks sizzled and jumped from one impact point, but she had no idea whether any bullet had made a difference.
Then realisation struck, and she cursed herself again. Only recently she’d been ready to bring the helicopter down as it flew, so now she knew how to keep it down.
Moving back through the cabin, she saw a first aid box pinned to the wall by several straps. She pulled it free and held it beneath her left arm. There was also a rifle leaning casually against one of the main cabin’s side seating. She slung it over her left shoulder. There were boxes of food strapped to the cabin’s rear wall, probably supplies to be dropped to the hunters. She wondered what was in there – proper food, probably, not the energy stuff she’d sent out with Chris. Caviar. Champagne. She laughed, a manic guffaw.
No time. Every second she remained here was a second closer to being shot again, and she had her wound to tend as soon as she was away. Maybe she’d faint. That would be more of a waste than being caught with a broken ankle.
Stop thinking and start doing! Adam said.
She searched the pilot’s body, grabbed her dropped pistol, and jumped to the ground.
Her knees went and she fell onto her front, narrowly missing smacking her nose into rock. Vision swam. Blood ran hot. Wind breathed stinging rain across the back of her head.
Rose lifted herself and stood, wincing against the pain and willing the faint away. It was only pain, that was all, something to embrace and analyse, but not to let her down.
Aiming at the tail rotor, she fired the last few shots in the magazine. One blade snapped off completely, spinning away in the wind. Another slumped and hung by a twisted thread.
Got to make sure, she thought. She pulled the pilot’s pistol and emptied it into the engine compartment. One impact thudded heavy, and fuel started to pour from the hole.
She walked away from the helicopter and another dead Trail bastard. Then she ran. Even if they could fix the damage she’d done it would take them some time. And now their blood would be up, their anger raging, their need for vengeance a hot, tactile thing.
Welcome to her world.
Chapter Nineteen
nail
Vey and Tom came at them with knives, and Gemma really wasn’t sure whether she had any energy or feeling left.
Ever since the piss stop she’d been working her hands, shoulders, buttocks and legs, trying to keep the blood flowing and numbness at bay. She tensed, terrified but determined to fight back if she had the chance, defend herself and her family to the last. But they were only cutting their bindings.
Sitting in cooling, soaked underwear and school trousers was very uncomfortable, and even though it was warm in the van, Gemma had found herself shivering. Several times she glanced at the nail on the van floor. It was maybe four inches long, speckled with rust. It must have been there for a while.
She kept it in mind. In the box, in fact, although in a part of it hidden away from everything else. The nail was kept in the box’s false bottom, because for now Gemma didn’t even want to think about it herself. Maybe Vey could read her mind. Maybe she’d already seen her looking at it, knew what she had planned, and was just letting her continue thinking that she was a clever girl. A clever little girl.
‘Where are we?’ her mum asked as Tom sliced at the binds around her legs and waist. There was an edge of panic to her voice. Megs was sobbing again, and Gemma’s heart hammered.
‘Can’t you take the blindfolds off?’ she asked. Vey was kneeling in front of Megs, tugging the girl forward so that she could cut the ropes behind her. She paid no notice at all to the girl’s cries. She seemed not to hear.
‘Yeah, why not,’ Tom said. He ripped their mother’s blindfold off, and Vey did the same to Megs. They both squeezed their eyes shut.
Outside the open back doors, Gemma saw a gravelled parking area and the high wall of a building, one edge of a window just in view. A flower pot sat beneath the window with the drooping remnants of summer blooms. The air smelled sweet.
‘Everything’s fine, girls,’ her mother said. ‘We’ll be fine, this’ll all be over soon.’
But Gemma saw something that chilled her to the core – a small, wry smile on Vey’s lips.
As Tom helped her mother stand and step from the van, Megs followed, sparing a terrified glance for Gemma.
‘Hey, sis,’ Gemma said. Megs hated being called sis, but now she smiled, her eyes red-rimmed and sore.
Vey squeezed Gemma’s cut shoulder and pulled her forward so that she could slice the ropes tying her to the seat. Gemma cried out, even though it didn’t hurt that much, because she wanted the woman to think she was growing weaker, more scared, less inclined than ever to cause any trouble.
‘I know kids like you,’ the woman said, pressing her face close to Gemma’s. Her breath
stank, stale and redolent of old meat and cigarettes. ‘You think you know everything because your tits are getting bigger and boys are looking at you. You think you’re indestructible and the world’s laid out for you to pick over. But don’t give me any trouble. Because I’ve killed little girls tougher than you.’
Fear bit in, sharp and stinging. Gemma tensed her wounded shoulder against Vey’s hand, and the pain fended off the fear and seeded that hot bloom of rage once again.
‘I’m not a little girl,’ she whispered.
Vey laughed, then stood and let go.
Gemma forced a soft cry and fell forward, rolling onto her back. She let her legs splay out helplessly across the van’s floor.
‘Up!’ Vey said. ‘Come on, shift it. Got some food inside for you, but only if you do as you’re told.’
I’ve killed little girls tougher than you.
Hands still tied behind her back, Gemma’s flexing fingers found the nail at last. She probed at its tip and the head lifted from the seam in the metal floor.
Vey jumped from the van and reached back in, grasping Gemma’s shirt collar, pulling her upright, dragging her to sit in the doorway. ‘Wait there for a bit, your legs have gone numb.’
Gemma swung her legs back and forth, pretending to wince at pins and needles that weren’t there, while she tucked the nail into the back of her trousers.
Whoever these people were, she had taken her first step in rebelling against them.
Chapter Twenty
swim
Chris sometimes wore a tee shirt bearing the slogan, I Do Not Bonk. It had attracted many amused and confused stares because, to most, ‘bonk’ was another word for screw. Strange to profess that. But to endurance athletes, bonking was the process of crashing during a race, energy levels at a minimum, glycogen stores depleted, muscles quivering their last. He knew how not to bonk.
He’d never been in a race where bonking would mean a bullet in the back of his head.
