The Hunt

by T. J. Lebbon

  That time had to be soon. She was weakening.

  The storm had brought down an early darkness. The sun had almost set, and what little light it still provided was diffused and weakened by the heavy mists and driving rain. Her clothes were soaked through, even though she’d shrugged on her waterproof jacket. She shivered. The elements felt heavier than they were, urging her down to lie still and fade away. She would do neither.

  But movement across the mountainside towards Chris was already dangerous, and very soon it would prove impossible. She’d taken a torch from the helicopter, but lighting herself up to become an easy target was a foolish idea. While Chris was still, perhaps she could afford to take a rest as well.

  Find somewhere to hide away, take her time. Launch an ambush.

  She shrugged the rifle from her left shoulder, knelt, rested it on her right forearm. And when she looked through the scope she cursed herself for not checking before.

  Night sight! The hazy green view startled her for a second, then she swept the gun to the left and right and the landscape leaped into view. It was distorted by lancing rain, which looked like laser streaks across her field of vision, but she could make out rocks and slope, the darker shadow of emptiness to her left, and the green mass of the mountain above and to the right.

  She could move.

  Rose found herself lifted by this discovery, and she started moving faster through the storm. Doing so helped warm her tired muscles, and though she still shivered, the cold no longer seemed so bad. She considered taking the scope from the rifle and holding it to her eye, but she quickly discarded the idea. She needed it attached to the weapon. If she saw or heard anything of the Trail men closing on her, she’d need every advantage to beat them.

  As she walked and climbed, the idea of an ambush grew. It was a good idea. Her plan was always simply to move forward and adapt to situations, and now she had the opportunity to take out at least three more Trail. Whether there would be more after that, she didn’t know. She’d discovered that there were at least a dozen members of the UK cell, but there was nothing to say there weren’t two or more cells at work in the same country. There was a good chance that reinforcements were already on their way, or they might even be here, closing on her from a different direction while the hunters continued to pursue Chris.

  Taking the fight to them seemed to be the only logical way to go. She couldn’t run very far in her current state, and the longer she left it, the weaker and more tired she became.

  And she wanted Grin.

  Holding the rifle up so she could see her way, she zig-zagged up the mountain. They’d know she was wounded – they would have seen blood at the helicopter site, and would probably find the scattered dressings and first aid kit she’d left behind – and hopefully they’d suspect that she would run, a wounded animal trying to escape her tormentors.

  Even though not yet cornered, this wounded animal would turn and fight.

  Fifteen minutes later she found the perfect site. Beneath an overhang, a huge boulder had tumbled and come to rest leaning against a sheer wall of rock. Water splashed down one side, covering any sounds she might make. Between the boulder and the wall, a narrow gap offered a wide field of vision down the hillside she had just climbed. She could see at least a hundred metres across and down the slope, with a scope of over ninety degrees.

  Wishing for something warm to eat and drink, she huddled down to wait.

  Chris was running with her, taking graceful, long steps while she struggled to keep up. He kept glancing back and smiling. It was as if his own family did not have a gun to their heads. He leapt a narrow gorge and did not even pause to make sure she made it over safely. She jumped, scrabbling at the far side, fingernails shearing off and knees smashing against rock as she tried to gain purchase. When she was up and running again, Chris was just ahead of her once more.

  She was puffing beneath the weight of her dead family, all of them slung over her shoulders.

  ‘They’ll never catch me,’ Chris said, and Rose thought, But then your family will die. ‘Oh, no,’ he said without turning around. ‘If they never catch me and I keep running, my family will live forever.’

  Adam’s arm bumped against her side as she ran, and her daughter’s blood-matted hair scraped her cheek.

  They were in the basement again, only this time her family were no longer there. A dozen Trail members were tied and restrained, and Rose walked casually around the large room with a butcher’s knife in one hand, slitting throats.

  Grin was tied against the storage racking where Adam would have met his end. However many men and women Rose killed, she didn’t seem able to reach her. Grin was always one death ahead, one slashed throat out of reach.

  I need help, Rose thought.

  ‘You need to do it on your own,’ Holt said, and his voice was so loud, so there, that everything else that Rose could feel and sense became unreal.

  She opened her mouth to reply, but she could only cough.

  She snapped awake. Another cough. Something hissed in the stormy darkness, perhaps a voice berating the cougher. Rose gathered herself and focused on the place, the moment, banishing any confusion. She’d drifted off, that was all.

  She remained motionless. Her wounded arm was heavy and numb, and she was okay with that. When the time did come to move, she would compartmentalise the pain, give it to the wind and the darkness, while she did what needed to be done.

  Her heart beat fast, but she was now calm and clear. She was doing it all on her own.

  Through the rain and wind, she heard the unmistakable sound of stone on stone. Someone was walking across the slope before her.

  She’d dropped off with the rifle resting on her legs, and now she eased it up and propped the barrel in the opening. She only had to lean to the side and edge forward to see through the scope. Her right arm sang a song of pain, but she shut it out.

  There. Two of them, one less than twenty metres away, the other further downhill. She shifted slightly left and right, trying not to move too much. She couldn’t see the third man.

  It was definitely them. They both carried rifles in one hand. The one in front wore a casual leather jacket and jeans, and though she couldn’t see what the other guy wore, she guessed it was something similar. She might be shivering and hurting, but they’d also be tired from dragging waterlogged clothing with them, their muscles cold, dehydrated. They were as unprepared for these conditions as she was.

  The lead man paused and raised something to his eyes. Night vision binoculars. Good. Though they had rifles, their weapons weren’t as well-equipped as hers.

  Her time was close. She had to be quick. The first, then while the shock bit in, she’d swing a few degrees and take the second. The second shot would not be easy – he was at least fifty metres away, the storm still raged, and she’d have maybe a second to aim. She’d be shooting left-handed, but she had spent plenty of time practising. She was good. Calm, ready, eager for the kill.

  She wanted nothing more.

  Breathing gently, Rose lifted her burning right arm and grasped the rifle, hissing softly as if to gasp away the pain. She readied herself, aimed, stroked the trigger. The man had drawn a few metres closer. He raised the binoculars, swept them left to right, paused.

  Seen me, she thought, and she squeezed.

  The gunshot was thunderous in the confined space, and her vision through the scope flashed bright green as rain and mist were stirred into violence. The rifle bucked and sent a shimmer of agony through her body, rippling from her wounded arm. She ignored it all, shifting the gun slightly down and to the left, sighting on the greenish shape that she hoped was the other man, squeezing, firing again.

  Another recoil, another flash of green momentarily blinding her. She closed her eyes for a second, and when she looked again the scene had changed. The two men were down. The one close by was on his knees, bent over with his face pressed to the ground, motionless. The other was also on the ground, but crawling quickly
towards cover. He was a blur, shielded partly by a hump in the terrain.

  Two bullets left.

  Still deafened, but now with a sort of glee surging through her, she aimed again and fired.

  Either she missed, or the bullet barely grazed him. She saw his squirming outline for a couple of seconds more, then he found cover.

  She turned back to the first man and he hadn’t changed position. She briefly considered putting the last rifle round into him, but there was still one more Trail man out there somewhere, untouched, and now he’d be coming for her.

  One shot left. She had to move.

  As Rose stood, pins and needles tingled through her right leg. She tried to stamp it out but it weakened her muscles, turning a run into a crouching shamble. She kept the rifle to her shoulder, swinging it left and right so that she could see.

  He’ll be waiting and watching. If he has night vision binoculars too, he’ll hunker down until he sees me, watches where I go, gets a fix on me. Then he’ll close in. And that gives me time to see him.

  She paused right out in the open and did a slow, methodical sweep of the mountainside before and below her. The shift in position had altered her angle, and she could see the second man again now, huddled behind a rock and shifting slowly from left to right. She couldn’t make out any detail, and didn’t want to dwell on him for too long. It was enough to know that he was wounded and down. She would finish him soon, but the third man might be using his wounded colleague as bait, waiting for her to draw close.

  A pistol shot from this distance would not be easy.

  She moved on, passing close to the first man and taking a quick look. He was dead, head misshapen and wet. His rifle had fallen close by, but she had no time to gather weapons or ammunition. Her element of surprise blasted away, she now had to assume that she was in the third man’s crosshairs.

  Darting left and right, she headed across and up the slope to a position above the fallen boulder. She splashed through a stream, keeping the rifle to her shoulder, alternating looks ahead and around, and down at the terrain close by. If she tripped and he was watching her, it would take only a moment to settle his aim and—

  She didn’t trip. She slipped. The rain had formed new streams all across the mountainside, and the rocks beneath were slick with moss. Her left foot went out from under her and she held out her arm as she fell, doing her best to keep hold of the rifle.

  As she struck the ground, breath whoofing from her and arm smacking hard against a jagged rock, the rifle slipped from her grasp. It hit the ground with a crack.

  When the second crack sounded, she knew she was being fired on.

  If she hadn’t slipped, she would probably have been dead. She heard a bullet smack a rock behind her and ricochet into the storm, and she had to act quickly. No time to feel around for the rifle, especially in the chaos of the tumbling stream. No time to get to her feet with her wounded arm screaming at her once again.

  She kicked at the ground and slid down the stream.

  As she tumbled she tried to recall the area where she’d hidden away – the size of the boulder, the steepness and height of the rock wall it rested against, where the small waterfall had tumbled from. Then there was only water around her.

  Before she had a chance to prepare, she struck the ground, slid, rolled, and fell again, this time down a gentler slope. She hit the ground again, and this time remained motionless.

  Everything hurt. She’d banged her right arm, and the pain was all-consuming, a spreading flame that spread through her bones and muscles, setting her limbs twitching.

  It’s only pain! she thought, but mind over matter had its limits. Got to crawl … got to get …

  Another gunshot, but this time the bullet struck far away. He was shooting blind. Using his night vision binoculars to try to zero in, perhaps, but shooting and looking at the same time would be difficult.

  Lost the fucking rifle! But she still had the pistol. She had to draw him close, lure him in to somewhere she could see his shape in the darkness, the storm, and put him down before he could bring the rifle to bear.

  Her chances were slim, but she shoved away the doubt. She’d got two of them, and the third would now be in a panic, however hard he was, however well trained.

  The wind howled, a wilder gust that seemed to feed on the violence. Rain splashed from the ground around her, distorting her meagre vision. She gathered herself, then stood and ran in a crouch, this time away from the leaning boulder and the men she had shot.

  No gunfire followed her. Maybe he was moving as well, in which case she might have a few moments in which to hide. She tripped and almost fell, carried on, drew her pistol with her left hand. Each footfall brought a pulse of pain, but now she was almost feeding from it.

  Ahead of her, the view was split into the darkness of the mountain and the softer, deeper grey of the stormy sky. If she could get to a place where she was not silhouetted against –

  A shadow rose before her, and even as she thought of bringing her pistol up to fire, a blast of blinding light erupted as the figure lit a flare. She squinted and fell, crying out as her damaged body was smashed and battered into the ground once again.

  Gunfire cracked through the storm, five shots in rapid succession. She held her breath, but oblivion did not come. Gasping, there was no new pain to add to the old. She persisted in her wretched world.

  Darkness had fallen once again, the flare cast aside. The shape had vanished from ahead and above. The stark line of the close horizon was as wild and inhospitable as ever.

  Very close behind her, she heard a man groaning.

  She was still clasping the pistol. It felt good in her grip, firm, something solid rooting her to the world. Everything else was fluid. Her pain seemed to project beyond her, affecting the black ground and the rain, the sweeping wind and the heavy mists that drifted across her vision, real or imaginary. She was shaking violently now, but unsure why; cold, pain, adrenalin?

  Probably all three.

  She tried to stand, not entirely sure that the threat was ended. Every movement jarred her arm, and every throb of pain pounded inside her skull, threatening to spill her onto the ground again. If she passed out she might die up here. And there was more left to do.

  Looking behind her, she feared that a death had been taken from her. She felt lessened by that, as if her vengeance depended upon a certain quota of murders, a scale of spilled blood. Holt had told her that she needed to do all this for herself, and now she knew that he was right. He was a man who spoke with experience and history that she could never know. He was wise. She should have listened to him.

  But who was that shadow that had intruded on the hunt? Just another perverted part of it?

  The first man was less than twenty steps behind her. He’d been shot several times and now he was dead. She picked up his rifle, went through his pockets, found another handful of bullets. She checked her satphone. It was still functioning, so she stomped on his and left it. After picking up his night vision binoculars, she moved on.

  The second man – the one she had shot – was still crouched down close to the boulder, also dead. She pocketed his spare ammunition.

  Looking at the corpses she felt strangely empty, devoid of celebration or regret. Just blank. Perhaps pain was smothering all other emotions. Or maybe now that she was here, living her dreams, they could never quite reach the heights she’d hoped for.

  It took her a while to find the third man. He’d crawled downhill, not far but far enough for her to have to search. She used the dead man’s night vision binoculars, and finally found him slumped against an outcropping, both hands pressed to his stomach. Gut shot. Good. That would hurt, but he wouldn’t die too quickly.

  She moved in carefully, lifted his head, pulled off his ‘I♥NY’ baseball cap. It was a woman.

  Rose gasped, clenched the pistol tighter. Grin? But no, this was someone younger and fitter, her build slim and lean. She coughed, looking at Rose with eyes that alr
eady knew her fate.

  Rose crouched down beside her.

  ‘Let’s talk,’ she said.

  As Vey hustled her from the back of the van and through the converted barn’s back door, Gemma did her best to look around and take in her surroundings. Holding her upper arm in a tight grip, Vey didn’t seem to care.

  ‘This is stupid,’ Gemma said. ‘You can’t do this, it’s not fair.’

  ‘We’re doing it.’

  ‘If I run and you shoot at me, people will hear, and if that happens—’

  Vey squeezed her arm so hard that Gemma cried out. Ahead of her, in the building’s shadowy interior, she saw her mother take a step back towards her. Tom shoved her against a wall.

  ‘I have a knife,’ Vey said. ‘There are rocks beside the driveway. A puddle deep enough to drown in. Don’t think for a minute that there aren’t thirty ways I could kill you, silently, if you give me cause to.’

  ‘Bring her in,’ Tom said. ‘She’ll see too much.’

  Vey heard him, and answered, but she did not take her eyes from Gemma’s face when she said, ‘It doesn’t matter what she sees.’

  As she was shoved into the building’s cool interior, Gemma felt the last touch of sunlight on the back of her neck.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  fall

  I could have killed him, Chris thought. Maybe that would have been better. Safer for me. A statement of intent to the other three still out there, if they even find Blondie.

  He’d often put himself in an imaginary position – his wife or kids hurt, and him facing the bastard who’d hurt them. It had been a painful daydream, but the result was always the same. Though he hated violence, and always had, he recognised the need for it. Like that time years back in the pub, punching the man who’d assaulted Terri. Nice words would not have worked there.

  But he had no regrets. If Blondie didn’t die of exposure or blood loss, he’d have permanent injuries. Maybe internal damage from the broken ribs, and a knee that would never work properly again. If he really was a footballer, that was torture enough. The fact that the hunter had not hurt Chris – that the violence was all intent – didn’t change things. He was part of the reason that Chris’s family had guns to their heads, and that was as far as he needed to think.