Hunting Ground

by L J Morris

  Sinclair took aim at the second man, who appeared from his cover behind the feeding trough. ‘DROP IT.’

  The man had no intention of giving up his gun, he’d been sent there for one purpose, and one purpose only: to kill Sinclair. He brought up his arm and levelled his weapon.

  Sinclair had given him a chance, now it was self-defence. She pulled the trigger. The man’s head jerked back and he tipped forward into the feeding trough. The second man held his hand up to his left ear, the ringing in it was louder than Sinclair’s shot and it caused him to hesitate. By the time he realised what was happening, Sinclair’s bullet was entering his chest.

  The third man had been startled by the explosion. He watched the other two go down and decided he wasn’t getting paid enough: it was time to back off and call for re-enforcements. He climbed back over the dry stone wall and ran to the car, jumping into the driver’s seat. He felt for the key to start the engine but it wasn’t there. He knew he’d left it there, he always did in case they needed a fast getaway. That was when it dawned on him – they’d fucked up, they had underestimated their target. He looked in the rear-view mirror. McGill stood up from behind the car and fired a single shot through the window.

  McGill drove the blood-spattered car back up the hill and into the barn. He and Sinclair loaded the other two bodies into the vehicle then closed the barn doors.

  McGill checked the pockets of the two Sinclair had killed. ‘They aren’t carrying any official ID, Ali, just money, old receipts and other shit.’

  Sinclair checked the coat that was on the back seat. She found a passport for one of the men. ‘This one’s South African, apparently. What do you reckon the chances are that it’s a fake?’

  McGill nodded. ‘They aren’t security services, they must be Vadim’s men.’

  Sinclair was relieved. She didn’t find the taking of a human life as easy as McGill seemed to. The knowledge that their assailants were there to kill them made it easier to bear. ‘Well, that’s three less arseholes to worry about.’

  They closed the car’s doors and went back into the house.

  Hadley looked away from the screen, he’d watched what had happened and was impressed. It was going to take more than a couple of hired thugs to get the better of these two. ‘You always that effective?’

  McGill was checking the cameras for any other threats. ‘We’ve had to be.’

  ‘You should come and work for me.’

  Sinclair put down her Glock. ‘No thanks, I’ve tried that already, it didn’t end well.’

  ‘Are you sure they were Vadim’s men?’

  McGill nodded. ‘Definitely. None of them tried to identify themselves and they weren’t carrying any official ID.’

  Sinclair looked at McGill. ‘How do you think they found us so quickly?’

  ‘They didn’t know we were here. They must be checking everywhere we might be hiding.’

  Sinclair sighed. ‘They’re going to keep coming, aren’t they? They’re never going to leave us alone.’

  ‘We’ll stop them. Vadim will need to send more than three idiots to take us out.’

  Sinclair just wanted to rest, she was exhausted. ‘They know where we are now, should we run, or stick with the plan?’

  McGill pointed at the television screen. ‘Looks like it’s too late to run. Someone must’ve called it in.’

  On one of the CCTV cameras they watched the arrival of the police. Lights flashed as the cars screeched to a halt opposite the gate and police officers ran tape across the road to keep away any prying eyes and members of the press.

  Sinclair slumped down into a chair, staring at the black and white scene on the TV. ‘This is it. This is where it ends, one way or another. I’m relieved it’ll finally be finished.’

  McGill put his hand on Sinclair’s back. ‘At least we’ll end it together.’

  Chapter 44

  Danny Kinsella had barely slept since he had got his hands on the evidence in the folder. He was fascinated by how intricate the back stories of the undercover agents were. Right from the start, each sleeper had had every piece of official documentation they would ever need. Not just current, but expired and out of date documents. The kind of things that accumulate in the homes of everyday people: old passports, full of visa stamps to show they were enthusiastic tourists or dedicated business travellers; utility bills from previous houses; letters and postcards from non-existent friends, even photographs of family occasions and holidays past. Whole lives created out of nothing.

  Justin Wyatt had done a brilliant job. His research had been painstaking. If he hadn’t been murdered, he would have uncovered the whole conspiracy by himself. The documents Shawford had given him were just the start. They’d contained the details of each sleeper, except their names – the professor had kept those to himself, but Wyatt had cross-checked each of them, one by one. He’d tracked down family trees, births, deaths and marriages, and replaced each codename with the sleeper’s new identity. Kinsella couldn’t believe how high up in the establishment some of them went. The only identity missing, the one Wyatt had been working on when he was killed, was Vadim’s. Kinsella felt he owed it to Wyatt to finish the job for him.

  The Home Secretary valued his privacy and his personal details were a closely guarded secret. In the modern age of the Internet, and seemingly endless social media updates, that was unusual. Enfield went to great pains to make it as difficult as possible for anybody to trace his family history, but Danny Kinsella wasn’t just anybody. He had access to databases and could hack into networks that other people just couldn’t get near to. After two days he had built up quite a detailed picture of Enfield’s past and his family. Now he just had to put it together with Vadim’s profile from the folder. Once he had that mapped, the Home Secretary was toast.

  There was a knock from behind him and Barbara opened the door. ‘Is it okay to come in, Danny?’

  ‘Course it is, Barbara, it’s your house.’

  Barbara was carrying a tray. ‘I always like to give our guests a little privacy, my love. People here can be a little overwhelming sometimes. I’ve made you some coffee and a few sandwiches, keep you going.’

  Kinsella jumped up from his seat and took the tray. ‘Everyone here has been wonderful, it’s been a bit of a surprise, to be honest.’

  ‘Why’s that, my love?’

  Kinsella paused and tried not to look the old woman in the eye. ‘Well, you’re supposed to be gangsters.’

  ‘That’s all in the past now. Harry, my husband, has done some things in the past that he’s not proud of, but he did them for us. He kept us safe and provided for the family. If I do say so myself, he was pretty good at it.’

  Kinsella looked at his surroundings. ‘You can say that again.’

  Barbara smiled. ‘Harriette is turning us into a proper company, that’s more her thing. It’s what she’s good at. All she needs now is a good husband.’

  Harriette Nash walked through the door. Barbara rolled her eyes. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  ‘What was that, mum?’

  ‘Nothing, dear.’ She patted Kinsella’s hand. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She walked past her daughter, smiling, and left the room.

  ‘I hope she hasn’t been telling tales.’

  Kinsella shook his head. ‘No, far from it.’

  Nash watched her mother walking down the hallway, singing to herself. ‘She notices more than she says.’

  ‘Don’t all mothers?’

  Callum Porter shuffled in through the door. His injuries were healing well but he was still stiff. ‘How’s it going, Danny?’

  Kinsella took one of the sandwiches and pointed to his screen. ‘It’s a slow process, but I’m nearly there. I’m just comparing the Home Secretary’s background to Vadim’s profile in the folder.’

  ‘How does it look?’

  As Porter finished his question, several lines of text scrolled up the screen. Kinsella put down his sandwich and tapped at the keyboard.

>   ‘That’s funny.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘There are some bits that don’t match. Look.’ He pointed at the screen. ‘All of these are okay: age, hair colour, eye colour, all the physical stuff. But to be honest, they are all pretty generic. These bits match: rich family, private school, single child.’

  Porter leaned over the desk and looked at the screen. ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘It might not be a problem, it just looks a bit strange. These dates and locations are places where Justin has said Vadim definitely was, but Enfield was in a different location at the same time for more than half of them.’

  Nash was now standing behind them, trying to make sense of the data. ‘Does that mean the evidence is wrong?’

  ‘Not necessarily. We have to allow for a few errors. All data contains some mistakes. I’ll check it again. Do you want to stay and watch?’

  Nash and Porter stood back. They both knew how many hours Kinsella could spend tapping away at the keyboard. Nash was already half way out of the room. ‘Got to give Mum a hand with something.’

  Porter was close behind her. ‘My leg’s aching a bit, better go and lie down.’

  They both hurried out of the room and left Kinsella alone. He turned back to his screen, shaking his head. ‘Suit yourselves.’

  Chapter 45

  Knapwood Manor was the ancestral home of Kelvin Hadley’s family. He had been living there since his parents had moved there in the late sixties, and had inherited the house and land on their death in the nineties. Although the house had been renovated and modernised, from the outside it was still, every inch, a late nineteenth century gothic manor.

  Lancaster turned his car into the entrance and stopped in front of the wrought-iron gates. ‘This is it: Knapwood Manor.’

  Carter lowered his window and looked up at the house. It reminded him of a haunted mansion, he was sure he had seen something just like it in a seventies horror film. All it needed was a bolt of lightning to complete the image. ‘This must be what they mean by how the other half lives. It’s some house.’

  Lancaster pressed the intercom and waited. ‘You can say that again. Apparently, he comes from a rich family. I’m surprised he’s never run for office.’

  ‘If he’s that rich, I’m surprised he works at all.’

  Lancaster smiled. ‘Maybe he just likes the power.’

  Sitting on Carter’s lap was the copy of all the evidence in the folder. He opened it and flicked through the pages. ‘Do you think he’ll be here? McGill’s message said they were leaving. We have to assume Hadley is with them.’

  ‘We have to check everywhere he could’ve gone, before we assume anything.’

  ‘He doesn’t know about the Home Secretary yet, does he?’

  Lancaster shook his head. ‘I didn’t want to reveal everything – until we had to – and the Home Secretary isn’t his boss, anyway. He won’t be happy that we didn’t tell him all the details, but he’ll understand. If he’s with Sinclair, I’m sure she’ll tell him.’

  ‘I hope so, Edward. We need someone on our side.’

  The wrought-iron gate clunked and shook as it opened. Lancaster put the car into gear and pulled forward onto the gravel driveway, heading for the house. ‘Looks like someone’s here.’

  As they reached the top of the driveway, they could see another car parked to the side of the front door. Lancaster slowed down and stopped. ‘Shit, what’s he doing here?’

  ‘What is it, Edward?’

  Lancaster pointed. ‘That’s the Home Secretary’s official car.’

  ‘What do we do now, turn around and disappear, or blow his brains out? We could always go and live in the Seychelles.’

  ‘As tempting as that sounds, we have to find out how much Enfield knows. He might think I don’t know who he is. If he thinks it’s only McGill and Sinclair who know about him, it could help us. Don’t forget who he is – if we just kill him, we’re the ones who’ll end up running.’

  Carter took a nine-millimetre Sig Saur from his jacket and racked the slide. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve had to do any of this shit.’

  Lancaster checked his pistol. ‘You and me both, Simeon.’

  ‘I’ll go around the back, look for another way in. I’ll let you go and knock on the front door.’

  ‘Be careful, Simeon, he probably knows you’re with me.’

  They left the car and split up. Carter went to the right and disappeared behind the conservatory. Lancaster waited a couple of minutes then walked up to the porch and knocked.

  The Home Secretary’s bodyguard opened the door. ‘Come in, Mr Lancaster.’

  As Lancaster stepped past him, into the entrance hall, the bodyguard stuck his head out and looked both ways. He obviously knew Carter had been in the car and was looking for him. He didn’t make a comment. Anyone else would have just asked where he was, but the bodyguard didn’t. He showed Lancaster to the study then walked out of the front door and turned left.

  The study was a large room; cases of antiques, and original paintings lined the walls. Lancaster looked around at his surroundings, he’d never been in this room before. Enfield sat behind a large wooden desk nursing a glass of Scotch. He waved a hand at the paintings on the walls. ‘It’s like a museum, isn’t it, Edward? How much do you think they’re worth?’

  ‘I’m really not interested in my boss’s interior decor, sir.’

  Enfield held up a decanter of whisky. ‘Drink?’

  ‘No, thank you, sir. I came here looking for Hadley. I need to speak to him on a matter of some urgency.’

  ‘I’m afraid he isn’t here, Edward.’

  Lancaster sat forward, pretending he didn’t know what had happened at the airfield. ‘Do you know where he is, sir?’

  Enfield walked around the desk. ‘There was an attempt on his life yesterday. He went to meet with Ali Sinclair and Frank McGill, against my wishes. Do you know anything about that?’

  Lancaster sat back and crossed his legs. This was all a game: the two men probing each other for information, not wanting to give anything away. Not wanting the other to know how much information they had. ‘All I know is, he left the office and didn’t come back.’

  Carter had found an open door at the back of the house, and was standing in the kitchen – at the far end of the hallway from the study. He checked for any sign of the bodyguard then crept up the corridor and stood at the study door, listening.

  Enfield and Lancaster were still testing each other. Enfield topped up his Scotch. ‘Do you know anything about a folder? Kelvin mentioned it to me in one of our meetings.’

  Lancaster shook his head. ‘I haven’t been briefed on everything yet, sir. I’m late to the party.’

  ‘Have you known Simeon Carter long?’

  Lancaster was on edge, he didn’t like the way this was going; he could tell that Enfield suspected him. He must know Carter was involved with Sinclair, he must know he and Carter were old friends. Lancaster had to take Enfield alive, it was the only way this was going to end. With the Home Secretary dead, someone else would step into his shoes and the conspiracy would continue. If he got away, with his resources he could disappear completely and never be found.

  Carter struggled to hear the voices in the room but he knew things probably weren’t going well. He closed his hand around the grip of his pistol and readied himself to enter.

  The bodyguard came out of nowhere. He had done a complete lap of the house looking for Carter and arrived back at the front door. Carter held his hand to his lips and motioned for him to stand still, but the bodyguard kept coming, his hand inside his jacket. Carter immediately understood – how could the person who spent most time with the Home Secretary not be involved? He had to have driven him to every meeting, been in the room for every phone call, maybe even carried out some of the killings himself. He had to warn Edward. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. The bodyguard already had his weapon in his hand and shouted as he brought it up to aim
. ‘Protect yourself.’

  Before the bodyguard could pull the trigger, Carter fired and shot him in the chest. He went down, falling on his side, badly wounded but still alive. Carter took the gun from the man’s hand and put it into his own pocket.

  Inside the room, everything seemed to happen at once: the door swung open and they heard the guard’s shout, followed by the gunshot. Enfield threw his glass at Lancaster and pulled a Glock from the desk drawer. Lancaster was up on his feet but Enfield had him covered. ‘Don’t try it, Edward, you won’t make it. Drop your weapon, turn around, and back towards me, slowly.’

  Lancaster pulled his pistol from his holster and threw it on the sofa. When he turned around, Enfield grabbed the back of his jacket and placed the gun to his head. ‘Give me the folder, Carter.’

  ‘It won’t do you any good, Marcus. It’s just a copy.’

  ‘I know it’s a copy, Sinclair has the original, I don’t give a shit. Give me it.’

  Carter stood over the guard, making sure he didn’t go anywhere. ‘You’ll have to come out here and get it yourself.’

  Inside the room, Enfield was losing his patience. ‘Give me the fucking folder or I’ll blow his fucking head off.’

  ‘Okay, okay. It’s in the car, I’ll get it.’

  Carter backed out of the front door and towards the car. Enfield manhandled Lancaster out of the study and into the hallway. He stopped beside the bodyguard and looked down at him. ‘Can you move?’

  The man was bleeding heavily. He held up his hand, as if asking for help.

  The Home Secretary bent down and took the car keys out of his bodyguard’s jacket. He pushed Lancaster through the entrance hall and out of the door, his weapon pointing at Lancaster’s head the whole time.

  Carter retrieved the folder from the car and put it on the ground in front of the door. He took two steps back but kept his weapon aimed. ‘You won’t get away with this, we’ll track you down.’