Hunted

by James Patterson

  He said no more, leaving Shelley to wonder if Claridge really had given him up in exchange for a bribe. Had he given them Lucy, too?

  They drove on in silence for some moments. Shelley half expected the car to stop and the man in the passenger seat to turn around, a gun in his hand. Game over.

  “So what happens now?” Shelley asked at last.

  “Well, this is the funny thing,” said Tremain as he gazed out of the window. “The hunt is to continue as normal. Your exposure as an infiltrator has made absolutely no difference at all. The company wants to put on a show. You’re the show.”

  He’s lying, thought Shelley. Or maybe not lying—but he has something up his sleeve.

  They drew to a halt and the driver killed the engine. On both sides of the track, shallow channels gave way to thick woodland beyond, dark and forbidding despite the early morning light.

  “Here we are then, Shelley,” said Tremain. “Journey’s end.”

  He got out and drew his gun. It was indeed a SIG, noted Shelley. A SIG Mosquito, compact and light, but a small-caliber weapon with limited penetration and stopping power.

  Tremain leveled it at Shelley. “Out,” he said, and Shelley did as he was told, stepping into the uncanny quiet of the deserted woodland road, thinking this might be it. Ready to make his move, if Tremain’s finger tightened on the trigger. “Let’s go,” said Tremain, and motioned towards the trees on the right.

  Shelley relaxed a little. Tremain intended to kill him. He had no doubt. But not just yet.

  The two in the front stayed with the car. The third guard reached for a short-bladed kukri knife from the map pocket, presumably for dealing with vegetation. Holstered at his leg was a Glock sidearm, and he carried an MP5. Now Shelley noticed something else about the weapons that made his heart sink. They were smart-protected, inset with sensors that responded to the user’s palm print. Any hopes he had of grabbing one and using it were dashed.

  “We’re making our way into the kill zone,” said Tremain into his walkie-talkie.

  “Keep us informed,” came the reply. “Weapons are distributed.”

  Shelley was directed into the treeline. Ahead of him went the guard, with Tremain bringing up the rear. Shelley’s mind was working. He had to assume Tremain was planning to put a bullet in him, one in the back of the head perhaps, but he wouldn’t want a gunshot being heard; he’d use a suppressor, and he hadn’t fitted one yet.

  Shelley needed to try to control this, stay on top of it. He sped up almost imperceptibly, coming closer to the guard in front.

  “You know, you’re making a mistake keeping me in the game,” he said over his shoulder.

  Tremain chuckled. “Wouldn’t you know it? That’s just what I told Curtis and Boyd. I told them that even once you were robbed of your advantage, you were still a threat. But, of course, men like that don’t listen to men like me. They insisted the hunt go ahead, despite the danger.”

  “Then they’re fools.”

  “You might say that. I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  That’s it, thought Shelley. A management disagreement. Curtis and Boyd thought the game should go on, but Tremain was more cautious than that; he was going to take care of Shelley, whether they liked it or not.

  “But you’re a cut above those two turkeys,” Shelley called back, stealing a glance at the same time. Tremain still held the SIG, but one hand was in his jacket pocket. Reaching for the suppressor, perhaps.

  “I like to think so,” said Tremain.

  “I think you’d be tempted to disobey that order, if you thought it was for the greater good.”

  He sped up a little more. The man on point was in range. Shelley was ready. He had to time this right.

  “Disobey an order? Me?” Tremain was saying, but some instinct told Shelley that the moment had come, and he glanced behind in time to see Tremain fitting a suppressor to the SIG.

  Now! Shelley hurtled forward, raised his handcuffed hands and looped them over the head of the guard, grabbing him in a choke hold and delivering a head butt to the back of the head at the same time.

  The guard went limp in his arms as he swung him around to face Tremain. The MI5 man had fitted the suppressor and he raised the SIG two-handed, but bared his teeth in frustration when he saw that his shot was blocked. He pulled the trigger anyway. There was a soft thunk and the security guard shook as a round made a hole in his shoulder, but didn’t make its way out the other side. Thank God for the small caliber, thought Shelley. But he wasn’t waiting for Tremain to take another shot, and he dragged the security guy behind a tree.

  Tremain ran to one side and there was a second thunk as he loosed off another round, this one striking the security guy in the stomach, instantly making his bomber jacket slick with blood.

  With the guard dead by now, his feet dragged on the woodland floor as Shelley pulled him behind the cover of another tree trunk, hearing Tremain’s running feet as the MI5 man tried to find a new line of fire. Thunk! A shot hit the tree in front of Shelley.

  The guard was getting heavy and Shelley had no idea how long he could keep dodging Tremain. He needed to get close to him. The SIG carried ten rounds. If Tremain exhausted those, then maybe Shelley could rush him on the reload.

  Peering over the shoulder of the security guard, he saw the MI5 man out in the open. Thunk! Shelley was showered with wood splinters.

  “Out of practice, are you?” Shelley taunted. “When was the last time you shot at a target moving between cover? Do they teach you that in the civil service?”

  He was thinking, Come closer. Loose off a few more.

  But Tremain was ahead of him, and he reached for his walkie-talkie. “Quarry in position,” he said. “Blow the cuffs. Repeat: blow the cuffs.”

  Chapter 25

  The cuffs blew, making a hole in the security man’s throat. Without the handcuffs to support his weight, Shelley felt the guard slipping out of his arms and Tremain took advantage of the increased target. Thunk! Shelley felt liquid warmth, but no pain, as a bullet grazed his shoulder. He crouched, grabbed the security man’s hand and drew his sidearm, praying the guy’s palm print would activate the Glock.

  It did. Pressing the dead hand to the sensor, Shelley snatched his first shot and it went wild, but it was enough to put the fear of God into Tremain. The Quarry man returned fire. His bullets crashed into the foliage. Shelley fired two more his way, sending Tremain scurrying into cover. In the pause, Shelley cast his eye around, looking for the kukri.

  In the distance Shelley heard the parping of a hunting bugle. The game had begun. At the same time Tremain’s walkie-talkie was squawking. “What’s going on? We heard gunfire.”

  “The quarry is loose and armed,” Tremain replied, with panic in his voice. “Repeat: the quarry is loose and armed. Break all radio silence. Go to execution stage three at once.”

  And that was it for the Quarry’s head of security. Evidently he’d decided that discretion was the better part of valor; he was making a dash for it. “Good luck, Shelley,” he called. “You’ll need it.” Tremain ran, moving through the trees too fast for Shelley to get a bead on him.

  Shelley found the kukri, and with two chops hacked off the security guy’s hand. He held it up. He didn’t need the fingers. He disposed of those too. A grisly job, but at least now he was able to operate the Glock and the MP5. He set off, moving stealthily, choosing a route that ran parallel to the access road but kept him in the trees. He heard the distant sound of drones approaching and grinned. Good to know he’d put them into emergency mode so quickly.

  Then he stopped. There was an irregularity in the foliage ahead. His eyes adjusted and he saw the crouching man squinting through telescopic sights just in time to roll to one side as the shot crashed into the woods behind him.

  At the same time, Shelley heard the crackle of a walkie-talkie. He swung his head to the left and saw a security man who would have had the drop on Shelley, if not for the walkie-talkie blowing his cover. Shell
ey swung the MP5 at the same time as the new arrival opened fire. They exchanged shots, neither with the luxury of time to aim. In the same moment the sniper tried a second shot, which came closer than the first. Shelley fired again at the guard, more accurately this time, raking a burst of bullets across his chest and seeing him spin away in a mist of blood. As the guard fell, he revealed the terrified husband of the Home Secretary crouching behind him, his hunting rifle at his shoulder. He fired but missed, and Shelley wasn’t about to let him shoot a second time. A short burst from the MP5 and Kenneth Farmer jerked and fell.

  A third sniper round tore into a tree above Shelley’s head. He swung round and loosed two shots into the undergrowth in return, then crouched and took a more considered line of fire, spraying vegetation left to right, fast and high; then a second time, low.

  He was rewarded with a scream.

  For a moment there was silence as the woods settled in the aftermath of the gunfight. Then Shelley heard an urgent whispered voice. “Farmer and Miyake both down. Do you copy that? Farmer and Miyake down. Send everybody to my position. Everybody.”

  Shelley’s MP5 used fifteen-round mags. He slammed another in, then squeezed off a burst to cover himself while changing position. Somewhere in the trees was a panicking security guard and what sounded like a wounded Miyake, but the drones were gathering overhead and he could hear more players and guards crashing through the undergrowth towards his position. All attempts at stealth—any pretense that this was a game—were now forgotten about.

  “Hold your fire. Hold your fire until you have visual on me and Miyake,” the security guard was gibbering. “Repeat, no indiscriminate fire.”

  He was waiting for reinforcements, but Shelley had his position now. Shelley came from behind his cover, found the target and neutralized it with a single shot. The guard fell, almost noiselessly.

  Threat over, Shelley rose from cover. Not far away the wounded player was writhing, moaning with pain. Shelley moved over to him and saw that an MP5 round had made a mess of his upper thigh. “You’re Mr. Miyake, are you?” he said.

  He squinted down the gun sights at the man, who nodded. With his chin, Shelley indicated towards the TrackingPoint that lay on the ground.

  “And you killed Cookie with that, did you?”

  Miyake nodded. “He was a worthy opponent,” he croaked. Whether that was supposed to comfort Shelley, he wasn’t really sure.

  Shelley’s finger tightened on the trigger. Mr. Miyake saw and tensed. “Please,” he said.

  “You rich?” asked Shelley.

  Mr. Miyake nodded his head furiously. “A billionaire,” he said. “I’ll give you anything.”

  “Good. Make it fifty million to homeless charities by Thursday. And if it’s not done, I’ll come for you and it’ll cost you a lot more than fifty million, I can promise you that. Do you believe me?”

  Miyake nodded.

  “Good. You’re right to.”

  And with that, Shelley took off.

  A round crashed into the foliage around him. He fired a burst in return and heard the sound of the gunman beating a retreat. He stopped, checked the angle of sunlight coming through the trees, mentally recalibrated his position, and set off. This time he was going towards the access road. Now he had a plan.

  He slowed as he reached the perimeter, then stopped, seeing a guard as well as a Land Rover parked on the road. There would be a sentry on the far side, guarding the treeline. The idea was to bottle Shelley in.

  Right. It was crucial he did this without being spotted.

  Shelley flitted through the undergrowth, moving from tree to tree in time with the guard’s diligent scanning from left to right. Each move brought him closer and he was pleased that the buzzing of the drones canceled out what minimal sound he made. Gently he let the MP5 fall to its sling, crouching, ready to make his move.

  The sound of drones increased suddenly, and Shelley looked up to see one above his position. He couldn’t let it report his location, and with a curse he snatched up the MP5 and took it out. The two security guards were startled into action, and Shelley swung the barrel in an arc, putting two rounds in the man closest to him. The sentry on the far side dived behind the Land Rover and Shelley went down to his stomach, tucking the submachine gun into his shoulder and tracking the man in the space beneath the chassis. He fired. Once. Twice. The guy screamed and was still.

  Shelley ran to the road and checked the bodies. He grabbed more magazines from them, as much ammo as he could carry. He smiled. Everything was going according to plan now.

  With the road clear, he set off once more, storming upwards for about two hundred yards and then taking a sudden left into the treeline and back into the woods. He moved quickly but stealthily, hoping he’d timed this right.…

  He had. With their backs to him was a pair of hunters, a player and his security. They were joining a haphazard pincer movement that was trying to trap Shelley, but he’d anticipated them and now dropped quietly to one knee, finding the guard in the sights of his MP5.

  He hated himself for doing it the coward’s way, but he put two bullets in the guy’s back. The player cursed in German and panicked, running off into the woods. Shelley fired after him, deliberately missing, but his shots had the intended effect. Other nervous players, unaware that their fellow competitors were being driven towards them, opened fire.

  There was shouting, confusion, more shots fired, and more screams.

  Good. It was just as Shelley had hoped. He fired off an entire magazine indiscriminately into the woods. Let them deal with that.

  Chapter 26

  “He’s got them killing each other. It’s pandemonium down there,” said Tremain. He stood in the reception hall of the great home with the two other organizers, the crackle of gunfire reaching them through the open front door. Curtis and Boyd had been hoping things would somehow sort themselves out. Tremain’s expression told them nothing could be further from the truth.

  “We’ve got to evacuate,” insisted the MI5 man. “This guy won’t stop. He’s got a job to do and he won’t stop until it’s done. I’ve seen him in action—he’s a fucking machine. You have to know when to withdraw, gentlemen, and that time is now.”

  Boyd was dancing from foot to foot. “Come on, Curtis, let’s go.”

  “We still have our security,” said Curtis. Even so, he was checking his own weapon.

  “Get her in here,” said Tremain. “You’re going to need her with you.”

  “She’s our bargaining chip. He’ll have to surrender,” Curtis replied.

  “For Christ’s sake,” snarled Tremain, “you’re past the point where you can win this. All you can do is hope to get out alive. Go for the chopper. I’ll take a Land Rover.”

  His walkie-talkie squawked. “Quarry spotted. He’s coming your way.”

  “Well, stop him then!” snarled Tremain, but he knew threats and commands were useless now. If the security men had any sense, they’d be steering clear of Shelley. There were too many bodies and not enough accountability. There was no reason to die here. No reason at all.

  “Claire, bring her through,” called Curtis over his shoulder.

  A door opened. Through it came Claire. She had changed and wore an evening gown, complete with a long slit to the thigh. She wore an expression of concern, something that didn’t come easily to her. By her side, cuffed with cable ties, was Lucy.

  “What’s going on?” asked Claire.

  “We’re fucked, is what’s going on,” said Tremain.

  Lucy’s silence and calmness had been unnerving the Quarry men, but when she heard Tremain speak, she looked sharply at him. “You’re the one on the phone,” she said.

  “So?” said Tremain.

  “You gave the order to shoot Frankie.”

  “What’s this, Tremain?” asked Curtis. Even in their moment of defeat he seemed intrigued.

  “We had to shoot the dog,” explained Tremain.

  “He’ll kill you for that, you
know,” said Lucy.

  Tremain spoke into his walkie-talkie. “Start up. Curtis and Boyd are coming, plus the woman.”

  From outside the sound of the helicopter engine intensified.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Tremain said to Curtis and Boyd, and then to Claire, “Let’s go.”

  From outside came the clatter of gunfire.

  Shelley was getting closer.

  Chapter 27

  In the rearview mirror of the Land Rover he’d commandeered, Shelley saw chaos spilling from the treeline and onto the lawn, as security men and players came tumbling out of the woods, wide-eyed and terrified. He saw at least one pair of men carrying a body, and security guards screaming into walkie-talkies and comms devices. A Motorola unit he’d taken from one of the guards was alive with shrieks, screams for help, and appeals for calm.

  But now he saw activity at the house. The rotors of the helicopter were in full spin and people were leaving in their droves. He saw men in butlers’ uniforms piling into a minivan. Frantic techs were packing up the operations van. Land Rovers spat gravel as they hightailed it away from the parking area and hurtled down the approach road, as employees abandoned ship.

  Amid the commotion, Shelley saw Tremain. The MI5 man and Claire were joining the evacuation, dashing across to a parked Land Rover. Shelley was about to alter course and stop them, when he saw the figures of Curtis and Boyd appear on the steps to the front door of the home. Curtis held a sidearm, Boyd held his suitcase. They were making their way to the chopper.

  And with them was Lucy. All thoughts of taking Tremain evaporated as Shelley wrenched the wheel to the left, steering the Land Rover onto the lawn and aiming it towards the waiting helicopter.

  Curtis and Boyd saw him. They looked from the helicopter to the Land Rover and Shelley saw them frozen in time. Curtis decided not to make the dash and hauled Lucy back; Boyd decided to chance it and increased his speed; the helicopter pilot was desperately unbuckling as the black Land Rover hurtled towards him.