On the Hunt

by Kerry J Donovan

  “We haven’t contacted Papa Pataki since Thursday. He has no idea where we are or what we’re doing. By now, he’ll be climbing the walls, and anything that puts him off his stride works in our favour.”

  “It’ll make him angry, unreliable.”

  “Men like Viktor Pataki are always angry and unreliable. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw Lajos.”

  “You’re not really going to arrange a ransom exchange, are you?”

  “Yep. Most definitely.” He winked and added what he hoped was a confident smile. “Why not?”

  “You can’t be that naïve. No crime lord going by the ridiculously overblown title of ‘The Giant of Győr’ is going to merrily hand over fifteen million euros to ransom his son. The loss of face would ruin him.”

  “Of course he won’t, not merrily or any other way. He’s going to try and screw us over. But we’re smarter than he is.”

  “We are?” Doubt and worry showed on her lovely face.

  “We’ve done this sort of thing before.”

  “When?”

  “Back in better times, DefTech negotiated with dozens of kidnappers. Most of the time, we were successful, too. This time, we’re taking that experience, but reversing the roles.”

  “Oh, right. I see.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  “Trust me, Lara. I do know what I’m doing.”

  “But we’re in the middle of Hungary, Viktor’s back garden. He has the local knowledge and access to men.”

  “Which is why I needed him off balance. And …”

  Lara sighed. “And?”

  “The delay’s given us time for a full recon. We needed time to pick an ideal spot for the transfer. We’ve identified a few likely looking places. It’s amazing how clear satellite imagery can be these days. Especially when you have someone like Corky to help.”

  Corky and others.

  “Ryan.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you answer one question?”

  “Of course. Shoot.”

  “Is this really all about the money?”

  “And revenge, why?”

  “We don’t need the money. There’s plenty in the Trust to give Marian Prentiss a new life.”

  “No there isn’t.” Kaine shook his head firmly. “The Trust’s money is for The 83. Marian Prentiss doesn’t qualify.”

  “A few million pounds would barely put a dent in the capital. The cumulative interest alone would more than cover the costs.”

  “No, you’re wrong. There’s a principle involved here. I took those millions to help the victims’ families. I can’t go dipping into it, willy-nilly—”

  “Willy-nilly? What sort of an expression is—”

  “What’s wrong with ‘willy-nilly’? Under the circumstances, the expression is pretty apt. Better than swearing, which is what I’d rather be doing right now.”

  She sighed, expansively.

  “Yes, okay. So, the fifteen million euros, which is close to thirteen million pounds, is to cover Marian Prentiss’ new life?”

  Kaine shook his head again. “Not all of it. Even with a kiddie on the way, that’s far more than we need to set her up for life. Some of the cash will be for the lads. They’ll probably have to earn it.”

  The GPS indicated a right turn off the main drag in eight hundred metres. Kaine slowed the van further. “Ah, here we go. Don’t know about you, but I’m in real need of some refreshments. I hope our host has the kettle on.”

  “Our host?”

  “Yep.”

  “I thought you’d never been to Hungary before?”

  “I haven’t. But our host has.”

  “You going to give me any clues?”

  Kaine glanced at her and winked. “Nope. That’s the surprise I was talking about just now. Won’t be long.”

  “Ryan Kaine, you can be an exasperating man.”

  “Now tell me something I don’t know.”

  He indicated right and made the turn, and they drove down a long, quiet suburban street on the outskirts of Győr. Not quite the middle of enemy territory, but close enough to give Kaine goosebumps.

  Five more turns and fifteen minutes later, the British-accented voice on the GPS told them they’d arrived at their destination—a villa at the end of a cul-de-sac surrounded by a white-painted wall.

  Kaine pulled into the entrance, flashed the headlights three times—one long, one short, one long. The heavy metal gate slid open on near-silent runners. Floodlights powered up, instantly illuminating a well-kept front garden mainly laid to lush green lawn but edged by flower borders. Kaine nosed the van through the opening and into the property. He pulled alongside a double garage whose up-and-over doors had levered open at the same time as the gate as though carefully choreographed.

  The garage was plenty tall enough to accommodate the van—one of the prime reasons for renting the place—and Kaine reversed alongside the garage’s other occupant, a shiny new, silver-grey Range Rover. He killed the engine and took a moment to revel in the silence and the calm. Lara did the same, closing her eyes to do so.

  A few short moments later, he breathed in deeply and exhaled in a long sigh.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “As always.” She smiled and squeezed his knee.

  “Thanks, but don’t do that in front of the men or they’ll all expect the same medical support.”

  Lara shook her head and raised her eyes to the van’s roof.

  “Idiot.”

  “Yep, that’s me. Shall we go?”

  “I’ll just check the patient.”

  While Lara made her way into the back, Kaine pushed open his door and stepped outside into the floodlit brightness. It was balmier than he expected. He still needed his jacket, but didn’t need to pull the zip all the way up.

  Before he could take another step, the house’s front door opened and the bulk of a very large man filled the open doorway, backlit by the light streaming out from an inner hallway.

  “Good evening,” Kaine called. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  They closed the distance between them quickly and clasped hands, reinforcing the shake with a forearm grip. Both men smiled grimly, each knowing the reason for their unscheduled meeting.

  “Evening, Captain. Expected you a little earlier. Any trouble?”

  “Nope. We took the scenic route.”

  “There is no scenic route through western Hungary. Where’s the doc?”

  “Tending to her patient.”

  “Should have left the bastard to rot.”

  The rear doors of the camper van burst open and Lara stepped down onto the paved driveway. She turned towards the sound of their voices. Her classic double-take and shocked expression made Kaine smile.

  “Rollo!”

  She raced along the driveway and dived into the Quartermaster’s powerful and open arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sunday 7th May – Before Dawn

  Győr, Hungary

  After Rollo had extricated himself from Lara’s clutches, he helped Kaine carry the comatose Lajos Pataki into the smallest of the bungalow’s four bedrooms—and the one easiest to secure.

  In case he was feigning, they didn’t say much in front of the patient, and cuffed his remaining hand to the metal bedstead, much to Lara’s distaste.

  “He’s just lost an arm and is heavily sedated. The cuffs are unnecessary,” she said, glaring at Kaine.

  “This isn’t up for discussion, Doc,” he said, following Rollo into a well-appointed kitchen diner.

  After settling her patient, Lara joined them for supper.

  Rollo provided an almost-acceptable meat stew. Kaine couldn’t identify the meat in question, nor any of the vegetables apart from a couple of roughly chopped carrots. In his day, Rollo might have been one of the Special Boat Service’s best instructors, but his skills in the kitchen were almost non-existent. His new wife, Marie-Odile, never let him near her cooker unless it was to make coffee. At l
east Rollo could produce a decent coffee.

  Kaine and Lara ate for fuel rather than pleasure, and the three of them held a muted conversation around the dining table.

  Kaine gave Rollo a more detailed overview of the battle of Prentiss House and Danny’s death, than he’d given Lara, and she listened intently. Saying little, Lara dabbed her eyes with a tissue the whole time and had turned in as soon as she’d finished half a bowl of the stew. Kaine nearly applauded her for eating that much, but Rollo had done his best and wouldn’t have appreciated the sarcasm. Before she left, she kissed them both—Rollo on the forehead, Kaine on the cheek.

  Rollo had given him and Lara the room next to the patient. It had an ensuite and Kaine held off the inquisition until he heard Lara running a shower. He opened with the gentlest of salvos.

  “How’s Marie-Odile?”

  “Brilliant, sir. She sends you both her love.”

  “She doesn’t mind you disappearing without notice?”

  “No, Captain. My new wife”—he reddened at the novelty of his status as a married man—“understands the nature of my … occupation. She knows I’ll have to leave at a moment’s notice from time to time. Thanks for including me on this operation, by the way.”

  “Did you doubt it? Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, now I’m an old married man, I was worried you might think I’d gone soft. Lost my edge.”

  Kaine leaned back, made a great show of giving the hulking Quartermaster the once over. “Apart from that slight thickening around the waist—”

  “You cheeky young pup.”

  Rollo straightened in his chair and tensed his washboard stomach. Like Kaine, Rollo kept himself supremely fit. Irrespective of their advancing age, with Kaine in his early forties, and Rollo knocking on the doors of the half century, neither carried a single gram of unnecessary fat.

  Kaine raised his glass in defence and refused to give ground.

  “Not that I can blame you, Colour Sergeant. Marie-Odile puts together a mean spread. All those rich Bordelaise sauces, bound to make you pile on the blubber.”

  “If you say so, sir.” He knocked back the rest of his rum and set the glass on the table, pushing it away, its job done for the night. “Shall we get on with business?”

  Kaine cast an eye around the living area. Modern, clean, utilitarian. A good place to set up shop.

  “How’d you find the place?” he asked instead of the more insulting, “How secure are we here?”

  “I booked it through an intermediary. We’re safe, sir.”

  “The owners?”

  “A couple of young thrusters. Live in Budapest. This is their second home.”

  “Good. You brought the equipment I asked for?”

  “Of course.”

  “All of it? The Accuracy?”

  “Yes, sir. Chambered for the 7.62x51mm NATO cartridges. I popped into the villa on the way here. I don’t imagine you’ll have the chance to test fire, but that can’t be helped. The existing setup should hold for your purposes.”

  “Depending on the distance to target and the weather conditions. You’ve identified the best site?”

  “Yes, Captain. I’ve not exactly been idle for the past two days. The best one on the list is the abandoned warehouse facility forty clicks from the Pataki compound. Good sight lines to the target area, and multiple access roads for a quick getaway. A few hills, too.”

  “Hills, in this part of Hungary?”

  “Like I said, Captain, it took a while to scout all the locations you and Corky identified on the satellite.”

  “Good. Any decent pictures?”

  “Better than that. I flew a drone over the site this evening just before dusk. Marvellous things, drones. The film’s on my laptop.”

  “Excellent. I’ll view it in the morning after I’ve had some shuteye. I’m seeing double right now.”

  “Right you are, sir. Anything else?”

  “The payload?”

  Rollo’s neatly trimmed beard—a recent innovation courtesy of Marie-Odile—bristled as he stretched out a broad smile. “As always, I saved the best part ’til last. You’re going to love Paddy’s latest toy. It may be small, but it packs one heck of a wallop.”

  Kaine hadn’t seen Michael Patrick O’Hara, the team’s walking talking cliché of an Irishman, and their explosives guru, since the Southampton mission, and hoped the man still held up to his reputation. His whole plan depended on it.

  “PETN?”

  “Nope. Something Paddy cooked up in his garden shed. Looks a little like peanut butter. God knows what the stuff’s made of, but Paddy claims it’s more stable than PETN and thirty percent more powerful. He gave me a small supply to play with before I left on the honeymoon, but I’ve not had the chance to test it before now. Been a little … busy.”

  Kaine had seldom seen Rollo blush before and held off making any comment.

  “However,” Rollo added, hurrying along, “you know Paddy.”

  Kaine dipped his head and gave up a grim smile. “If he claims it’s more stable and more powerful than PETN, it is. Where’d you put it?”

  “I heated it up and poured it into an empty can of cola.”

  “You heated it up?”

  Rollo shrugged. “In a saucepan on a camping cooker. Followed Paddy’s instructions to the letter.”

  Kaine imagined Rollo cooking a blob of peanut butter while hiding behind a tree somewhere. The image would have been hilarious had the circumstances been different.

  “Rather you than me, Colour Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir. I lit the blue touch paper and retired to a safe distance.”

  “So, the stuff solidifies when cool?”

  “Yep. I poured it into the can and left it to stand.”

  “Will one can be enough?”

  Rollo scrunched up his face. “Only needed half a can, sir. I called Paddy before leaving Bordeaux and gave him your specifications. He told me the weight I needed and Bob’s your auntie’s husband. If it doesn’t do the job ….” He scratched the back of his neck.

  Marie-Odile had even forced him to let his hair grow. Gone was the military buzz cut. Rollo now sported a number four on top and a number two on the back and sides. The new, softer look suited him, but Kaine would never tell Rollo. Old school military men like Kaine and Rollo didn’t go in for that sort of thing.

  “Paddy’s never let us down yet,” Kaine said.

  “There’s always a first time.” And there was the gloomy Quartermaster Kaine knew and loved.

  “But the explosive is only a little ‘appetiser’. Nothing to do with the main course.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do, Rollo. How do I detonate the can?”

  Rollo’s grin returned. “That’s the really clever part. The copper core of the standard NATO cartridge projectile combined with the aluminium in the can and the heat from the friction turns the actual can into the detonator. Basically, shoot the can and ‘boom’!” He threw open his fingers to mime an explosion.

  “And without the copper?”

  “The can is perfectly safe.”

  “You’re certain? I don’t want some passer-by to drop another can into the bin and blow themselves to pieces.”

  “You haven’t seen the drop site yet, sir. Completely deserted. Not even the homeless use the place. Besides,” he added, “I tested the can’s stability against shock.”

  “How?”

  “Last night, I dropped it from a footbridge onto a concrete cycle path. Nothing happened.”

  “A bit dangerous. What if it had gone off?”

  Rollo shrugged and scratched his neck again. “There are loads of bloody cyclists rolling around the place in their spandex gear. Losing one or two won’t make much of a dent.”

  “Rollo, Lara and I ride mountain bikes when we get the chance.”

  “Exactly my point, sir. But I’m only kidding. I made sure the park was deserted before I dropped the can.”

  “Good. The
only casualties I want on this mission are Patakis and the people who work for them.”

  “I know, sir. So, when are we off?”

  “Not ‘we’, Rollo. This is a solo operation. Your job is to protect Lara. She’ll want to tag along and take care of her patient. I don’t care what it takes. Even if you have to cuff her to her bed, Lara’s not leaving this house until the handover’s complete. Understand?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Consider that a direct order, Colour Sergeant Rollason. Protect Lara from herself. Is that clear?”

  Rollo stiffened to a seated attention. “As crystal, sir.”

  “Good.” Kaine yawned. “And now, Rollo, I need my rest. Big day ahead tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sunday 7th May – Viktor Pataki

  Pataki Compound, Outside Győr, Hungary

  “You late! Where you were?” Viktor screamed down the telephone line.

  Three days he had been waiting and not one single word from Őrült until now. Viktor slammed his fist into the table.

  “Tut, tut, Viktor. Is that any way to talk to the man who’s taking such good care of your son? Don’t you want Lajos back?”

  Again, he sounded so reasonable. The soft voice of an English moron. If things worked out as he planned, Viktor would take Őrült by the balls and squeeze until they popped like plums in his fists.

  “Where you were?” Viktor repeated, this time with less volume and slightly less anger. “Why you no call before?”

  “Do you have my money?”

  His money? His money! The money belonged to Viktor, not the Englishman. Viktor peeled back his upper lip. Őrült would not live long to enjoy any money.

  “Yes. I have money. Fifteen million euros. It ready yesterday as instructed. Why you no call? Why you no give delivery location?”

  “I told you to have the cash ready and bundled by noon on Saturday. Didn’t say anything about the actual time of the delivery or the location.”

  “You play games, te egy kurva fiam?”

  The Englishman delayed his response. Keeping Viktor waiting. This time, it would not anger him. Viktor could cope with any mind games Őrült chose to play.

  “Viktor, Viktor,” Őrült said, almost sadly. “Calling me a ‘son of a bitch’ is hardly in keeping with the spirit of our burgeoning relationship.”