Hunted: BookShots (10 page)

‘Quarry, show your handcuffs, please,’ ordered Curtis, and Shelley did as he was asked, trying to keep the contempt off his face. His eyes raked the line of men who stared at him with naked fascination. Among them was Kenneth Farmer, as well as a government minister he recognised. There was a Japanese man who wore a strange, enigmatic smile. Was he the current holder of the title Claire had mentioned? Was he the one who killed Cookie?

At his side, Curtis spoke again. ‘Gentlemen, we promised you a surprise, and a surprise you shall have. Please allow me to introduce the quarry by name.’

He paused, and Shelley realised that the attention on him had intensified.

‘You expected a Marine commando,’ said Curtis, building the expectation, ‘but we have something even more elite than that. An SAS captain: Captain David Shelley.’

Tremain was looming over him. ‘Captain David Shelley, who – according to his military record – is double-jointed,’ he whispered, and snapped Shelley’s handcuffs so tightly that they dug into his wrist.

Oh God
, thought Shelley.

THE PLAYERS WHOOPED
and cheered. Shelley saw the grinning, triumphant faces of Curtis and Boyd, as Tremain and a trio of guards marched him towards a waiting Land Rover. The last thing he heard as he was bundled inside was a loudspeaker announcement: ‘Weapons distribution due in T minus five minutes,’ and then they were drawing away, leaving the lawn behind.

They drove, taking a route parallel to the treeline, and then took a left onto a service road that bisected the woodland area. Shelley’s mind worked overtime. If his cover was blown, then maybe they’d got to Claridge and . . .

No, not Lucy. Please not Lucy.

‘How did you find out?’ he asked Tremain, injecting the right note of defeat into his voice.

Tremain had angled himself into the door so that he looked across the seat at Shelley, one hand close to his jacket, ready to draw his Sig. ‘You see Kenneth Farmer back there? He overheard his wife on the phone. From there, it was just a case of working out which man named Simon she was friendly with. Turned out to be my
MI5 colleague, and your friend, Simon Claridge. He told us all we needed to know.’

‘You tortured it out of him?’

‘We didn’t need to,’ smiled Tremain.

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-calibre weapon with limited penetration and stopping power. What’s more, it was a little slow to reload.

Tremain levelled 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 silencer, 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 silencer, 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 headbutt 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 calibre
, 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.’

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 valour; 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 wood 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. Shelley 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 wood 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 pretence 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 neutralised 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 cancelled out what minimal sound he made. Gently he let the MP5 fall to its sling, crouching ready to make his move.