Hunted: BookShots (11 page)

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 assault rifle 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 wood. Let them deal with that.

‘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 organisers, 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.

IN THE REAR-VIEW
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 wood, 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 people carrier. 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.

Shelley threw up his hands to protect his face as the Land Rover ploughed into Boyd, then crunched into the chopper. The banker screamed in pain, crushed between the car and the helicopter. Feeling blood ooze down his forehead, Shelley emptied half a magazine into the instrumentation in the cockpit and then finished off Boyd. The screaming stopped and the rotors were slowing as Shelley rolled out of the shattered Land Rover and landed on the lawn.

There was no time to recover. His shoulder and head shrieked with pain, but he was already under attack. A bullet slapped into the metal shell of the helicopter, and Shelley turned to see Curtis firing wildly. Using the buckled door of the Land Rover for cover, Shelley trained his sights on Curtis, about to take him down and finish the job.

But Curtis saw the danger. He scuttled behind Lucy, using her as a shield, the pistol at her temple.

The helicopter wound down, finally becoming silent. From the woods came the occasional rattle of gunfire and shouts of confusion. Otherwise, a curious silence had descended on the lawn.

‘Throw down your weapon, Shelley, or I’ll put a bullet in her,’ commanded Curtis.

‘You’d probably miss,’ Shelley said calmly. He could just make out the tiniest sliver of Curtis behind Lucy. Couldn’t risk a shot.

‘It’s all over,’ called Curtis. ‘We’re going to make our way to a Land Rover, and if you love your wife, you won’t try to stop us.’

Shelley didn’t blink. ‘Didn’t she tell you about us?’ he called.

‘We haven’t had time to become acquainted,’ sneered Curtis.

‘It might have been a good idea. She could have told you what she did before marrying me.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about the three-man team in Afghanistan. It was me, Cookie and a third operative. Only thing is, there weren’t three
men
in our team. One of them was a woman.’

It was the cue for Lucy to make her move. She sidestepped and elbowed Curtis at the same time, a move so fast it was almost blurred.

And it gave Shelley all the time he needed.

He fired once. Curtis grew a third eye in the centre of his forehead and dropped.

Four months later

TREMAIN ESCAPED THE
midday Spanish heat and came inside from the pool area, and the first thing he saw was Claire lying face down on the floor tiles.

She wore her bikini, but she was breathing, and in his final moments Tremain was grateful for the fact that she wasn’t dead; that the revenge wasn’t to be merciless and indiscriminate.

Because what Tremain knew at once was that Shelley had found him.

Sure enough, the next thing he saw was Shelley, sitting on his sofa with a silenced pistol trained on him.

‘Shelley,’ said Tremain, and Shelley shot him in the foot.

He hit the floor hard, and the random thought that he wished he wouldn’t have to die wearing swimming trunks occurred to him.

Shelley stood up and walked over.

‘Hello, Tremain,’ he said.

Tremain stared up at him, his mouth working, no words coming out.

‘You didn’t honestly think I’d let you get away with it, did you?’ asked Shelley. He crouched. ‘I mean, I can accept that the Establishment managed to convince everyone that it was a terrorist attack at the estate; that the world at large believes Kenneth Farmer and Cowie and Kiehl and Curtis and Boyd all died heroes trying to stop it. And I might not even have minded that you and Claire escaped, because after all, there will always be more men like you, whose services are available to the highest bidder; and there will always be more women like Claire, who view other people as playthings for their own pleasure. What I do mind about, however, is my dog.’

He straightened, looking down the barrel of his Glock at Tremain writhing on the blood-soaked tiles.

‘This,’ he said, ‘this is for Frankie.’

On the road they said their goodbyes: Claridge going to his car, Lucy and Shelley going to theirs, all three satisfied that justice had been served.

‘I heard about the City of London vault robbery,’ said Shelley. ‘Was that anything to do with you?’

‘The one in which a safety deposit box belonging to Messrs Curtis and Boyd was stolen?’ smiled Claridge. ‘No, nothing to do with me at all.’

‘So what happens to all that incriminating information?’ asked Lucy, sparkling and beautiful in the hot sun.

‘It stays under lock and key,’ said Claridge.

‘Until such time as it’s needed?’ asked Shelley wryly. ‘Quite some insurance policy you’ve amassed there.’

‘I didn’t ask for it, Shelley,’ said Claridge.

Shelley nodded. Claridge was one of the good guys.

Claridge had asked before they left, ‘What will you do now?’ At the time they’d given him non-committal answers, but now, sitting in the car, Shelley and Lucy considered their options for real.

The plan had been to stage their own deaths. On the other side of a metal barrier was a cliff face, the sea below:
Couple Killed in Death Crash
was the plan. Bodies lost at sea.

But on the other hand, they wanted to live their lives, restart their company, be a normal couple.

They sat for more than two hours talking it over, until at last they reached a decision.

‘Ready?’ he said.

‘Ready,’ she replied.

He threw the car into gear and floored the accelerator.

THE THIEF’S GLOVED
fingers beat against the steering wheel, a rhythm as hectic as the young man’s darting eyes.

‘You’re doing it again,’ the woman beside him accused, rubbing at her face to drive home her irritation.

The thief turned in his seat, his wild eyes quickly shifting to an angry focus.

She wouldn’t meet the stare, he knew. She never did, despite the fact that she was five years his senior, and tried to order him about as if she had the rank and privilege of family.

‘Doing what?’ He smiled, his handsome face made ugly by resentment.

The woman didn’t answer. Instead, she rubbed again at her tired eyes. Her name was Charlotte Taylor, and anticipation had robbed her of any sleep the previous night. Instead she had lain awake, thinking of this day. Thinking of how failure would condemn the man she loved.

Charlotte tried again to hold the gaze of the man beside her, but she couldn’t meet his eyes – she saw the past in them.

And what did he see when he looked at her? That a once pretty girl was now cracked from stress and sorrow? That her shoulders stooped like a woman of sixty, not thirty? Charlotte did not want to feel that scrutiny. That obnoxious charity she had suffered from family and strangers for nine years.

‘It’s OK if you’re scared,’ she baited the thief, knowing that aggression would be one way to distract her from her niggling thoughts.

‘Me? I’m excited,’ the younger man shot back.

And he was.

Today was the day. Today was the day when years of talking, months of planning and weeks of practice would pay off.

Lives were going to change, and it would all start here.