Hunted: BookShots (2 page)

From behind came the crash of gunfire. Overhead the sound of the drones intensified. They’d spotted him now. The time for stealth was over. He just had to hope he’d given them enough to think about in the meantime, and that the two casualties would slow them down.

Teeth bared, hatred in his bones, he kept running. The trees were thinning. Ahead of him was a peat-covered slope and he hit it fast. Scrambling to the top, he was painfully aware that he’d made himself a visible target, but he was close now. Close to the perimeter.

‘If you reach the road you win. The money’s yours.’

‘No matter who I have to kill along the way?’

‘Our players expect danger, Mr Cook. What is the roulette wheel without the risk of losing?’

He’d believed them and, fuck it, why not?

And there it was – the road. It bisected a further stretch of woodland, but this was definitely it. An observation drone buzzed a few feet above him. To his left he heard the sound of approaching engines and saw a Land Rover Defender leaning into the bend, approaching fast. Two men in the front.

They didn’t look like they were about to celebrate his victory. He tensed. At his rear the noise of the approaching hunting party was getting louder.

The Defender roared up to his position, passenger door flapping as it drew to a halt. A security guy wielding the same Heckler & Koch assault rifle carried by Alan stepped out and took up position behind the door.

‘Where’s my money?’ called Cookie, with a glance back down into the basin of the wood. He could see the blurry outlines of players and their security among the trees, the crackle of comms. ‘You said if I reached the road I win,’ he pressed.

Ignoring him, the passenger had braced his rifle on the sill of his window and was speaking into a walkie-talkie, saying something Cookie couldn’t hear. Receiving orders.

‘Come on, you bastards. I reached the fucking road, now where’s my money?’

The passenger had finished on the walkie-talkie, and Cookie had been shot at enough times to know the signs of it happening again. There was no prize money. No winning. No survival. There were just hunters and prey. Just an old fool and a man about to gun him down.

The passenger squeezed off bullets that zinged over Cookie’s head as he tucked in and let himself roll back to the bottom of the slope.

I can do this
, he thought. He’d fought in Afghanistan. He’d fought with the best, against the best. He could go up against a bunch of rich geriatric thrill-seekers and come out on top – security or no security.
Yes
. He was going to get out of this and then he was going to make the fuckers pay.

He could do it. Who dares wins.

Then a bullet ripped the top of Cookie’s head off – a bullet fired from a TrackingPoint precision-guided bolt-action rifle.

‘Oh, good shot, Mr Miyake,’ said the players as they emerged from the undergrowth in order to survey the kill.

They were already looking forward to the post-hunt meal.

IT WAS DARK
and Shelley was ground down after fruitless hours in various London shitholes, when trouble leaned on the bar.

It was the last place he’d intended to visit that day: the Two Dogs on Exmouth Market, a pub that was always open and always gloomy inside, forbidding to all but the early morning traders, afternoon postal workers from nearby Mount Pleasant and gangs of rail-link labourers who descended at night-time.

Shelley had cast an eye across the gathered throng with a sinking heart, sensing he’d get no joy from this lot. Most were already half in the bag. They were likely to give him the runaround, just for the hell of it.

So, a wasted day. The only thing to say for it was that Lucy would be proud. They’d both known there was a danger he’d simply dig in at the first pub he visited, emerging a day later with a hangover and a bad case of drinker’s guilt. But no. All temptation and even the odd invitation had been resisted. He’d done the rounds as sober as a judge. A man on a mission.

Word of which had evidently got round, if the guy leaning on the bar was anything to go by.

‘You’re looking for somebody, I hear?’ he said now, with a voice like a cement mixer.

Shelley stared into rheumy, drink-sodden eyes and knew a shakedown when he saw one. After all, with his black woollen overcoat and baker-boy cap tilted rakishly, he knew he stood out. That was the plan. But the same presence that made him a serious customer also made him a target for shakedowns and, from the looks of things, matey-boy here had in mind something more ambitious than a drink in return for yet more useless information. There was the knife he was wearing, for one thing.

‘Yeah, I’m looking for someone,’ smiled Shelley.

‘Your brother, is it?’ rasped the drunk. He wore an Adidas tracksuit top zipped to the neck. He had an air of menace that was as distinctive and recognisable to Shelley as the smell of shit.

‘No, he’s not my brother. A friend.’

Best friend
, he thought.
Always got your back.

‘Brothers in arms, though, isn’t it? You were in the forces together – you and this mate you’re looking for.’

That was interesting. The guy was unfazed by Shelley’s background. Which meant either he was very stupid or he had backup somewhere.

Shelley leaned towards him. ‘You’re right, mate. Yeah, we served in the SAS together. Cookie and I were part of a covert three-man team operating in Afghanistan. We carried out assassinations, broke up kidnapping attempts, interrogated suspects. All three of us in the team were highly trained in surveillance, counter-intelligence, situational awareness and marksmanship. Each of us
was expert in unarmed combat – a combination of Filipino Kali, Krav Maga and Jeet Kune Do, with a bit of street-fighting thrown in for good measure, just because we liked it that way. We were anti-fragile. You know what that means? It means the worse shit gets, the more efficient you are.

‘See, that knife you’re carrying in the waistband of your jeans, Cookie would take a pre-emptive approach to it. And knowing him as I do, which is very well indeed, he’d use one of those pint glasses as a field-expedient weapon. He’d glass you, take the knife and you’d be picking bits of pint pot out of your throat while he was taking the piss out of you, for not keeping your blade sharp enough.

‘Thing is, Cookie was always a touch more reckless than me. Hit them first, hit them hard and make sure they know they’d been hit, that was his motto. Me, I’m a bit more “by the book”. I’d wait for you to draw the knife before I took it off you, and I’d break your arm doing it,
then
I’d take the piss out of you for not keeping it sharp enough.

‘And so, knowing all that. Knowing now what you’re dealing with here, how about you tell me any information you have? If it’s useful, I can assure you I’ll be grateful. Otherwise, you better take your knife and make yourself scarce before I get the wrong idea and decide to do things the Cookie way.’

The drunk affected a hurt look. ‘Well, if you’re going to be like that, you can shove it where the sun don’t shine,’ he spat, then pushed himself off the bar and out of Shelley’s orbit.

Shelley sighed and turned his attention to the barman, producing the same snapshot of Cookie that he’d shown at least a dozen
barmen that day. The guy barely gave it a look, before shrugging and moving away.

That shrug, it must be in the manual
, thought Shelley. His eyes went to the mirror behind the bar and he watched the drunk skulk out of the door, thinking that he hadn’t seen the last of that one.

He was right about that.

HIS PHONE CHIRRUPED
as he stepped out into the cold of Exmouth Market.

‘Yeah?’

‘Is that Captain David Shelley?’

‘Been a while since anyone called me that.’

‘It’s been a while since you left the SAS.’

‘Three years.’

‘It was two years ago that you left the SAS, actually. Two years three months and change, if we’re being precise.’ The guy had a neutral voice, difficult to place. That would be deliberate. Shelley had wondered if his MoD request for the present whereabouts of Cookie (response: no fixed abode) might have triggered a flag at Whitehall. Maybe this was the flag waving.

‘Well, you’ve got my attention. What do you want to know?’

‘I hear you’re looking for Major Paul Cook, your old commanding officer.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Who I am can wait. You’re going to have to bear with me on that. In the meantime, I have something I must tell you.’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Cookie’s dead?’ He’d been half expecting it, of course, but even so. Something inside him bunched up. He felt the kind of guilt and shame that might be banished by a drink, but he fought those conflicting emotions: the urge to drink, the grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ said the caller.

‘How? How did he die?’

‘That’s something we need to discuss. Are you by any chance within striking distance of the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital?’

‘I can be.’

‘Can you go there now?’

‘I can.’

‘Good. I’ll make contact outside. Oh, Mr Shelley? I need to know how long you’ll be – as accurately as possible, please.’

Shelley’s gaze went to where the skeletal structures of market stalls disrupted the dark of Exmouth Market. Practised eyes sought out hiding places and, sure enough, his Two Dogs trouble lurked in the shadows further along.

‘Make it an hour,’ he said.

‘Very well. I’ll see you then.’

Shelley ended the call, then strolled in the direction of Yardley Street until the guy from the pub appeared from the doorway of Greggs. Shelley stopped. Hands in his coat pockets, he gripped his phone.

‘I thought we’d reached an understanding,’ he called. ‘You leave me be, I don’t break any of your bones. Seemed fairly straightforward to me.’

Moonlight skittered along the blade of the knife. ‘You like talking down to me, don’t you?’ said the guy. ‘You think I’m stupid.’

‘No, mate, I think you’re desperate, and there’s a difference. Look, final offer. Put the knife away and we’ll say no more. I’ll even spot you a drink. Maybe even one for your two friends behind me.’

The guy’s eyes widened. With the element of surprise lost, he seemed to consider, wondering if a drink wasn’t such a bad return on the encounter. But his friends behind thought differently. They hadn’t met Shelley. Hadn’t experienced at first hand the aura of danger. And they made their move.

Shelley kept himself in shape, but there were certain habits he’d let slip since leaving the SAS. He no longer performed knuckle push-ups or punched bags of rice to keep his fists hard, so rather than risk his hand, he used the edge of his phone to break the first guy’s nose.

The effect was instant: overwhelming pain, confusion and blindness, his attacker neutralised at once. Shelley finished it. He grabbed a fistful of the guy’s hair, drove an elbow into his temple, then dragged the limp body across himself to block the second assailant. This one had a knife, but Shelley jabbed into the guy’s septum with the flat of his right hand. A little harder and he could have killed him. As it was, he simply put him down, and then reached to scoop up the knife.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ he called after the guy from the pub, who had turned and shown a clean pair of heels, ‘you lot can’t sharpen knives for shit.’

‘CAPTAIN SHELLEY.’ THE
man who stood beside a low wall outside the hospital wore a woollen coat and black jeans similar to Shelley’s, almost as though he were deliberately mirroring him. ‘My name is Claridge,’ he said, and held out his hand to shake.

Shelley’s eyes ran down the line of his coat, but he guessed if the guy was carrying a weapon, it would be better hidden than that. ‘You’re MoD, are you?’

‘No, MI5. Now, if you’d like to follow me inside, and follow my line exactly, please.’

‘It’s like that, is it? We want to keep our TV appearances to a minimum.’

Claridge nodded. He was about the same age as Shelley, both of them knocking on forty, but he was as neat and nondescript as his voice. ‘I’ve already been inside and paved the way, so to speak. We need to make the best use of our time, so any more talking we’ll do in the mortuary.’

They stepped inside the hospital, Shelley tracing Claridge’s steps. As they descended to the mortuary he felt the old tickle of anticipation, then remembered why they were here: because
Cookie was dead; because
I’ve always got your back
was suddenly an empty promise.

The mortuary attendant slept at his desk, and the department was otherwise empty. Claridge tutted as they passed, raising a wry eyebrow. ‘Fast asleep. And with all that coffee, too.’

‘How long will he be out?’

‘Half an hour. It’s all we’ll need.’

They passed through more double doors and into a room that was markedly colder. Claridge approached a bank of metal drawers, reaching for the one marked ‘Cook, P.’

‘The body was discovered behind bins in an alley at the back of Tottenham Court Road. A quantity of cocaine was found in his jacket pocket. The official line of enquiry is that your friend was involved in a drug deal that went wrong.

Cookie hated drugs
, thought Shelley.
As far as he was concerned, they were the devil’s business
. But of course a lot could change.

‘Perhaps you’d like to suspend judgement until you see the body.’ Claridge hesitated, his hand on the drawer. ‘I must warn you, it’s not pretty.’

‘He was never what you’d call an oil painting.’

‘I’m afraid he looks a lot worse now.’ Out came the drawer and right away Shelley noticed the unusual contours of the sheet covering the head. He nodded to Claridge, who drew the sheet down to the neck.

Shelley clenched his jaw. It was Cookie, but only just – Cookie, but missing most of his skull, the brain-pan like a jagged rocky outcrop, the cavity empty where what was left of the brain had been removed.

‘The autopsy’s been carried out?’ he asked.

‘I have a copy for you here.’ From his coat, Claridge produced a brown Manila folder that he passed to Shelley.