The Hunt (16 page)

‘You got the same tattoo?’

‘Sure. Same place.’ Rose touched her inner thigh. She didn’t think about it too often, and when she did she felt only a blankness. It had been necessary, that was all.

‘So what did he tell you?’

‘Only her home address, where he’d been summoned to do the tattoo.’

Holt caught his breath. Rose smiled. It was rare to garner such a reaction from him.

‘And?’ he asked.

‘I used it well. I kept my distance, but over the next few weeks I’d managed to intercept some of her mail, bug her phone line, hack into her broadband. I was as quiet as I could be. Any sign that someone else was riding her broadband, any hint that her mail had been opened and resealed, and that would have been it. The temptation to kill her was huge. But I was getting a good deal of intel, and as each new element fell into place, a bigger picture was building. And it was terrifying. It was
…
’ Rose shook her head, wiping a bead of sweat from her temple. Street noises from outside seemed so distant, as if they came from another world. Her world was here, in this room, in her mind, balancing across the phone line to wherever Holt now was. A dark world of people who didn’t exist, and whose reason for living was to provide kill sport for others.

‘There are plenty of people who know how to live like that,’ Holt said, and she knew he meant himself. For a moment she didn’t want to shoot him down; he’d done too much for her, given more of himself than perhaps he’d intended. But even Holt didn’t compare.

‘No, Holt,’ she said. ‘It’s more than that. It’s like they were never born. I have a few names that probably aren’t theirs. I have some grainy images, blown up from pictures taken from a distance. But apart from that, these people might as well not exist. They’ve got no past. Their present is nebulous. They move and interact without being seen, communicate through the white noise of a billion voices. They’re less than ghosts. Barely rumours. First thing I’ll do when I kill one is check them for a navel.’

Holt remained silent for a while. She could hear him breathing, thinking. She’d often tried to imagine what it was like inside his head, but even with every dark thing she saw in her future, she didn’t think she’d ever get close.

‘I’m sure they can bleed,’ he said.

‘I’m going to find out.’ She didn’t want to ask. Had no way of pleading with him, not after everything he’d already done for her. But truth was, she was
scared
. They could make themselves disappear, and so they could do that to anyone else. She wasn’t afraid of dying; she was already dead inside, the resurrected corpse of the rounded human being she’d once been. What inspired terror in her was the thought of never avenging her family.

The Trail had to pay, and for that she needed—

‘I can’t help you,’ Holt said.

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Same thing.’

‘But why?’ She tried to keep the whine from her voice, wasn’t sure she’d succeeded.

‘I have my reasons. And believe me when I say, you need to do it on your own. This is your time, Rose.’ He hung up.

‘Holt!’ She tried to call him back. His number didn’t register, and she spent twenty long minutes contacting the local phone service provider. She was disconnected three times and passed along to another person, and in the end she was given her own number as the source of the call.

Rose threw the phone across the room, pleased when it smashed. She hoped he was trying to call her back, feeling sorry, and getting desperate and frantic when he couldn’t actually reach her.

But she knew that wasn’t the case. Wherever he was now, Holt was sitting back with his feet up, drinking water, and probably not even thinking about her at all. To move, exist, and survive beneath the grid, there could be no ties.

She was on her own, and she had some killing to do.

In pain, confused and excited, Rose had to prioritise, without emotion and with the killing of as many Trail as possible as her one and only aim.

She could hide close to the helicopter and open up on them as they approached. She might get one, maybe even two, before she was killed. Or she could flee, take time to fix her wound, pursue Chris and those hunting him, and draw the three Trail men after her.

Surviving this had never been her priority. But now that she was on the ground, and she accepted that some of the Trail would go on living if she died in these mountains, surviving suddenly seemed more attractive. Her present was a place of pain and killing, but the future was once again a landscape she wished to explore.

So for a while, she ran.

‘Got veins,’ she said as she started cutting away the sleeve of her jacket. It’s what Adam had used to say if he cut himself gardening, or washing up, or clumsily trying to do some household DIY. He didn’t like wasting time doing stuff he didn’t enjoy, always said he’d rather spend time with his family than painting a wall, putting up a shelf, digging a flower bed. And sometimes Rose used to think that his injuries were self-inflicted. But his dislike of blood had been real, and she’d come to accept that her husband was simply clumsy.

Got veins
, he’d say, holding up a red-dripping hand for her to look at, turning away because he didn’t want to see. Once, when he’d come off his bike, he’d walked two miles home and let her peel the torn Lycra from his leg instead of checking it out himself. That had been a trip to the hospital and eight butterfly stitches, and he’d still not once looked. Not until it was all covered up.

She saw him with his throat slashed open.

‘Got veins,’ she whispered again. She peeled the cut portion of sleeve down past her elbow and pulled the remaining sleeve up onto her shoulder, revealing the wound. It was worse than she’d expected. She knew that bullet wounds were almost never neat – hundreds of rounds fired into pigs’ carcasses with Holt had shown her that. This one had entered just beneath her elbow, torn diagonally across her tricep, and exited beneath her armpit. An exit wound was good news. There was no telling whether any material from her jacket had been pulled into the wounds by the bullet, but she had to assume it had been. Even though the bullet had passed through, the risk of infection was large, especially considering the angled depth of the wound.

Dizziness threatened. Rose looked away, bit her lip.
It’s not me
, she thought.
It’s someone else, not my arm, not my blood leaking away
. She had to be objective and dispassionate about this if she was to fix it and move on.

She looked again. The fleshy underside of her arm was swollen and full, and already turning a dark purple. Blood was pooling in there, forcing up against the skin. At least the swelling was closing the entry hole. She couldn’t see the exit hole, but feeling with her left hand, her fingertips brushed against the tear in her skin.

She leaned forward, head between her knees, trying not to tip sideways even though she was sitting down. She was groaning without realising, so she bit her lip again. Tasted blood.
Got big, big veins, Adam
.

She had to clean and bind the wound. A hefty dose of painkillers should see her through the rest of the day and night, and she suspected all this would be over by then. After that she could retreat to a doctor she knew, pay him the last of her money and get him to sort her out. Or more likely, there’d be other, more fatal wounds to add to this one.

‘Come on, Rose,’ she whispered. ‘Kick up the arse. No time to fuck around. Do it and move on.’

Come on, Rose
, Adam said, agreeing.

Sitting up straight, she looked around to make sure no one was stalking towards her. A cooling breeze lifted her hair. She was maybe a mile across the slopes from the helicopter. Once the Trail men reached the aircraft they’d be there for a while, assessing the damage, trying to see what they could fix and decide what the next course of action would be. Following and killing her, she knew. But she had a good head start, and they couldn’t know for sure which way she’d come.

It would be dark soon. They’d likely have night vision tech, GPS devices, other stuff. Darkness would be their friend and her enemy.

She set to work on her wound. The first aid kit from the helicopter contained two packs of saline. She ripped one open with her teeth, lifted her arm and squeezed the sachet into the entrance wound. As the salt-water sluiced through the hole in her arm she couldn’t help crying out, burying her face against her left shoulder to try to drown out the sound. But she remained conscious. It wasn’t the most effective way of cleaning the injury, but it was the best she could do right then. She considered using the second sachet but decided to retain it for later.

Antiseptic sprays were next, aimed into entrance and exit wounds as best she could. Her damaged arm was shaking now as she held it up, strained and torn muscles quivering, and each movement drove the agony deeper.

She needed stitches. There was a needle and thread in the first aid kit, packed and sterile, but she wasn’t sure she could do it. The entry wound would be easy enough to reach, but the exit was beneath her arm, out of sight even if she could twist her arm around without passing out from the pain. Stitching only one rip was pointless. Instead, she shook a small pack of clotting powder and, without giving herself a chance to think about it too much, scattered some of it directly into the bullet wound.

She pressed hard on the hole. Surroundings receded. Pain ruled. Her arm and shoulder were the centre of her world, the throbbing sun of pain around which she orbited. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when she was able she twisted around and poured a good amount of powder into the exit wound.

More agony. She leaned back and lay on the ground, looking up into the dark blue sky at the clouds that drifted there, uncaring of the drama down below. The world went on. That was something she’d found difficult to accept after her family were slaughtered – that even people she’d once been close to still woke in the morning, had breakfast, went to work, watched TV, argued, loved, ate, pissed, slept. Some people still cared, but the deaths of her family really had affected no one more deeply than her. And she’d had no chance to share the grief, having to hide away to avoid repercussions, from the law or the Trail. The idea that her friends, parents, and Adam’s siblings would now think of her as a killer had struck a coldness in her heart that never went away.

The isolation had pushed her away from the world, accelerating her withdrawal into a place darker and deeper than anyone knew. She’d lived there alone; her own new world, drenched in cheap alcohol fumes and awash with nightmares.

‘Now you can watch,’ she whispered to the sky. The clouds, the air, the hillsides and lakes could see what she was doing and bear witness to her revenge. Blood was spilled in the mountains. She was creating a fresh new world for herself.

You’re strong, bunny
, Adam said.
Come on. Since when did a gunshot kill anyone?

She gasped a strained laugh. Hearing his voice, imagining his dark humour, suddenly brought him so close that she could almost smell his breath.

‘Hurts,’ she whispered. She sat up and went about binding the wound. It was still bleeding, but the clotting powder was slowly doing its work and would hopefully prevent any more drastic blood loss. She wrapped the bandages tight, pinned them closed. After swallowing several painkillers – enough to hopefully calm the white-hot flames, not too much to dull her senses – she stood and kicked around the mess at her feet. She wanted them to find the discarded packets and know the way she’d come. She wanted them to follow.

She pulled out the satphone she’d taken from the dead helicopter pilot. The screen was dark, but one press of the central button and it illuminated again. It displayed a full-terrain image of the surrounding area, and at the top left corner throbbed a gentle blue glow. Rose frowned, looked closer, turned the phone so that the map display also shifted. She nodded. Of course. They wouldn’t trust the outcome of a hunt like this to overweight desk jockeys.

Made things a lot easier for her.

She checked the rifle. Only four rounds. She had two magazines for her pistol. She should have searched for more ammunition at the helicopter, but what she had would suffice. Shouldering the rifle, pocketing the handgun, she set off again across the mountain.

Chris frequently enjoyed running at night, either through their local woods, along the canal towpath, or in hills if he felt more daring. He loved it. During the winter months it meant he could fit his training in at convenient times that did not impact his family too much, but there was something more fundamental. It felt wild, dangerous, and tapped into his primal urge to run.

He always used a head torch, its powerful beam stretching far enough ahead to pick out terrain. A second torch attached to his belt cast a complementing beam, meaning that shadows gave texture to the landscape and showed him potential trip hazards. Beyond the light, the darkness was deeper. He only went to places he knew well, so that he didn’t have the added complication of navigating as well as running. He liked the sense of isolation it gave him, the only sounds his heavy breathing and smooth footfalls. He enjoyed the feeling of speed as the illuminated ground passed by beneath him. He loved it when eyes were reflected back at him from fields, hedgerows and woodlands – cattle, cats, foxes, badgers, and other creatures that quickly vanished. There was nothing quite like running at night.

Now, he hated it. He was cold and miserable, tired and afraid. Dusk had not quite fallen, but the heavy mist cut out much of the remaining light. He had a head torch that he didn’t dare use – they would see it from a distance and home in, rifles at the ready, imminent death nestled in dark barrels. He moved continuously uphill, afraid that if he attempted to move along the mountainside he would stumble over one of those sheer cliffs.

Chris was starting to regret his decision to head up into the mists.

And at the back of his mind lay the fear of what would happen if he lost the hunters, and the Trail—

The phone in his pocket buzzed. For a second he panicked, slipping on wet rocks and going down hard. He’d assumed it was dead, waterlogged, the screen blank. He’d planned to wait until later, see if he could dry it out in any way. It seemed luck might have smiled. He looked around but saw no movement, then plucked the phone from his pocket and pressed the green button, saying nothing.

‘They know where you are,’ Rose said. ‘They have a tracking chip on you somewhere, and the hunters will have GPS-equipped satphones.’

‘What? Where is it?’ Chris asked.

‘Don’t know, and it doesn’t matter.’

Chris felt around his body, shoes, pockets, trying to think where the Trail might have planted something like that, when they’d have had the chance, how it displayed a level of planning and preparation he had not considered until now, and how they must have hidden it to ensure—

Rose had given him the rucksack.

‘You?’ he asked.

‘Huh? No, of course not me! But don’t worry where it is. This is good, don’t you see? You don’t have to worry about staying ahead to keep alive, yet not far enough ahead that they lose you. They
can’t
lose you. So surge ahead and get some rest. It’ll lure them on, and the faster things go, the less out of control everything is.’

‘And that’s good?’

‘For me, yes,’ Rose said.

‘What about for me?’ Chris asked. ‘What about for my family?’ But she had already rung off.

He almost threw the phone into the darkness. He’d make himself alone, do his own thing, but if what she said was true, he could
never
be alone. They knew where he was, and even now those bastards might be huddled around a phone or a GPS unit, trying to work out which way they had to go to follow his signal.

They might even be close.

‘Bitch!’ Chris hissed. She must have known about this before but kept it from him. Maybe she even knew where the tracking chip was. He could take time to look for it, pick through the weatherproof jacket’s seams and the rucksack’s many pockets and stitching, even though Rose denied she had placed it.

But maybe it was better if he left it undisturbed. If the hunters could track him then so could the Trail, and if they realised that he’d found and discarded the chip, that might encourage them to end the hunt.

Chris almost lost whatever fragile control he possessed. Unfairness weighed down, exhaustion pressed in, and it would have been easy to find a rock to lie behind while exposure came to claim him. He’d often wondered what it would be like to die in the hills from the cold, and had read extensively about mountain expeditions that resulted in such tragedies. Everest was littered with bodies, and he’d had dreams about being one of them, a human statue sitting forever in the icy wilderness.

But he could not do that. His mantra was to
never
give in, and that outlook had got him through many tough moments in casual runs and races. During his toughest races he’d had to talk himself through dark patches. ‘Never, ever, ever give up,’ he’d said, again and again. There was always an easier time beyond those dark moments.

And the same would happen now. He would find an easier time. Escape these bastards, rescue his family, return to a normal life.

He cast aside the doubts and the whispering voice trying to suggest that there could
never
be normal again. It was his voice, but it spoke from years ago, before he’d pushed himself hard to find what he was capable of, both mentally and physically. He’d finished his first extreme Ironman race in a little over fourteen hours, just two years after losing forty pounds and running his first 5k race.
Anything is possible
was the Ironman slogan, and Chris believed that.

He had to hold on to that now.

He stood and started forward again, up into the mountains, away from the cliffs, deeper into the mists and the falling darkness. Movement would see away some of the cold that threatened to set his muscles shivering uncontrollably. He ate another energy gel and drank the last of his water, knowing he’d be able to lick moisture from rocks. There would be streams, too.

Even if the hunters did have night vision equipment, he was willing to bet that they’d be verging on exhaustion by now, and uncertain about moving by night. Chris paused and made a decision. Like a prehistoric man, the thought of light and warmth comforted him. At least he could give himself one out of two.

Head torch fixed and shining ahead of him, he broke from a walk into a steady, cautious run. His spirits were lifted.

An hour later, when true darkness had fallen and a strong breeze blew across the mountain’s plateau summit, he saw the cabin.

It was a small stone hut with no windows and a rusted metal door. There were a few of these scattered throughout Snowdonia and the ranges stretching into mid-Wales, refuges for tired climbers or walkers that were sometimes stocked with tinned food and bottled water. It was expected that they’d be left as they were found, and that any mess was cleared out. Using them was a matter of trust.

Chris watched for a few minutes. As time ticked by and the wind grew more powerful, the horizontal rain cut into him like spears of ice, and the cold worked its way deep into his bones, the thought of the respite he’d find inside finally made him move.

He’d seen no signs of light or occupation. There was no way the hunters could have come this far ahead of him. In fact, he believed that they’d more likely be miles behind now, working through the unfamiliar landscape and probably, hopefully, hurting. He was hurting too, but it was a familiar pain. Lactic acid, cold, hunger, he’d experienced them all before, but worse. The animal, primeval part of him relished the discomfort, but it was time to give himself a rest.

He paused outside the hut for a moment, ear pressed to the cold metal door. There were no sounds from inside. He grabbed the rough handle and leaned on it, pushing the door open when the latch disengaged. It scraped over the stony ground, and he opened it just enough to squeeze through.

He slipped the rucksack from his shoulders, and as he was leaning back against the door to close it, he heard movement.

His thoughts raced.
Of course, stupid of me, idiot, the Trail will be up here to monitor the hunt, even though Rose changed the location they’ll have quickly moved and planned ahead, and now I’ve walked right into them and they’ll break my leg or hobble me to make it easier for
—

As a small light appeared close to the floor, Chris flung his rucksack at it. He grabbed the handle behind him and pulled, but the door was stuck.

A shadow rose across the small hut, the weak light sending it dancing against the damp stone wall.

‘Hey,’ a voice said, and Chris shouted.

‘Get the fuck away from me! I’ll stab you, I have a knife, get
back
!’

The shadow seemed to flicker as it flinched away, then the light low down against the wall rose as another shadow stood.

‘Take it easy, buddy,’ an American voice said. ‘No problem here, chill, we’re just resting up for a bit.’

The door still would not open. Chris pressed back against it, not knowing what to do next. His knife was in the rucksack that he’d thrown at the standing man, and now he had little else on him that he could fight with. Only his fists and feet, and if they were Trail, they’d know how to fight.

‘You look cold,’ the first man said. He switched on a more powerful torch, aiming it at the ground so that it didn’t blind any of them. ‘Wet. Exhausted. We’re not here to hurt you, we’re just taking a break while the storm plays out. We can make you some sweet tea, if you like?’

‘Sweet tea,’ Chris said, and nothing had ever sounded so good. ‘You got food?’

‘Sure,’ the American said. He sounded strange, uncertain. ‘You, er
…
up here on your own?’

‘Yeah,’ Chris said. ‘Mountain runner.’

‘I’m Wes,’ the American said. ‘This is my brother-in-law, Scott.’

‘Chris,’ Chris said.
Can I trust them? Can I really?
They looked like experienced, well-equipped walkers, with all the right gear and the rugged, weather-worn faces of people used to being exposed to the elements. Could the Trail really have brought all this gear together on such short notice? He doubted it. He
needed
to doubt it, because he wanted nothing more than an hour’s rest, some hot sweet tea, and food.

‘Forgive me for saying,’ Scott said, ‘but you don’t look equipped for a mountain run in these conditions.’

‘No,’ Chris said. He relaxed slightly and moved away from the cold metal door. He was shivering. ‘I planned to be down by now, took longer than I thought. Dropped my fleece and the wind took it. Mobile doesn’t work.’ All lies, but he had to cover himself.

‘Well, I’ve got reception on mine. You can use it to contact someone, if you like,’ Wes said. ‘Here. Do what you need while we make a brew.’ It was strange hearing the American use a term like ‘make a brew’, and Chris couldn’t help smiling. The men returned his smile, and when he saw the concerned, slightly troubled glance they shared, it cemented it in his mind. They weren’t Trail. They were just ordinary guys on a mountain hike, and he’d been lucky to find them.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking the phone Wes held out. ‘And
…
I’m sorry about that. I was having a rough time out there. Found the hut, thought it’d be empty. And when I saw you guys it shocked me. Sorry. Really.’

‘No worries,’ Scott said. ‘Take it easy.’ But he and Wes sat close together at the other end of the hut as they set up their Primus stove, and Chris couldn’t really blame them.

He scrolled the phone’s menu and accessed the internet. Even as he waited for the BBC News page to load he was doubting everything that had happened.
It’s all a bad dream, none of this is real, nothing like this can actually be happening to me because
—

He stared at a picture of himself. It threw him for a while, because usually he saw this picture on the wall in his hallway. He was standing beside Terri on a beach holiday they’d taken in Turkey the year before, smiling broadly, and he could remember that day with a clarity that sometimes startled him. Swimming, a pizza in the poolside restaurant, drinks in the evening. It had been one of those Good Days that always seem to stick in the memory, even though as they’re happening there is sometimes little to set them apart.

They’d blocked Terri from view, and now his smiling face stared from beneath a headline that read ‘Man on Run From Murder House’. Chris glanced up at the two men sharing the hut with him. Scott was lighting the stove, Wes was filling a small saucepan with water, neither of them paying him much attention.

He scanned the news report.
At least three dead … police have identified no motive … suspect that he is holding his wife and two children captive … ‘such a quiet, nice man, you wouldn’t expect …’

Was that Jean? They’d gone to his elderly neighbour, who gave his kids chocolate over the garden fence and always gave Chris a bottle of wine when he cut her lawns for her, and now she thought he was a mass-murderer?

… armed and extremely dangerous … members of public warned against approaching …

‘Jesus Christ,’ Chris whispered, and Wes looked up from the kettle.

‘You okay?’

Chris nodded, scanning the American’s face for any signs of recognition. If they’d known his face, surely they would have given some sort of sign by now? Tried to run, or attack him?

‘You contact anyone?’ Wes asked.

‘Yeah. Sent my wife an email.’ He thought for a moment. ‘You got GPS tracking in here?’

‘Look in “maps”.’

Chris quickly shut down the BBC News page and scrolled the browser menu until he could delete the search history. Then he accessed the ‘maps’ app and waited while the phone placed itself. He took the map from his rucksack – tattered, soaked, but still readable – and when the phone pinned his location, he placed it on the map.

Now he knew where he was. He saw the lake he’d swum across, and figured out which mountain he was currently almost sitting on top of. It didn’t help him that much – south had been his aim, and still was. But the information might be useful in the future.

As of now, he was the main news headline. He’d be on TV too, that image of him from one of his happiest family times now slurred, tainted with blood. Family and friends would believe him to be a murderer. Terri’s parents, his brother and sister, their friends in Cardiff and beyond, all of them. Whatever spin the Trail had put on the story – whatever they’d told Angie and Nick, and his friend Jake – he had no way to back out of it now. To clear his name he’d have to evade them and rescue his family.