by LJ Ross
The soldier could barely stomach it when the discussion turned to historic references to the Third Reich, nor when John—Ragnar—spoke of adopting the same initiation rites as had been used by Hitler’s Schutzstaffel.
He looked around to see if there was any sign of the police, but he could see little beyond the blanket of cold rain, and the mist which rolled in from the hills and curled its way around the stones.
The proselytising continued, until he heard his name and the group turned as one to look at him.
“We welcome our newest folk brother,” John was saying. “Nobody can know better than him, the indignity of suffering such loss, in the name of those whose faiths and customs are so far beneath our own…”
The soldier felt the old anger rise again, and he welcomed it, rejoicing in the knowledge that he could still feel strongly about the things that were important, and worth saving.
“I was proud to fight for those people,” he said, and his voice rang out clearly across the misty hillside. “I’d do the same again.”
John, who believed himself to be the great Viking King Ragnar’s direct descendant, looked at the soldier and wondered whether it was time to enact the blood rite he’d been hoping to introduce to the group, sometime soon.
Before he could suggest it, he caught sight of dark figures through the gaps in the stones, walking through the mist towards him. Some of them were armed with weapons from the Tactical Firearms Unit at Northumbria CID, and they shouted a warning.
He turned around the circle, looking for somewhere to run, his ‘boar’ cloak flapping around his face, and his followers looked on as their great leader tried to hide behind the stones, desperately seeking a way out rather than dying the noble, Viking Warrior’s death that would ensure his place in the Great Hall of Valhalla.
The only hall he’d be spending any great amount of time in would be the dining hall, at Her Majesty’s Pleasure.
* * *
“I’m told you were the one who made the phone call to CID.”
The soldier looked up to see the blurry face of a young man in his early thirties, holding Naseem gently in his arms. He was seated in the back of one of the squad cars, because none of the arresting officers had believed his story about having been the one to call it in, that morning.
He nodded.
“I’m DC Lowerson, of Northumbria CID,” the man said. “Thank you for making that report—it made all the difference to us.”
Lowerson held up the dog.
“I think this is yours,” he said, and deposited the sleeping animal carefully in the soldier’s arms. “Does he need anything? Do you?”
He shook his head.
“I’ll need you to come along to the station and make a statement, if you don’t mind,” Lowerson said. “We’ll give you a ride.”
The soldier followed him across to an unmarked car parked on the verge across the street.
“They said they were planning to pick up a delivery tonight,” he said, and Lowerson nodded.
“We got it all,” he said. “We had some mics set up by the sides of the stones. Did that bloke really call himself Ragnar?”
The soldier grinned.
“You couldn’t make this stuff up,” Lowerson muttered.
“I’ve remembered something else,” the soldier said, suddenly.
Lowerson’s smile faded at the urgent tone.
“What’s that?”
“They said they didn’t know her name. The one who’d be making the drop. They said her. I don’t know if that helps.”
* * *
Ryan and Phillips had just stepped into the Officers’ Mess, when the call came through.
As Phillips proceeded to go through the usual motions of apologizing for any inconvenience, his voice stalled when Ryan raised a hand and indicated he should hold off.
A moment later, Ryan ended the call, and turned back to face the small assembly.
“Thank you for your patience, which is much appreciated. At this time, I’d like all the female officers to take a step forward, please—”
He broke off, when he noticed one of their number was missing.
“Where’s Sergeant Major Davies?” he asked.
“I think Gwen just popped to the loo,” Corporal Huxley said. “I’m sure she’ll be back in a minute.”
But a minute turned into two, and she did not come back.
Ryan sent a female officer to look for her, who returned in under a minute, slightly out of breath.
“She’s not in the ladies’ room, sir. She’s not in her room, either.”
Ryan looked out of the window facing the central courtyard, and watched as Davies reversed one of the Jeeps out of its parking space and then hit the accelerator with a squeal of tyres.
He turned to the CO and pointed his finger.
“Get onto the security guards at the front! She’s not to exit those gates!”
Robson spoke swiftly into his radio, and received a response.
“They have orders to open fire to immobilise the vehicle,” he said, and Ryan didn’t stop to worry about that, but turned on his heel and flew from the room, with Phillips in tow. He almost barrelled into Major Malloy, who was walking up the steps to join them.
“It’s Davies!” Ryan shouted. “She’s taken a Jeep and she’s going for the front gates, but they’re blocking that route. I need you to make sure the other access roads are barred at every checkpoint!”
Malloy didn’t question it, but flew into action, running across the courtyard to issue orders.
Seconds later, they saw Davies’ Jeep perform another dangerous reversing manoeuvre, before accelerating back down the hill towards the base. Those who had run outside threw themselves back as she drove straight through the courtyard, her face focused only on escape, her eyes wild with panic.
“I don’t understand this,” Huxley said. “Gwen wouldn’t hurt anyone—”
“She’s a bent soldier,” Ryan snapped, as he scanned the area for a suitable vehicle. “Treat her as any other dangerous target.”
Malloy had deployed a number of army personnel in Jeeps to all the major checkpoints around the ranges, and he’d admired her skill and speed in making that happen. But consequently, there were no off-road vehicles left, and he knew that, if Davies found the army access roads closed, she’d be forced to go cross-country, instead.”
“Quad bikes?” he asked, of the officers who had gathered in collective shock by the foot of the stairs.
“Here!” Dalgliesh threw a set of keys to Ryan, which he caught one-handed. “It’s number 8, over there.”
Phillips took a set of keys from Corporal Huxley, and then they were jogging across to a line of heavy-duty quad bikes.
“We’ll try to keep her in sight!” Ryan called back. “Get a detachment to follow us as soon as you can!”
The CO nodded.
“Be careful, son.”
Ryan paused for a brief second, then nodded.
“Thank you, sir.”
CHAPTER 38
For the first time in a long while, Phillips kept pace with his younger friend as they ran full pelt across the tarmacked courtyard towards the quad bikes that were parked in a kind of carport on the far side. Their boots skidded against the wet floor as the storm raged in the darkening skies above, and both men felt a frisson of fear as they mounted the bikes and prepared to drive out into the unknown.
They had phones, night goggles and compasses—as well as maps and radios tucked into the inner pockets of their weatherproof jackets—but before they left, Dalgliesh rushed back out with two service pistols, similar to the ones Ryan and Phillips were familiar with from their specialist firearms training.
“Protect yourselves,” he said. “Gwen will be armed, and she’s one of our best marksmen. Don’t take any risks.”
Neither man relished the prospect of using a weapon, and neither had been called upon to do so before, but out on the moorland it was each man—or woman—for himself.
/>
Both men shoved one in the pocket of their coats.
“Remember to follow the rivers, if you lose your way. She’s already tried and failed to get through the first couple of checkpoints along the western perimeter. We’ve got tactical teams in place all the way along both sides, so there’s nowhere for her to go, except deeper into the ranges.”
Ryan nodded, and then gunned his engine.
“Then that’s where we’ll go. Ready?” he asked of his sergeant.
Phillips nodded.
“I’ll be right behind you.”
They raced out into the storm.
* * *
As they polished off the last of a box of particularly fine Belgian truffles and watched the final scenes of Notting Hall, Samantha turned to Anna and Denise.
“When Ryan and Phillips came along to do that talk for my assembly at school, they made their jobs sound really boring,” she said. “They said it was mostly looking over files, or speaking to witnesses and all that. I thought it would be a bit more exciting.”
MacKenzie thought of all the scrapes she’d managed to get into during her time at Northumbria CID, and pasted a smile on her face.
“It’s mostly about science and forensics, these days. We hardly ever get to go on exciting car chases, or anything like that.”
“That’s a shame,” Samantha said. “Do you think that’s why they’re so late—because they’re looking over statements and stuff?”
“Probably,” Anna said. “Ryan will be bored to tears.”
* * *
Ryan took the small tufted ramp at speed, and felt the quad bike fly through the air, before crashing back down again with a growl of its engine. He was in a half-standing position to afford a better line of sight over the top of the handlebars, relying on his old motorcycle training through the streets of Florence to stay in control.
Phillips followed behind, his body taught and focused, keeping pace with his friend while a large searchlight fixed to the front of Ryan’s quad guided the way. It was exhausting work, not only to keep the vehicles on course but to keep concentrating on the passing landscape as the rain beat down upon their backs and ran into their eyes.
Then, Ryan slowed his quad a fraction and pointed north-west, to where he’d seen a large thermal mass travelling north.
Gwen Davies.
Phillips raised his hand in a ‘thumbs-up’ signal and turned his bike as Ryan did, steering it around the deeper gullies and larger boulders until they were back on open plains again and could ramp up the speed.
* * *
The woman had stopped shivering sometime in the past hour, but now the tremors had started up again. It was probably shock as much as cold, and the warmth that the dead sheep had lent her was starting to wear off.
She’d have to find another one.
She didn’t know herself anymore—this broken person, this sheep-killer. She didn’t recognise the woman she’d been, only a couple of days before, and she didn’t know how she’d ever return.
She only knew how to survive.
The field was full of hefted sheep, their tubby, well-fed bodies ragged with wool she wished she had the strength to rip from them.
She’d found a dip in the land, just wide enough for her to lie in, and had dragged the sheep over to it, tugging its still-warm, woollen body over the top so it became something of a tomb. She hadn’t known if it would work, but she knew she had to try, and had taken the sheep’s skull in her weak, shaking arms and twisted it with a sharp crack.
She would never be the same again, even if she survived.
She would never forget the sound.
* * *
Their quads bumped and skidded over the ground, but they were faster than Davies’ Jeep, which couldn’t swerve to avoid the smaller hazards. Ryan knew they were gaining on her and pressed onward, never taking his eyes from the valley floor, ready to take evasive manoeuvres if need be.
He glanced back at Frank, who signalled onward, and found himself grinning fiercely.
No matter how many bacon stotties that man ate, he would always remember the sight of him flying across the Northumberland National Park on a racing-red quad bike with the storm blowing a gale through his hair. There were few people Ryan could really trust, but Phillips was one of them, and there was nobody he’d rather go into battle with.
The Jeep made a sudden stop up ahead, and Ryan raised a hand to signal caution as he slowed his quad right down to a crawl.
As they drew nearer, they could see the driver’s door was wide open, and the Jeep was empty.
A second later, they heard the whizzing sound of a bullet popping through the air, and the bright spotlight on the front of Ryan’s quad burst into shards of glass, nicking the skin on his hands and removing their main light source.
Ryan rolled off the quad and saw Phillips doing the same, using the side of the vehicle for cover.
“GWEN!” he called out, and his voice echoed around the valley like a yodel. “IT’S OVER, GWEN! PUT YOUR WEAPON DOWN, AND GIVE YOURSELF UP!”
Ryan waited, but there was no response.
He repeated his instruction and, at Phillips ‘OK’ signal, reached for his weapon, cocked it above his head and fired a single warning shot.
CHAPTER 39
Ryan heard nothing after he’d fired the warning shot, so he risked glancing around the side of the quad bike. When he saw nothing, either, he signalled to Phillips that they should proceed with caution.
They emerged from their makeshift cover and found the Jeep empty, with the keys still in the ignition. Ryan leaned inside and turned off the engine, but left the headlines on, while Phillips stayed low and then moved quickly across to join him, where both men flattened themselves against the side, keeping their weapons raised.
“Where’s she gone?” Phillips wondered.
There was a thundering sound of water nearby, louder than the fall of the rain against the valley floor. They followed the sound, wondering if Davies had hoped to cross the river and escape capture on foot. When he’d moved a safe distance from the headlights, Ryan slipped his night goggles back on and used them to scan the area, seeking out any heat sources, but finding none.
When they moved closer to the crashing sound of water hitting rock, they understood why Gwen Davies had been forced to stop her car.
The river had burst its banks and was rising fast, gushing from the hills and down into the valley below.
“There!” Ryan cried, shoving wet hair from his eyes as he pointed towards the flailing figure that was clinging to the edge of the crumbling riverbank.
Regardless of what Sergeant Major Gwen Davies had done, it did not occur to either man not to help her. There would be no honour in that, and there would be no justice for Private Stephenson’s family, either.
Whether they could help her was another matter.
She was clinging to some grassy reeds on an outcrop of land that hadn’t yet broken away, but appeared very precarious. Leaving Phillips for a moment, Ryan sprinted back to the Jeep and opened the boot, searching for a length of rope.
Once he found it, he hurried back and started to knot one end around his waist.
“No, lad! It’s too dangerous for you to go in!”
Ryan was no fool, but he was accustomed to taking calculated risks. His eyes scanned the rapids with calculated precision, and he pointed to what he judged to be the safest point.
“You stand on firm ground on this side,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the rushing water. “Take the other end. I’ll lean over and see if I can reach her, then we’ll both pull her in.”
Phillips nodded, and they set off to where Davies clung to the grassy edge, trying to heave her body to the side and away from the main thrust of the water. Feeling his way through the darkness, Ryan lowered himself onto his belly and shuffled as far out as he dared, feeling the water splash into his face again and again.
He held out a hand to Davies, once he was sure Phillips had
a solid foothold.
“TAKE MY HAND!” he shouted.
But still, she clung to the reeds, apparently unable to move, or in some kind of shock.
Ryan tried again, edging a little further out, so more than half of his body was resting on the precarious piece of earth that the river had not yet taken.
Davies looked up at him, and he saw terror writ large on her face.
There would be time enough for recriminations later, but he held out his hand again.
This time, she took it.
* * *
He heard shots being fired on the south side of the river and stopped dead, crouching low in case anyone should see. It had taken longer than expected to return to the pele tower, but it was almost in sight now. He had a good idea of her location, so he would take the van to shave off some time on the way back out.
However, he hadn’t counted on another live-fire exercise.
There had been no mention of any army training exercises on the website listing, but he was certain he heard shots being fired.
It was a challenge, but it would make the hunt all the more interesting.
* * *
From her woollen cocoon, the woman heard the faint sound of a gunshot, and her whole body froze while she played dead—as dead as the sheep.
Had he come for her, again?
He hadn’t fired a warning shot the last time; he preferred not to waste his bullets and took shots that were meant to hit their mark.
A pity for him that he missed.
Her body was a solid wall of pain; every part of her was in agony, but she realised that was a good thing, because her body had thawed sufficiently to be able to feel again.
She heard a second shot, and a thought occurred to her.
Perhaps it wasn’t him, at all.
She’d become so accustomed to the pain of rigidity inside her makeshift coffin, the woman had begun to contemplate letting herself die, there beneath the weight of the wool. At first, she’d planned to use it for warmth, and for camouflage, if he was to come looking for her again. Then, she’d wondered how she would ever make it across the plains with an injured leg, except with extreme difficulty. She had no way of knowing where she was, or where she was going, so she’d probably die there, no matter which way she turned.