Hurley was on his feet. I threw the useless pistol at his face. He ducked to his left. I knew he would, was counting on it as I was already swinging my right leg up. The top of my foot connected with the side of his head as he ducked. He spun backwards, hands up, but I’d acted instinctively, forgetting my injured feet were bare. Jolts of electricity shot up my leg, I dropped my foot to the floor, limping back. We faced each other across the room, snarling tiger and hunter, each looking for an opportunity. When it came there would be no trading of blows, no noble combat; real fights are won in seconds. Hurley was bigger than me, stronger, fresher, and carrying fewer injuries; this was not an even matching. I glanced at his gun lying in a puddle of Gambetta in the far corner.
He launched, arms raised. Bigger than me but careless, eyes betraying him. I feinted to the right, swinging my left, landing the heel of my palm squarely on his nose. Thanks to my broken finger I couldn’t get as much power in it as I’d have liked, but he backed away nonetheless, hands up as blood exploded across his face, spilling between his fingers and running down the plastic suit. He was momentarily blinded. I had to keep up the attack, my only chance was to wear him down to my level. I cast my mind back to the shed earlier, imagined him standing behind me with that length of wood in his hands. Which leg had I kicked? His left. I raised my right and stamped down, if he hadn’t been injured before he certainly was now.
The howl echoed off the walls as his leg twisted then sprang back. I stepped forward, preparing a follow-up, looking for a weapon, when something whirled in the corner of my vision.
I ducked instinctively. He’d fallen against the shelves and grabbed for the CCTV unit, which he’d sent flying through the air. A corner connected with my head, setting my ears ringing. I staggered sideways. He’d smashed me on the head with a piece of wood less than an hour before, and through shit luck it’d caught me in the same place.
My legs gave way, I folded to the floor, vision darkening as muffled sounds erupted around me. My head felt too hot and too wet. I forced my eyes open, and when the room eventually swam back into focus Hurley was crawling onto me. I’d no time to do anything about it, before I could move he’d pinned his knees across my arms, hands around my throat. I was barely conscious, unable to stop him.
Blood continued to seep through my hair onto the floor where it mingled with Gambetta’s. Shooting stars obscured Hurley’s face. I was vaguely aware of flames licking the ceiling behind him. He was saying something but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears on its way to pouring out of my head.
Real fights are won in seconds and I’d just lost.
Hurley brought his face closer, staring into my eyes, blood running from his teeth like a rabid wolf. I refused to blink. He didn’t notice my fingers clawing at the gore, crawling across the floor, dragging my arm with it until they reached the wall. My fingertips stretched, burning, until they found what they were searching for. I hooked a finger through the trigger guard of Hurley’s gun. I pulled it close, wrapping my fingers around the handle. He realised what I was doing and leaned to the side, pressing all his weight onto my hand, which thankfully relieved my throat, allowing me to get a decent breath. I squeezed the trigger, the explosion deafening in the small room. A small hole opened in the ceiling, swallowed in flame. He gripped the pistol over my hand, slipping his finger through the trigger guard, forcing my finger. Pulling with both hands, he turned the pistol over and, pushing down slowly, angled it towards my head.
I had no energy to stop him so did the only thing I could; I squeezed the trigger again, again, again, trying to empty the magazine before the barrel pointed at me. The shots came in rapid succession, millimetres from my face. A bullet ripped my sweater, blood sprayed my face.
Hurley howled, rolling off me, but just as quickly he was on his feet. He cradled his arm, inspecting it. A tear in his suit, a spatter of blood, the bullet had only grazed him. He realised this at the same time as I did, diving for the metal shelves along the wall. I swung the pistol up and fired quickly. A bullet punched a hole through the wall behind him and then the gun clicked empty. Hurley was about to jump back onto me when there was an almighty roar. A section of wall collapsed inward, a rush of flames close behind, licking the ceiling and down the wall, which immediately bubbled, already sagging. Thick smoke billowed in. In seconds the room would become a coffin. Burning globs of molten plastic dripped onto my arm like wax from a candle, sticking like napalm, searing circles into my flesh.
I dropped the gun and rolled over onto all fours. There was a tearing sound, I looked up. The shelving unit teetered above me. Hurley gave it another pull, crashing it down onto my back, smashing me to the floor. I craned my neck, half expecting Hurley to be standing over me, but all I saw was the heel of his shoe as he disappeared down the corridor.
The smoke was choking now, and I was pinned. I tried to reach for the gas mask but it was just beyond my fingers. Gambetta grinned at me; the shelving lay across my back and his corpse. With his contracting skin and lips pulled back from his teeth he seemed to find the prospect of us cooking together hilarious. Fortunately he was fatter than me, bloated from rotting gases. I exhaled, pressing flat, felt a bit of give. Grabbing the leg of the desk, I dragged myself through his black crusted blood. After a few seconds wriggling I’d got enough of my body free to get some leverage, scrambling to my feet. The ceiling was barely visible through the thick smoke, just the middle, a swollen beer belly sagging down, plastic running down the walls like a rain-lashed window. The door hung at an angle, a wall of flame blocking the exit, corridor beyond lost in swirling smoke. I ducked low, fingers searching out the gas mask, but I’d lost it in the mess of boxes from the shelves. I took another breath then grabbed the radio, launching it at the window. It bounced off the triple glazing and crashed to the floor. Screwing the window shut wasn’t doing me any favours now. I jumped onto the desk, crouching to avoid the lava ceiling, reaching behind to snatch up the chair. I swung it at the window.
The chair bounced off too, but this time a crack appeared in a corner. The plastic cladding of the ceiling peeled back, another roar of flame singed my beard. I looked up into the aluminium ribs of the hut’s ceiling, the glowing fibreglass insultation, no way out there. I swung again – wincing at the pain in my finger and a thousand other places as wounds tore – swung twice, three times more, the middle pane crunched. The glass was laminated and stayed in one piece, but a cobweb of fissures radiated across the window. A piece of insulation landed on my arm, scorching the hairs, burning through skin layer by layer. I swatted it away but it was replaced by another, a blizzard of incandescent snowflakes floating all around me, melting through everything they landed on. I swung the chair one last time and the third pane bent outward, not falling apart but no longer a solid pane of glass. My hair caught alight, burning the tip of my ear. I swiped at it, took a quick breath, almost threw up, smoke roasting my lungs and jamming up my throat. I dropped the chair, crouched, fell against the window, curling into a ball and leading with my shoulder.
Thankfully I’d done enough damage. The window gave way, splintering outwards, dropping away from the frame. Unable to stop I followed it, a jet of flame chasing me out as I dropped the few feet to the ground. Thankfully momentum carried me over the broken glass and onto the soft mud, the impact still taking my breath away. Lucky it did, as I found myself inches from a patch of potentially contaminated mud that I didn’t want to inhale.
Though at that point anthrax was lower down my worry list. The fall had pulled the wound on my side, I could feel a piece of tape loosened by fresh blood. I rolled over onto my back to catch my breath, feeling the cool ground beneath me, watching the flames roaring from the window and black smoke rolling up into the raw sky.
No time to rest, Hurley was still close. A voice called out; Dash, round the other side of the base, yelling for help with the water pump. I looked under the huts, could see legs moving and water pouring onto the mud. The flames above receded, a sizzling
sound telling me he’d got the hose onto the fire. Without much decent fuel to burn it’d be out pretty soon. But then there was something else, a woman shouting. It had come from the opposite direction, behind my head, towards the beach.
I was back on my feet. In the distance shapes flitted through the fog, Hurley and someone else, either Alice or Marie. She stumbled and he caught her, dragging her onwards into the murk.
I set off at a sprint but my feet were still bare and I slipped on the mud. Jumping into the grass to try to gain traction wasn’t much better, the needles of bracken tore at my feet. I set my teeth and carried on. They were lost in the fog as I fell behind, but then came a flash. I threw myself to the ground as the crack of a gunshot whipped across the hillside.
Hurley’s Sig lay empty in the hut behind me, along with Greenbow’s Browning. Neither an option. I’d dropped Gambetta’s pistol in the mud by the door, also empty. There was, as far as I knew, only one other gun on the island – my own HK, which I’d given to Marie. It must now be in Hurley’s possession. Did that mean he’d taken her, too? Or was she a willing partner in crime?
I had to assume she was with him under duress, and no one else was going to do anything about it. I thought about Gambetta’s pistol, briefly considered my spare ammo, wondering if Marie had taken it, but ruled it out; even if it were still there, the 9mm ammunition wouldn’t have been any use in the Walther. There were no other options.
It was obvious where Hurley was going – there was only one place he could be headed now. Fuck it, no time to get backup, for a second time I chased the gunman across the moorland armed with nothing but anger.
A sound cut through the fog, a high-pitched revving engine. As we’d discussed the previous night, the dinghy was the only way off the island. The revs spluttered and died. It cranked again, revving higher this time before dying. The sound was close, then the fog rolled on and I was on the crest of the bluffs, above the mooring.
The little boat faced away from the island. Hurley hunched over the outboard, adjusting the choke. I knelt to catch my breath, creeping forward slowly, careful to stay off to the side, knowing his field of vision was narrowed by the gas mask. Behind him Marie was sitting, gripping the plank bench, staring out to sea. Hurley pulled the cord again. This time the engine caught, settling to a grumble. My fingers curled around a rock the size of my fist.
He adjusted the idle, the screw picked up speed, then, leaving it hanging just above the water, squeezed past Marie to untie the line at the bow. He dropped the rope and was about to tilt the motor down into the sea when he spotted me.
He swung his pistol up and took aim. Marie noticed the boat shift and looked up, turned and saw me.
‘Let Marie go,’ I shouted above the outboard. ‘It’s over; everyone else on the island knows the score.’
‘They don’t know shit or they’d be here with you.’ He narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. ‘I reckon just one loose end to sort out and I can walk right back there. Tell them all about how you cooked up the whole thing. Now back off.’ He turned the gun on Marie.
I threw the rock as hard as I could. He wavered, eyes on my arm, and the rock sailing through the air. He made no attempt to dodge; the pitch was low, never any chance of hitting him. I hadn’t intended it to.
The rock struck the outboard with a clang, knocking the spinning propeller down into the sea. The pistol cracked just as the motor bit, churning the water, the boat lurched, Hurley staggered. The gunshot went wide, slicing into the sea behind Marie. He dropped the gun in an effort to stop himself pitching over the side as the boat surged forward.
‘Jump!’ I yelled, but Marie hadn’t needed prompting, she was already over the side into the shallow water, scrambling up the pebbles.
The boat shot across the open water. Hurley scrabbled to sit up in the pitching waves. It was already a good twenty metres away, still going. Marie was struggling against the pull of the tide. I hobbled over to haul her up.
A shot rang out, the bullet pinging off the rocks, burying itself in the grass behind us. I looked back at the sea. Hurley was standing in the dinghy, battling against the waves to get a good aim. He was too far away now for an easy shot, and the swell made it impossible. He fired a couple more times before disappearing into the fog. The revs increased, sound dying away as he made good his escape.
‘Thanks!’ was all she could manage.
‘I said you’d be all right, didn’t I? Get back to the base, find the others.’
‘What if he comes back?’
‘He’s making for the mainland, he knows we can’t follow.’
‘God, you’re hurt.’
‘It’s nothing, just scratches.’
‘But the anthrax… You need to get clean!’
‘No time! Go, tell the others, wait for the evac.’
She set off up the hillside at a sprint.
Hurley knew he was free. The evac was still a while off, and he was halfway across the bay. He’d be feeling pretty safe. Sometimes people are at their most vulnerable when they think they’ve won. But it wasn’t true; there was another way off the island.
Chapter Sixty-eight
The night before, when I’d sat in the bomb crater in the pouring rain arguing with Colonel Holderness on the radio, I’d asked him to send a second launch to pick up the Marines. Then I’d told Bates to leave his boat hidden further round the bay. I’d had a feeling one of the others might decide to make a break from the island rather than wait it out, and it’d seemed prudent to have a backup plan.
I told you the military love their acronyms; IRC, they call these, Inflatable Raiding Craft. A small black rubber dinghy to you and me, similar to an American Zodiac, it had been dragged up onto the grass, and as I approached I could see they’d filled it with rocks to stop it blowing away in the storm. That didn’t slow me down too much, and after a couple of minutes’ graft I was dragging it over the beach, out onto the water, drifting with the swell.
The bay was still swaddled in a grey duvet. I pulled Kyle’s soggy map from my pocket and took a bearing on the rock spit jutting behind me. Gruinard Island ran north to south, with me off the southern tip. If you took a ruler and drew a straight line on the map directly west from my position, after two miles you’d hit the village of Laide.
That tiny settlement I’d seen the day before, with its whitewashed cottages and ruined medieval chapel, was the nearest proper landing and mooring on the mainland. It wasn’t the nearest point as the crow flies – that was the beach south-east of here, where we’d landed the helicopter – but there was no reason to head for that isolated spot. It led only to that beach and, beyond it, an empty stretch of road that led back to Laide anyway. To get to the nearest patch of civilisation was a choice between a short boat trip and a six-mile walk, or a longer boat trip with no walk. Not really much of a choice; Hurley would be heading across the bay to Laide.
The outboard snorted, spluttering to life on the third pull – not bad in the damp air – and then I was buzzing across the rolling sea as fast as the little motor could propel me. Occasionally the distant rasp of Hurley’s outboard made it through the fog but mostly it was smothered. The upside was I was heading into the wind, which meant he wouldn’t be able to hear me.
Hurley.
I don’t have an inflated opinion of myself, but there were limited people on the island that would have considered taking me on hand-to-hand in the shed, even if it did involve smashing me over the head from behind. That train of thought had led me to remembering that when checking on Ingrid at Camp Vollum, Hurley had gone off to the labs on his own – where I’d later found Gambetta’s pistol hidden on the cupboard.
Then on the way back from Camp Vollum, either Hurley or Greenbow had visited the generator shed before going inside – I’d seen their torch just before my run-in with the Marines. Had it been Hurley, dumping a handful of dirt in the fuel, hoping to hasten our departure? At that point he’d known the anthrax sample was secure, thought the pla
n to frame Demeter had worked perfectly, and that I’d soon drop dead from whatever was in my Scotch – because even though Demeter had been framed, I still knew about the anthrax strain. He probably suspected I’d collapsed somewhere behind them in the storm. But later when it was Clay who died instead, and with the generator about to pack in at any moment, he realised he was running out of time to silence me, resorting to less subtle methods.
I couldn’t prove it, but these suspicions had meant I’d fully expected to see Hurley in that comms room. But how had he killed Ingrid and Gambetta?
As I crossed the bay concentrating on Hurley, with the spray in my face waking my brain up, it all swam into focus.
But it wasn’t the time for thinking, it was time for action as the rocky coastline emerged from the fog ahead.
On a clear day Laide would have been visible from the island, an easy trip, but I’d had no way of navigating in the thick fog, so had headed in what I’d judged to be roughly a south-westerly direction. Without line of sight or any navigational aids, if I’d sped directly west to the village it was unlikely I’d have hit the jetty. The current would have made sure I arrived at an uninhabited spot, without knowing if the village was to my left or right. I could have wasted ages heading in the wrong direction.
But because I’d crossed the bay diagonally I knew Laide was definitely to my right (or rather, starboard). I angled the IRC and pushed on, bouncing higher now that I was closer to shore, heading directly into the incoming waves. They broke over the bow, swamping the inflatable, soaking me to the skin, but these rugged little things are constructed with more arduous tasks in mind, and the sea was nothing like the previous night. With the rocks and occasional sandy stretches to my left and endless grey to my right, I pushed the outboard to the limit, bouncing higher. I was almost dashed against the rocks a couple of times, and thought about beaching it on the next stretch of sand, but the thunderous roar warned me away.
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