I stood on the brakes; a shriek of tortured rubber, the aroma of burning brake pads. Throwing open the door, I jogged back along the road. A filthy plastic suit, flapping shreds impaled on the barbed-wire fence. Hurley had disposed of it, probably chucked it out of his window, he was definitely somewhere on this road. I carefully peeled it off the spikes between finger and thumb and carried it back to my car, pushing it into the passenger footwell to avoid spreading spores halfway across the valley. I ran back with a piece of rope from my boot, tying it to the fence as a marker for the cleaning crew.
Another quick look at the map and I was off again. By my reckoning, I’d come about halfway to where this small road joined with the larger trunk road linking Ullapool and Inverness. The trees thinned, replaced by a looming wall of rock in the distance. The road twisted, rising higher until there were no trees left. The last glimpse of countryside reminded me of my native Yorkshire moors, then I was driving through cloud – forced to slow or risk plunging off the road into a muddy ditch or worse as the fog lifted one second then obliterated anything beyond twenty feet the next.
I stamped on the brakes again, sliding sideways across the white lines, switching the ignition off this time. Just the pinging engine, the overworked radiator and red-hot exhaust manifold cooling down. I jumped out and ran a few metres further down the road.
Faint, but definitely mechanical; an engine somewhere on the road up ahead. Distances were impossible to judge but someone was driving something. I ran back to the car and started her up again, driving slowly this time, winding the window down. Hurley wouldn’t be driving recklessly; he had a multimillion-dollar vial in his pocket and no reason to think anyone was on his tail.
A National Trust for Scotland sign flashed past, ‘Corrieshalloch Gorge’ – I was coming up on the junction, fast. Soon the road would be bigger, relatively more traffic. I flicked off my headlights, it was foggy but light enough; in conditions like that headlights are for the benefit of other road users, and I definitely didn’t want to be seen.
I turned a corner and there, fuzzy in the fog for less than a second before it winked out, was a dim red dot. I counted aloud; one, two, three, all the way to eleven – then slowed for a left-hander. Average thirty miles per hour on the twisting road, eleven seconds – my maths wasn’t great at the best of times but I guessed I was about a hundred and fifty metres behind the brake lights.
I pressed the accelerator, exiting the bend to see the same dim red dot ahead. I pressed the accelerator even harder, the red dot grew brighter in the haze, splitting into two.
I was worried it’d be a tractor, but a few seconds later, and to my relief, I could see it was a Land Rover – not out of the ordinary in the Highlands, but this one was bright red. I pulled closer, could see it had no rear side windows, a short-wheelbase wagon. The logo on the back panel confirmed it belonged to the Royal Mail.
Chapter Seventy-one
I guessed there couldn’t be more than one Post Office Land Rover on this road, hoped I wasn’t victimising an innocent postie. We turned a corner, straightened up, the fog grew thicker – now or never. I dropped into third, pressing the accelerator fully to the floor. The engine roared, the turbo whined as it came on boost, and a second later I was right up behind him. He hadn’t seen me before, but a puff of diesel smoke from his exhaust indicated he just had, and was accelerating to match.
I closed the distance, less than a metre from his bumper, when red lights glared in my face. The view of the 4x4 was replaced by a crash barrier as he disappeared around a sharp right-hander. I was carrying far too much speed to make it. I buried the brakes, the back end lifted, into second and I flicked the wheel left towards the crash barriers before slamming my foot back down on the accelerator, spinning the wheel around to the right. The wheels broke traction, the back end of the Capri slid ninety degrees into the middle of the road, bonnet facing straight into the dismal moorland. I kept my foot planted, tyres arguing and revs bouncing off the limiter as I drifted sideways through the corner. Something jolted me, a spray of paint flecks and a chunk of wheel-arch flashed in the rear view mirror, torn off by the crash barrier, tumbling across the road. I played the pedals, the wheels found grip, I was straight again and pointing at the Land Rover.
I’d lost speed, he was already pulling away, but no way could he outrun me. His only advantage – and it was a pretty bloody big one – was that he could see the corners coming; the closer I got behind him, the blinder I was. I swept wet hair away from my eyes, felt blood, sticky across the side of my head, flicked my full beams on to dazzle him, and ground the accelerator harder.
I was almost on him again when his brake lights flashed and he turned left. I’d been more cautious, ready for it, negotiating the corner gracefully this time without losing any more parts. As we straightened I was still hovering a few metres off his bumper.
Something appeared out of his window, I yanked the wheel left, losing the passenger wing mirror on the crash barriers but avoiding the bullet that exploded from Hurley’s pistol. My Speer hollow points from my HK, the bastard. The crack of the gunshot was quickly muffled by the fog.
I kept left to avoid any more, digging under the map on the passenger seat, grabbing the Glock. With one hand on the wheel and both eyes on his bumper, I pushed the pistol against the dash, digging the foresight into the spongy material. I cocked it by pressing forward and down on the handgrip, then tossed it into my right hand as I yanked the wheel with my other, pulling into the middle of the road. Sticking the pistol out of the window, I squeezed the trigger three times rapidly, then swung back in behind. Cubes of glass and flecks of red flew past my arm. Another shot replied from in front and this time it connected, ricocheting off the bonnet and shattering the top corner of the windscreen, but I didn’t flinch – because when I’d pulled out I’d got a good look at the road ahead, and an opportunity had presented itself. I dropped the pistol into my lap, gripped the wheel, locked my jaw.
Hurley’s brake lights flared. I dropped into second gear. The revs jumped, the back end of the car floated, but I kept the accelerator planted, pulling right across onto the other side of the road, as if to overtake. The corner came up fast, far too fast for me to stop, I was heading straight into the gorge, about to fly into it, bracing myself for a short flight through the trees. The gamble paid off as Hurley turned right in front of me, beginning to take the corner; a fatal mistake.
I made zero attempt to negotiate the corner, staying straight, letting him turn across my path. Je me lance vers la gloire. I pulled the gearstick into neutral at the last moment as the Capri sailed directly into the side of the Land Rover, connecting at ninety degrees with the rear wheel. I had one of the longest expanses of bonnet on the road, acres of crash-absorbing space behind the radiator to cushion the collision, whereas the Landy took the full impact through the solid rear axle, straight into the chassis.
The Land Rover was lifted into the air and I had a glimpse of Hurley’s face, staring in disbelief through the open window, before it rolled up onto the crash barrier.
The seatbelt tore into my chest, whipping my head forward. I was staring at the underside of the big 4x4 – and it looked extremely bloody close. It hung in mid-air for a second then rocked back, I pointed my pistol straight forward, through the windscreen, and squeezed the trigger again and again. My windscreen exploded in a jagged spiderweb, cubes of glass spraying as I emptied the magazine into the underside of the Landy. It fell towards me, a buckled and twisted rear wheel slamming back down onto the bonnet of my car.
An arm flailed at the driver’s window, still gripping the gun. I ducked as a bullet ripped into the Capri, punching a hole through the roof and into the passenger seat. I dropped the empty Glock, pressed the seatbelt release, sliding down into the footwell. My engine was still running. I pushed into first gear, full on the accelerator with my other hand, just as another gunshot made more of a mess of my roof, the bullet tearing into the driver’s seat inches from my head.
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The engine howled. I risked a glance to see the Landy tip sideways, teetering on the crash barrier. The Capri’s rear tyres complained, spinning up and sending a cloud of stinking black smoke across the road. Keeping crouched down in the footwell I quickly changed into second, then third. The speedometer climbed, eighty miles an hour stationary, tyres screaming, edging the Land Rover further over the abyss. There was another explosion, not a gunshot this time, a tyre giving way. The car lurched, screeching metal tearing the air. A jolt as the other tyre blew, I raised my head to watch the Land Rover shudder, reach the point of no return, then slowly tip.
I twisted the key, cutting my engine as the Landy groaned and slipped off the barrier, tumbling down the slope beyond.
I leapt from the car. Sounds of twisting metal and ripping bushes echoed up from the gorge. Dirty snowflakes drifted in the fog, scraps of burnt rubber. Twin black channels were chewed into the tarmac beneath the Capri’s mangled wheels. I’d have to bill Holderness for a new set of alloys as well as tyres. Stinking, steaming water pooled around my boots. I looked at the front of the car, its concertinaed bonnet. Much as I enjoy rebuilding my cars, I’d probably need to bill him for a whole new Capri.
One foot on the crash barrier, I stared into the grey, listening to glass smashing in the woods below as the stricken Land Rover continued its journey. I ran back to grab the rifle from the boot, pushed the spare mag into one of the ammo pouches sewn into my jacket, and pressed the SA80’s stock into the well-worn reinforced shoulder patch. The cocking lever pulled with a satisfying click. I released, remembering to tap it forward with the ball of my thumb, ensuring it was fully home to avoid stoppages, then pushed the safety off and jumped the barrier.
No way of knowing how deep the gorge was, or how steep. I crept quickly but cautiously, rifle to my shoulder, following deep furrows torn in the grass. A shattered windscreen lay against a bush; I hoped the roof had crumpled, saving me a job, but knowing Landys I highly doubted it; I’ve rolled several and come away without a scratch. A crash nearby, something flapped past my head and I ducked instinctively. Another flash of white in the bushes spun me round. Letters. A postbag appeared out of the rolling fog, spewing its contents into the wind. They fluttered across the undergrowth like birds dancing across the bracken.
As I stalked onward, a red shape emerged from the fog. The rear door, torn from its hinges and bent almost in half. I kept my gun up, advancing slowly down the hill.
The Land Rover finally materialised, lying on its side against a sturdy-looking pine on the edge of the woodland. From what I could see the roof had taken the brunt of the impact, wrapping around the trunk. On what was now the top, the driver’s door was shut. No movement. As I rounded the back I looked down each side. Still nothing. I crept closer.
The open rear doorway revealed an empty interior. With one eye on the fog I scanned the ground. A heavy depression marked where he’d dropped down seconds earlier. A few drops of blood spattered the grass, but my hopes of having inflicted a mortal wound were looking slim.
Unlike the open moorland, it was sheltered here under the trees, the ground springy with mossy undergrowth. No footprints, no way to track him. What would I do if I were Hurley?
He’d left the island in a rush, no map, food, or suitable clothing – a death sentence out here this time of year. No way of contacting his evac. He knew I was close, couldn’t be sure what backup was on the way. For all he knew the net was closing – every minute he spent wandering the highlands was a minute closer to capture. Hurley only had one play left – head back to the road, keep his rendezvous. The Capri was a write-off so on the face of it, transport-wise, we were in the same boat. No chance of him hijacking another car; wouldn’t be much traffic at this time in the morning.
I headed deeper into the woods then turned back up the hillside, towards the road. The wind had died, creaking trees and the nearby river the only soundtrack. I walked parallel to the road, deeper still, eyes on stalks, trying to pick anything out of the murk. The ground grew steeper, the undergrowth denser.
A twig snapped nearby, freezing me to the spot. I dropped to a crouch, ears straining. A dragging sound, shuffling through the bracken, pushing through the bushes, heading for the road. I held my breath, rifle rigid. This was my home environment, and I’d be damned if I’d let Hurley get the upper hand here.
A bush to my left shuddered. I swung around as a shape materialised from the fog. I felt an involuntary twitch in my index finger, a reaction borne of experience. It automatically slid onto the trigger, taking up precisely the amount of play in the firing mechanism, the lightest breath ready to launch a bullet straight between Hurley’s eyes.
The fog rolled on and there before me was the largest stag I’ve ever seen. It lifted its head from the grass, seeing me at the same moment, jaw frozen. For a couple of seconds we regarded each other with mutual suspicion, neither of us moving, then the stag went back to its meal. I was in two minds whether to press on – I’m okay dealing with soldiers, but huge wild animals can be dangerous, less predictable. I was armed, but as a rule I don’t shoot anything that’s unable to shoot back.
I was about take my chances with the antlers when the stag picked its head up again, sniffing the air. It’d caught a scent, but not mine; I was upwind. We both froze again. Suddenly it reared, turned, bolted back into the fog, the trembling bushes the only evidence it was here.
Downwind. I spun to my right, squeezing the trigger.
A single crack, a shout, snapping branches. A crow barked, taking flight through the branches. I flicked the fire selector down to ‘A’, pummelled the bushes with a deafening automatic burst, rolling to my left just as a bullet came the other way. Another chewed up the dirt as I got to my feet, running deeper into the undergrowth, into the bullets.
He was shooting blindly behind, I continued, firing again, still on auto. He stumbled, I thought I’d grazed his leg but then my rifle clicked, I was out of ammo and the fog was rolling back. I carried on running through the trees, down the steep hillside, dropping the empty magazine and inserting my spare. Bark exploded as brass and lead smashed into a nearby tree. I replied with a short burst then crouched to listen.
The river was louder now. Nothing else; once again the world was obscured by silently dancing ghosts. A spot of blood on a leaf, another on a branch, Hurley had in a hole in him somewhere. Keeping the sights trained on the bushes, I reached back and flicked the selector up to ‘R’, single-shot mode. I turned slowly, rifle hard into my shoulder. No trees to my right, just swirling fog, water booming nearby; I was on the edge of the gorge itself.
I walked closer and chanced a look over. Dark vertical walls punctuated by saplings growing out at crazy angles and then nothing but grey. Looking into that abyss made my head swim again. Nowhere for Hurley to have gone.
I followed the edge as closely as I dared until something appeared in the fog, regular, man-made. I slowed. A bit of wall and fence to stop tourists lemming off. A yellow sign told me the cliff was unstable, to stick to the path. I could have done with that advice before I’d leaned over.
But it wasn’t the sign that’d caught my eye; it was the thin smear of blood on the stone, diluted by drizzle, revealing where Hurley had rested seconds before.
I pressed on, towards the thundering water, following the well-trodden footpath, looking out for any other tell-tale signs of Hurley’s passing. A spot on the ground, a few metres later another on the fence as he’d brushed against it.
A structure loomed, thin and snaking like a modern sculpture, at odds with its surroundings. Twisted steel cables suspending skinny iron latticework stretching out into space, a narrow footbridge to nothing. I moved cautiously towards it, rifle trained on the misty void where the other side of the gorge should be.
I walked round the concrete and iron supports, onto the gravel path, looking straight down the bridge. A smear on the metal handrail, more blood on the wooden treads. Hurley had crossed over, probably waiting fo
r me on the other side. Classic tactic; a choke point, forcing me into an ambush. I had no other options. I could taste the water on the breeze, metallic, full and earthy, drifting up from the waterfall.
I stepped onto the bridge and slid on the slick boards, gritting my teeth as pain tore up my side. I cried out, dropping the rifle with a clatter and landing against the railing, panting heavily. Warm wetness spread under my jacket and a drop of my own red splashed the wood next to Hurley’s. I looked frantically at the footpath and trees moving in and out of the fog behind me, at the sheer edge either side, at the wall of fog swaddling the bridge in front. No shouts, no shots, just the thunder of water on rock below.
I struggled to my feet and retrieved the rifle, pushed my hair up, wiping sweat, blood, and drizzle from my eyes. The crow called out again. I was blind, injured and out of energy, my only solace that Hurley was all of those things too. The crows mocked us both from the branches.
And then there was another sound. Quiet at first, difficult to hear over the waterfall, I thought it was a car up on the road. It quickly got too loud; the familiar whump-whump-whump of rotor blades. The crows held their breath, waiting to see what would happen. I didn’t, dispensing with caution, lurching after the new sound, away from the bridge. The thumping rotors were close.
I’d been right; the helicopter was approaching from the north. It had flown up the coast then followed the road down to us. Despite the weather it’d have no problem finding us – it would be equipped with thermographic equipment. If he hadn’t already, the pilot would soon spot the two cars and try to find somewhere to land.
Anthrax Island Page 27