The Hunt series Boxset 2

by Tim Heath

  “It’s me,” Sasha said, deciding to leave her a message. It was unlike Anissa to leave the house so early. She’d been shopping the day before, so hadn’t gone for that. “I was just wondering where you were. Last night was, well, kind of awesome, I have to admit, but we need to talk about it when you get back. I think it’s all too soon for you, I really do. Call me if you get this before you’re home. Take care,” and he hung up. Saying anything like love you or miss you would have come across as a little too needy.

  Sasha switched on the kettle, dropping a teabag into his favourite mug, something Alex had given him for his last birthday. Sasha said a prayer for Alex every time he used the cup. He closed his eyes for a moment, his quiet words spoken to whoever might be listening––he didn’t have much of a faith, though he was raised in the Orthodox church, as were many Russian kids.

  He dropped two slices of bread into the toaster, pulling the lever down while the kettle came to the boil. Three minutes later, tea made and toast on a plate, Sasha added slices of cheese to the still hot toast and sat on the sofa, watching the morning news.

  The Previous Night

  Anissa’s alarm went off just before one am. She’d been sleeping much deeper for the last week, her mind so drugged up that she either wasn’t having nightmares or was sleeping through them. It was the third time that week she’d set the alarm, the silent vibrations enough to stir her without waking up Sasha.

  Once more she screamed out loud, sitting up in bed, the duvet pushed away from her body, her legs showing plenty of skin.

  Sasha rushed in as he always did. This time she was going to get him to allow her into his room, into his bed. Anissa had been working up to it. She’d been drinking heavily. He needed to connect to her in a way she deemed necessary for what she had to do. She required a connection.

  “I don’t want to be by myself,” Anissa started, the next few minutes playing out as she had imagined. Sasha was a kind-hearted man, and the added tiredness after successive nights of disturbed sleep for him would cause his guard to be lowered.

  A few minutes later she was gently placed on his bed. Sasha was making as if he was about to sleep on the floor. Anissa moved over, half hanging out of the bed had he been looking from that side of the room, but it was dark, and she made sure she wasn’t going to fall.

  He got into the bed.

  She’d set the alarm on her watch, but didn’t need it. She stayed awake. Sasha was soon snoring, and she let him get through nearly two hours, the end of a deep sleep cycle. She moved her body close to his, trying to stimulate him, trying to get his male hormones racing where for too long he’d resisted. He couldn’t resist her any more. She needed him.

  Before long she was on top of him, moving and shifting. She could feel him.

  After it was done, she listened to him as he slept. She would even allow herself some sleep, but another alarm would wake her by seven.

  Up and awake, Anissa tiptoed out of the room, a pile of clothes ready in her room from the night before. She showered quickly, making minimal noise. Coming out of the bathroom, Anissa put one ear to Sasha’s bedroom door, but the rhythmic breathing confirmed he was still sound asleep. She dressed, and with ten minutes to go until it was eight, she slipped out of the apartment.

  She was dressed in Alex’s clothing, something she’d come across on her first day there. Something she’d kept in the bottom of the cupboard, along with the gun she found. She had that too.

  She went down the steps two at a time, reaching the road. Cars moved freely. Checking the weapon was firmly in the back of her jeans, she pulled up the hood around her, and pressed out onto the streets, pedestrians already making their way into work.

  Anissa had a job to do of her own. She couldn’t be free until she’d completed this mission.

  An hour later she was outside the same terraced house she’d been at the week before. The curtains were still drawn. Bethany was apparently yet to rise, as Anissa had suspected. This was her third visit there since her no-show at the cafe meeting, and Anissa had learnt the former DDG was not an early riser.

  The milkman had called. Three pints of redtop sat on Bethany’s doorstep. Anissa checked her watch as she approached the front garden. It was nearly eight o’clock. There was a voicemail message, but she wasn’t going to get distracted now. Instead, she got into the bush that blocked most of the street from the front door of number sixty-three, and she waited. Bethany would be out to collect the milk before too long. She always did that immediately after coming downstairs.

  Ten minutes later, Anissa heard the tell-tale stomping of feet on wooden floorboards. A silhouette appeared momentarily behind the opaque glass before the door swung in on itself. Anissa paused for a moment, Bethany May in all her glory coming out in her slippers before bending down and lifting the milk from the step. She turned towards her front door, Anissa using that moment to step forward, striding and pushing the gun into the back of the former DDG, sending Bethany flying in through her front door. One bottle of milk dropped and smashed on the doorstep, the other two falling inside the hall, the white liquid fast forming a large circle.

  Anissa slammed the door behind her.

  Bethany looked up from the floor, as Anissa lowered the hood. Bethany caught sight of Anissa for the first time, clearly understanding who she was. Bethany knew why she was there.

  “I wondered when I would see you,” Bethany said.

  “Shut up!” Anissa said gun raised, jaw clenched. The milk had reached Bethany’s slippers. “Get up!” Anissa demanded.

  Bethany slowly rose, not taking her eyes off Anissa nor the gun for one moment.

  “It’s okay, we can resolve this,” Bethany said.

  “I told you to shut up,” Anissa stormed, swearing at Bethany as she stepped forward and hitting her with the butt of the gun in the face. Bethany was thrown back into the kitchen, blood splashing against one wall as her lip burst and her cheek was cut. Bethany put a hand to her face.

  “You bitch,” she said, pulling her fingers away, blood visible. Her face was pounding, though adrenaline was keeping that at bay.

  “You killed my family,” Anissa spat.

  “No, I didn’t. The men responsible have been caught, Anissa.”

  “Don’t you dare try and plead innocent with me, you bitch!” A run of expletives rolled from Anissa’s trembling lips as she poured out her utter scorn and rage on the one woman she now deemed responsible––and punishable.

  Bethany took a step back.

  “I’ve been cleared,” she pleaded. She’d looked many a killer in the eye, usually after they were caught. After the danger had passed, with some other poor soul the needless victim. Anissa shared those same facial expressions and characteristics at that moment, Bethany could see.

  “Not by me you haven’t.” Anissa knew words were not required. Action was. She’d been thinking about this moment ever since waking in the hospital bed. Through all the nightmares since, it was Bethany’s face there. The woman who gave Anissa’s name to Filipov. He was untouchable. Alex had tried, but Bethany had seen to it that Alex had failed. There would be no failure this time, however.

  Something they were always told in training when facing an armed response moment, was that once you pulled the trigger, holding the gun towards another human being, there was no going back. The first kill did something. Not everyone could live with the consequences. Anissa had never killed.

  She pulled the trigger, the former Deputy Directors General’s eyes taking in the twitch of the index finger she’d been fearing, a movement she’d been expecting. The bullet hit cleanly in the chest from barely four feet away. Bethany hit the ground. Anissa stood above the dying woman and followed her first shot up with a second.

  A circle of blood filled the floor.

  Anissa had not touched anything but wasn’t going to wait around. The streets were noisy, and most of the neighbours had probably already left for work, but it was possible someone might have heard the gunshots
.

  She reached the front door, avoiding the milk in the hallway, and clipped the back of the door with her trailing foot, pulling it closed behind her. It slammed as she jumped over the milk on the doorstep in one swift movement. She pushed the gun into her jeans. She would dispose of it somewhere in the Thames on her way home. Nowhere near the current address, nor anywhere near Sasha’s.

  She walked down the street without drawing attention to herself from anyone. There was no street level CCTV in place. She’d already made sure of that. It was half past eight. A significant weight had been lifted, but there was still no bringing back the dead.

  32

  The Kremlin

  The Last Day of Filipov’s Presidency

  Filipov reached the office at midday. He caught a word with Svetlana as he passed her desk, the two deep in conversation. His afternoon was left clear on purpose.

  “Get everyone out of the office,” he was heard to say, the other staff leaving before Svetlana needed to communicate the message herself.

  “I’ve proposed an idea for a future Games,” Svetlana said, handing Filipov a three page printed document, something she had been working on. Something she had been dreaming about. Something she knew would be a huge hit. He barely glanced at it. “I think you’ll like the idea. It’s a fascinating concept.”

  He picked up the document while drinking from his mug. He walked over to the sofa. His eyebrows raised as if impressed with the idea, as if initially taken in with the grandeur of it all.

  “You don’t have the money,” he scoffed, dropping the document onto the table, his tone altered to dismissive. Final. He wouldn’t touch the document again. Svetlana raged inside, the final straw gone in her hope that Filipov might, at last, deliver the promise he’d made to her before recruiting her. “Is Orlov here?” he snapped. He was in a particularly foul mood.

  “Yes, they are bringing him up.” Svetlana had made the arrangements following Filipov’s request from a couple of days ago. Until then, Orlov had been held in an unmarked location since his arrest in Moscow. He’d been treated harshly, roughed up and repeatedly punched on Filipov's orders. All to add to Orlov's torment.

  “Bring him in. It’s just him and me, okay. Nobody else is to be here.”

  “They’ve already all left,” Svetlana confirmed.

  Ten minutes later Mark Orlov was dropped into a wooden chair inside Filipov’s office by two men, who said nothing as they left again by the same door they had just come through. Svetlana had avoided the oligarch's arrival, staying in another room. She didn’t want to see Orlov, not yet anyway.

  “Took your time,” Orlov said, utter contempt showing on his battered face.

  “I thought I’d give you time to enjoy the spa facilities in your hotel,” Filipov smirked. His men had apparently done an excellent job on the billionaire. Both eyes were swollen, heavy bruising in multiple shades visible right across his face. He looked an utter mess, in truth.

  “I thought I would let you know that the other two are dead,” Filipov said. “I’ve just had it confirmed from Siberia. Kaminski even blew out his own brains for us. You’re all finished.” Orlov tried not to show a response to the President's words––this was what Filipov wanted, and Orlov wasn’t willing to give him that satisfaction––but he couldn’t stop himself showing something, which only seemed to egg Filipov on further. “I’ve learned all about the Machine these last few days. Of course, your money went weeks ago,” Filipov laughed. “I bet you didn’t see that coming?”

  Orlov didn’t respond, his eyes on Filipov but his mouth clamped shut. His heart raged, however.

  “Your little revolution finally snuffed out, an organisation that shouldn’t have been allowed to grow and yet it has, a bloody thorn in my flesh!” Filipov spat, suddenly losing his own control for a moment, the raised voice startling Orlov. He kicked Orlov in the back. Orlov didn’t flinch. He knew what was coming. He knew he had lost. He was going to be defiant to the end, however.

  “What I don’t understand is what Andre had to do with any of this.”

  Orlov couldn’t help but laugh. If he could mock Filipov in what was undoubtedly his final moments, he would.

  “You think it’s funny?” Filipov threatened, his frame large and menacing.

  “I think it’s funny that it bothers you so much,” Orlov said, taking another kick to the chest this time, the chair falling to the floor, but the carpet helping to cushion the impact somewhat. Filipov left Orlov there, tied to the chair, his whole body vulnerable. His head easily kickable, groin easily crushable.

  “Why kill him?”

  “He knew about us.”

  “Knew about the Machine, you mean? He knew nothing.”

  “No, but he was asking questions. In my book, that made it justified.” Filipov took a kick at Orlov’s side, the President’s boot connecting with the man’s rib cage. This time Orlov couldn’t help but let out a groan. Orlov was pushed onto his side, the chair still attached to him, one side of his face lying on the soft carpet, Orlov’s eye level now the same as Filipov’s feet, the door to the office beyond. But no one would be coming through to rescue him. Orlov knew his fate had been sealed the moment he was led into the President’s room.

  “Why didn’t you approach me?” Filipov changed the questioning onto something he’d often wondered.

  “Now we are getting somewhere,” Orlov said, relieved to have an element of the upper hand, despite his ridiculous predicament. “You dismantled the Games.”

  “You didn’t even see it coming.”

  “No, I didn’t, I’ll admit that. But once you had, and once you made it clear you were running for President, it gave us a dilemma.”

  “Why didn’t you approach me then?”

  “You’d already set down a course where it was obvious you wouldn’t have worked with us.”

  “That is true. I don’t work for anyone but myself.”

  “Exactly.” Both could agree on something at least.

  “But why Andre? He was my only child, my one link to my late wife.”

  “He put himself in danger by hunting me down in Paris.”

  “Hunting you down? He was reaching out for help!”

  “Help I couldn’t give him!”

  “Everything that has happened to you since then is because of that day in Paris.”

  “I know.”

  “And now I’ve won.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? There is no doubt about it. Your group is finished. You have no money, the other two leaders are dead, and you’ll soon be joining them.”

  “That’s good to have the clarity on that, thank you,” Orlov said mockingly, though through some pain. He was doing his best not to show it.

  “You really don’t care, do you?” Filipov said. He wasn’t getting to Orlov at all. Maybe he’d left it too long?

  “I don’t care about you, no.”

  “Do you care if you die?”

  “What does it matter?” Orlov said. “You’ll kill me anyway.”

  “Yes, I will, and it won’t be quick,” Filipov said, reaching down to pick up something from his desk, before holding out the gun towards Orlov. He first pointed it as his face but adjusted his aim towards Orlov's stomach. “You’ll bleed out, right here.” Filipov stared Orlov in the eyes, the beaten oligarch holding Filipov's gaze completely. From his position on the carpet, there was little else he could see. Filipov was in his immediate field of vision, gun arm raised, weapon just feet from Orlov's already aching stomach. Filipov fired twice, the rounds hitting hard, blood immediately seeping out through the oligarch's shirt, the holes soon filled with his red life fluid.

  Filipov could tell the man was in pain. He would stand there and watch, their eye contact was unbroken aside from a blink of shock at the impact of the bullets that would kill Orlov slowly.

  Then Orlov’s eyes flicked to the opening door behind Filipov.

  The President knew he’d won, the oligarch breaking eye contac
t, death taking more of a grip on him with every passing second, blood pouring from the man’s still pumping heart. Soon there wouldn’t be enough left to pump.

  Two shots kicked Filipov in the back like a sledgehammer. The President fell to the floor, now lying face to face with Orlov, the two billionaires merely three feet apart. Life escaped Filipov before Orlov, in fact, the eyes of the President vacant, the shot to the spine catching his heart on the way through.

  Orlov looked up. The gun was raised at him––his head this time––and soon his world went blank as well. Both men were now dead.

  Svetlana placed the gun back on the desk. She wiped the weapon entirely. Three more rounds remained in the chamber. Going over to the still bound Orlov, she cut the ropes loose. She was careful not to touch anything, and if she did, she cleaned it of any prints. She threw the bindings into the fire, moving the chair to one side. Both bodies lay in the middle of the room. She would not touch them, besides confirming each man was dead. They were.

  She went back to the desk. The gun she had used to kill the President and finish off Orlov with was wrapped into a blanket. It would be smuggled into Putin’s belongings when the FSB stormed his hideout. She would pass it to the man waiting for her confirmation on the other side of the Kremlin.

  At four, Svetlana called the FSB. She’d already gone online and changed her calendar, the meeting between Orlov and Filipov moved to show it was just happening, adapted from what had been scheduled for that evening. She locked away in a tall cabinet the device she had been using to contact Putin.

  When the FSB arrived, they came in force, the office completely sealed off. They were shocked to find the fallen President. At the same time, Putin was being arrested, the location of the hack into her personal system called through by Svetlana moments before. They had arrested the culprit, were about to see his device and that he’d been targeting that very meeting, and would soon have the murder weapon too.