The Hunt series Books 1-3: The Hunt series Boxset

by Tim Heath

  She’d travelled to Russia before Christmas, the earliest of the Contestants to have done so by a long shot. Pavlov had arranged for her to visit some of his factories, Benita allowed to roam freely, asking lots of questions of those she saw, though she never did meet Pavlov personally face to face.

  She then travelled on to St Petersburg, and on New Year’s Day she was picked up in the morning and taken to the location that had been prepared over many months for this very event.

  When the doors shut, Benita had been one of those who had stayed still. As she had arrived in the fourth van, she saw one more couple walk in before the lights went out.

  All around her, it seemed, she heard movement but had determined to allow her eyes to adjust, used to often working in dark conditions with various experiments she’d performed down the years. What she would give for a few chemicals at that moment, any reaction would be enough to offer her sufficient light to work her way around.

  After five minutes––an explosion and gunshot included––she started moving. She knew the immediate challenge before her wouldn’t be about brute strength or speed, but was one of logic. They had set the building out as some form of a three-dimensional maze, which meant finding your way through would need careful planning, and getting lost would be easy. She knew that anyone running through a labyrinth always had a much higher probability of getting themselves lost than someone taking a slower, more calculated approach. In this world, the one she now found herself in, the tortoise did have a better chance than the hare.

  She avoided the direction from which the sound of gunfire had come––why go looking for trouble––though the vastness of the space made placing exactly where the sound came from a little confusing. She opted for what she felt was the left-hand wall.

  She reached the end wall, her eyes still unable to pick out anything––it was as if she was blind––she quickly realised there didn’t appear to be anything in that direction.

  She was running out of options fast.

  She was beginning to panic, fear welling up inside, but she pushed the feeling down, determined to keep going.

  Outside, on the streets of the city and always most active during Game days, there were dozens of teams who would report and record everything that was happening. Having all ten Contestants in the same place at the same time made monitoring a little more comfortable for the first part, though the warehouse itself was only stage one, of course.

  In the Games Room, at the Volkov mansion in the city centre, the ten Hosts stood around in various groups watching all that was going on. Drinks were freely available, though for this occasion, unlike the usual arrangements for such wealthy people, there was no catering staff. The area was strictly off limits for anyone who wasn’t entirely essential.

  Besides the Odds Maker––he was the man who calculated the bets, made sure it was a fair match and oversaw that side of things––there were only a few technicians needed to keep the coverage flowing.

  Apart from them, just the ten oligarchs were present and hosted as ever by the flamboyant and always delightful Svetlana Volkov. Within those four walls, she was only referred to as the Chair, just as each Host was referred to by their number. It had been a little rule she’d introduced from the beginning––like actors in one of her many films––they were playing a role, playing along for the fun of it. Within her mansion, it was never meant to get personal between any of them. That didn’t mean that it never did get personal––far from it in fact.

  Sokoloff had been isolated the whole day. The mood towards him was undoubtedly a little hostile, if not outright disrespectful. He’d lost heavily the last time they’d met, Aleksey Kuznetsov the primary winner in that duel. Sokoloff had yet to work out if there had been malice in that victory or if Aleksey had merely got lucky. He perceived it to be the latter, knowing the man he’d always looked down upon wasn’t capable of such a move against someone as connected as he. He already knew his grip was weakening, his influence waning.

  The Chair had made it clear that this was to be his last event. He was Twenty at present, the rankings linked to their order within the net worth charts. There were others who would be only too happy to take his place. Once all was said and done––assuming he would pay up––his worth would be sufficiently low enough for it to mean he would drop from this group, some other lucky––or unlucky––soul taking his place. The way they were now treating him, he couldn’t care less.

  Svetlana had made a show of stating that he would be forced to pay everything he owed. And even if he could dismiss her speeches as an actress playing a role, her husband Sergej had the means to make it all happen. He was incredibly powerful––they both were, which is why they’d become Russia’s prime couple overnight following their marriage––and for Sokoloff, it meant the day unfolding in St Petersburg was merely a stay of execution. It didn’t matter what gains he made; he was as good as finished. That hurt. Worst of all was the hit his pride had taken when the Irishman he’d used last time had somehow bluffed him. Phelan Mcdermott, holed up somewhere in the world, had out-foxed him, and from what he knew––which was quite a lot after his team’s extensive research––the Irishman had been aided by outside help. Someone powerful enough to have known about what was going on––someone stupid enough to have got involved. Sokoloff wasn’t sure if that person was standing in the room he was currently in––besides Kuznetsov, no one else had benefited financially from his loss––unless the aim was to destroy him.

  Take a Russian’s money, and they might come looking for you. Take their honour, and they’ll hunt you down for life.

  The big screens in front of the Hosts displayed everything they could about the ongoing Hunt. The only images were the ones the thermal imaging cameras revealed, but there was also a three-dimensional map pinpointing exactly where the Contestants were located within the building.

  Once they made it outside––assuming they all did––then the mobile teams would take over, tracking and recording, relaying everything back in real time. For now, those teams waited.

  Each man stood watching the screens. Usually, they would be on their telephones, speaking with their teams, men and women in place who could be called into action when needed. Those same people were on hand, but this time around none of the ten Hosts knew what to expect. They knew there were five tickets available for a lucky few, presumably the ones making it first out from the warehouse, but beyond that, not much else.

  Typically they had been the ones to provide the lottery ticket, as well as the Contestant––someone they hoped would ultimately lose––but someone worthy enough to get a few of the other Hosts to bet against you. That was how trades were done. Money was rarely gambled, directly, though any connections or business control that got lost through a bet would ultimately result in a financial hit as well. It was inevitable.

  The latest event had been live for twenty minutes. Conversations were flowing, usually whispered between ones and twos, the men standing and moving freely from one to another, except for Twenty, Sokoloff, who was noticeably left to himself. The group had spoken. He was out.

  10

  Osip Yakovlev

  Known within the Games as: Nineteen

  Three of the ten Hosts within the T20 were based in the UK, Osip being the third of these, whose $1.2 billion in wealth listed him as the second from bottom in this group.

  He was in construction, mainly, though like all the others, his influence was moving into broader and more comprehensive areas.

  His starting point had been in concrete production which had been a growing business in the Soviet years as more and more high-rise buildings were put up in the nation’s capital. His firms oversaw some of the most significant construction projects in Europe––they had won the prime contracts for the Sochi Olympics, as well as multiple stadiums and other projects right across Europe. The Barcelona Olympics as well as for the games in Athens had been colossal growth times for his firms, though they’d been kept
mainly from the London games in 2012––despite having set up business in the UK some years earlier. He’d put that apparent rejection behind him, saw that business was business and had aggressively grown his influence within London since. Now his firms were behind some of the most prominent projects undertaken in England, and his company was listed in the FTSE100 as a result of that, vastly increasing his influence within the UK.

  For his Contestant on this Hunt, he’d singled out a man from England, who at forty-one, was one of the older members of the group.

  Arnold Lucas was an engineer specialising in electronics. Osip felt Arnold brought something different to the table.

  Arnold was a triathlete, in good physical condition. He still competed in a few events a year, and was a keen runner, taking in up to ten miles most mornings. He offered both the physical ability to overcome anything the Games might throw at him, as well as the know-how to outwit most mechanical or electrical challenges.

  Her reflection interested him much, and he couldn’t help but look at it on his window as the van made its relentless journey through the city on the morning of that New Year’s Day. She seemed southern European, for sure, and as Arnold sat in the van, which was the fourth one to arrive at the warehouse, he took in everything he could about her, as well as the surrounding area.

  As the van left the main road, they were entering some form of industrial estate, albeit one that apparently no longer functioned as such. He’d seen many similar locations in England. When they arrived, he eyed the building with interest and could see two other people inside the space, though the light was insufficient.

  There was a chill in the air––he’d never been one for the cold, and St Petersburg at that moment felt like a frozen wasteland.

  He followed the girl––he had her pegged as some years younger than he was, though he’d never been a great judge of age––in through the open doors.

  Like everyone, he’d been told very clearly: say nothing on the way in, enter the building you are shown, find somewhere to stand and then wait. The game starts once the doors you walk through are closed. Take only one envelope when presented with the opportunity. If you break any of these rules, you will be eliminated from the competition.

  He wondered in those few minutes as he stood there waiting if lights would come on as the doors closed. He couldn’t see much of the ceiling, though the part he could see didn’t suggest the lights that were hanging there were still in working order. That didn’t matter to him; all he needed was a power supply, wires still alive with electricity, and he could make something happen. It’s what he’d done since being a small boy when his parents had first bought him a science kit for his birthday.

  He’d been standing for maybe five minutes when the last van––as it turned out––appeared at the entrance, its diesel engine giving away its approach sometime before he caught sight of it. Out jumped two more people and, as with his van, one was a woman, the other a man. The man had looked particularly interesting––a hard man for sure––but there was something else about him, something he couldn’t place. It worried him, like knowing that a lion had just been let loose in the room you were also in.

  Then the doors of the warehouse were slid shut, and they were plunged into darkness. Arnold moved, running a few metres, tripping on something, aware then that the floor was anything but safe, and as he stumbled forward, collided with someone––maybe a female, but it was all happening so fast––and even then, all in total darkness.

  He got struck across the side of the head. At first, he thought it was just the person’s arm––some reflex action brought about by the collision––but then as pain soared through his whole body, the blow forcing him to continue his stumble before crashing to the ground, he felt blood start pouring down his neck. He put his hand on the spot he’d been struck, now covered in a warm sticky substance, confirming what his dizzy throbbing skull was telling him.

  He heard movement around him––maybe the same person who’d hit him––and he stayed low to the ground for a moment, his head spinning as he lay there, the sounds of movement soon heard going away from him.

  He woke up from his momentary daze to the sound of a gunshot.

  11

  Dmitry Sokoloff

  Known within the Games as: Twenty

  As the man in control of Russia’s leading television networks, newspapers and internet providers, Sokoloff had access to the people of Russia as well as the people of power like few others did. He’d been a principal financier for Putin’s re-election campaign, as had been Stanislav Krupin, the man he’d replaced at Twenty following his demotion from Twelve. It was assumed Stanislav would be only too pleased to take back his position––and involvement in the Games––among the T20.

  Sokoloff had known he was on borrowed time the moment his Irish Contestant––Phelan Mcdermott––somehow gave him the slip in St Petersburg during the previous event, thereby making it back to the UK in time to claim his millions, money Sokoloff had personally invested in securing the ticket in the first place. Losing the ticket like that wasn’t the end of the world––it happened from time to time––but the real test was then how quickly you got the money back.

  The more he looked for that deceptive Irishman, the more frantic he became, sure the Irishman was receiving some help, the fact Phelan had been able to vanish overnight testament to that thought.

  As yet, Sokoloff had not been able to work out who had conspired against him. If it was someone within the Games, that was a severe breach of trust. It might be enough to secure his place among that group for a while, a bunch of people he did prefer to stay around, mainly because of the advantages it had for his empire. He couldn’t care less about anything else.

  Should the New Year event be his last––at least for now, as he determined they weren’t done with him for good––he was going to go out with a bang, quite literally––he hoped––in the case of the man he’d selected for the task.

  On two previous occasions, he’d used Irish connections to source his Contestants. Once he’d ended up with a drunk––and egg on his face––when all the man did was sit out the hours in a city centre pub, not even bothering to make an effort to run for the money. Where was the fun in that? His men had retrieved the ticket from that man’s pocket as he lay dying in a public toilet.

  He’d not been so lucky with his second Irishman, whose victory had ultimately led to the situation he was now facing. Sokoloff was now determined that the story wasn’t over as far as Phelan was concerned.

  Now he’d turned to Shane Brennan, by far the roughest cut diamond within the ten Contestants selected. Shane spent his twenties blowing things up while serving with the Irish Republican Army. In the height of the troubles, he was one of the IRA’s deadliest experts, and his capture and imprisonment had been a considerable set back at the time. Released early from prison as part of the Peace Process which mostly saw the IRA give up their weapons, Shane had left Ireland entirely, carrying out various freelance assignments, as the jobs required.

  Still, his weapons of choice were bombs, and with his growing international work, he had to be more creative, not having his substance of choice that he’d used so often in Ireland––Semtex. He’d become an expert in IEDs––Improvised Explosive Devices––building on the knowledge he’d gained under IRA leadership and developing it vastly.

  He’d been hired, therefore, specifically for the task at hand. Those working with Sokoloff had been told to be quite open with Shane, explaining as much as they knew about the contest into which he was being sent. For Shane, it was just another assignment, and the pay was better than he usually asked for. If he got to blow anything, or anyone, up––that would be a bonus.

  It was still December 31st outside of Seattle in the USA on the island of Whidbey, where Phelan Mcdermott and his family had been camping for several months. Camping was maybe the wrong word, as they’d been staying in one of the grandest properties they’d ever laid eyes on.
>
  They’d spent their first few days in America in eastern Montana, but a leak of information meant they had to flee that place and head west, where they’d been given the use of an enormous estate. It had three properties, one being a small detached building next to the main house, which was suitable for two people, and a beach-house down by the water that slept ten, which is where they had lodged, for the most part, since arriving.

  As winter had kicked in, the sea winds at times bitterly cold, they took the offer to stay in a section of the main house itself, the wing alone housing six large double bedrooms and a kitchen/lounge area that overlooked the sea. In the basement of the property, as well as a few more bedrooms, there was a twenty-seater cinema, which his boys especially liked visiting.

  It had been an exciting few months for them all. They had money––millions that Phelan had won by claiming the lottery ticket in time––but life felt more on hold than anything else. They rarely ventured very far from the property, hadn’t crossed back over the water to the mainland, either. They were secure where they were, security personnel ever present, knowing that Sokoloff was still after them.

  Phelan refused to view the money as some poisoned chalice, but it was not hard to see why that thought had come up occasionally, especially from both sets of parents, who’d moved with them, mainly for their safety. If Sokoloff could have used them to get to Phelan, he most certainly would have done.

  Phelan had not heard from his Russian connection, Matvey Filipov, a man of immense resources and ambition, for some time. The silence was becoming an issue. He wondered if it was also time to move on again. The house was large, and the grounds impressive, but stuck there for months, even something so vast was becoming a little familiar. It also rained a lot. Somewhere offering more sunshine would be a welcome relief.