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

by Tim Heath

  “My God! Is it anyone you know?”

  “I don’t know––probably. My team said that the units were dispatched following a tip-off by Foma Polzin.”

  “Number Eleven,” Anissa said, reading the name from her sheet of notes.

  “Exactly. So I think this relates to the Games, especially considering that in this situation it is the role of the Russian Guards and not the FSB to carry out anti-terrorism work like this, the apparent opponents in the stand-off.”

  “You’re saying Russian military personnel make up both sides of the siege?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told, yes. I’m going to check it out.”

  “You sure that’s safe?” Anissa couldn’t help herself from saying, though they were all in the car together, all going in the same direction. If this was Games related, things had risen to a new level.

  At the scene of the stand-off, traffic had cleared. Those who might have been around when the shooting started had run, abandoning their vehicles. Up to a dozen cars in each direction had been left, doors open, lights even still on in some instances. Shane was still lying low behind the wreck of the Mercedes, the two Russians apparently dead in the front seats.

  Men from the Russian Guards, whose two big trucks blocked both lanes of the southbound road that would reach the airport, had tried twice to advance on the taxi but were pinned down by the FSB agents who were also following orders. The only fatalities––besides the two men in the Mercedes––were two FSB agents killed by the grenades which Shane had thrown. Neither of the Russian units had yet caused direct fatalities to the other, though the stand-off threatened to escalate at any moment.

  The taxi driver had fled, allowed to leave by the soldiers who knew that their target was more stranded with him gone. Talbot lay on the floor in the back of the taxi, not knowing if the shooting was about to restart and bullets begin to rain down on him again. One had already pierced the windscreen. He was in no doubt at that moment that the men in front of him had come specifically for him.

  Sasha approached the junction in his car from one of the side roads––neither of the streets that the military personnel were camped out on, nor the route the taxi and the vehicle following had been moving along. There were maybe two dozen cars merely abandoned in front of him, leading up to the junction itself, the front of these vehicles less than forty feet from the taxi and carnage.

  To one side the three agents could see the wreck of a Mercedes, the windscreen shot through. From where they were, they couldn’t see the wheels of the car, so they had no idea that Shane was still hiding there.

  In the corridors of power in Moscow, right at the heart of the Kremlin itself, frantic calls were being made, agencies desperately trying to work out how this situation could have happened. When it was finally found out that both groups at the junction were legitimate units, it became even more severe.

  Sokoloff had been trying to get hold of the President since being ejected from the Volkov mansion. He knew what was at stake, that his personal battle within the Games had been a direct attempt to unsettle the power circles within the Kremlin. He knew that both his fall and that of Stanislav Krupin––a previous T20 member and fellow Presidential financier––had been carefully orchestrated.

  Sokoloff had demanded to speak with his Chief but had been denied that privilege. How quickly word had reached the Kremlin.

  Sergej Volkov, an incredibly influential man himself, following a call from his wife, had seen to it that Sokoloff’s fall from grace would be final. He was now efficiently a ghost.

  The call was finally put through to the Russian Guards by Putin himself four hours after the stand-off had started, and the troops got back into their trucks, pulling away from the scene. Sasha, Alex and Anissa saw this development as they were only four cars away from the junction, having moved up slowly on foot––and out of sight–– to get a better look at everything.

  The team of FSB agents quickly fanned out, approaching the Mercedes at speed, weapons raised, continually watching. Shots were then fired––multiple times. From his hidden position, Sasha could now see that a man was lying next to the car, a grenade in his hand but he had been shot dead before he’d been able to throw it. Sasha ducked down, motioning to the others to move back. The siege was over, there was nothing for them to find, and it was much better if they weren’t seen anywhere near the carnage.

  As they were getting back into the car, they saw one of the FSB vehicles pull alongside the taxi that sat in the middle of the junction, an agent getting into the front seat, a second man then seen appearing in the back, apparently having been hiding there all along. The taxi then pulled away, flanked by one of the FSB vehicles for protection, and they disappeared down the road in the direction of the airport. The order had been given to escort the passenger to Pulkovo and see him on any flight he wanted.

  As they were pulling away, Sasha as always behind the wheel and his two British associates hidden in the back seats behind tinted windows, police sirens could already be heard, ready to contain and clean up the situation as quickly as possible. The siege had been big news while it was underway, the traffic backlog terrible, but nothing more was said once it had all resolved itself. Anissa spotted the only reference in the paper the following morning, a small article buried on the tenth page that made some vague reference to some shootout but said very little. Once more, a media blackout was apparently in place for an incident that officially never happened.

  Benita’s journey to the airport had been delayed by the siege, as traffic eventually filtered through other routes; initially, the road networks had not coped at all. She was on her flight in time, however, cutting it finer than she would have wanted, but lifting into the skies at about the time Talbot himself was arriving at the airport.

  Meanwhile, Arnold Lucas, who had got the bus from St Petersburg, had reached the Russian border with Finland. There he ran into his first delay. Intending to get to Helsinki, where he could fly directly to Dublin, his passport had registered a red flag on their system, the first hint that the authorities were onto him. He was moved away from the queue and held in a small room until someone from the FSB arrived. A message had been sent to Sasha notifying him of the capture.

  Leona had managed to get away as well and was on a train heading to Moscow. There was then a flight leaving three hours after she arrived in the Russian capital, more than enough time to make it to the airport. Josée had been unable to track her opponent, being ultimately outsmarted despite having been the first to gain access to the off-limits Armoury. She’d instead gone back to her hotel room, showered continuously throughout the day, trying to get rid of the thought and image of the man having his throat cut right in front of her eyes while he was still thrusting inside her. She felt sickened by it all.

  Ambra had spotted she was being watched. The same woman who had chased her from Palace Square had been stationed permanently outside her hotel for the previous day. She decided to call in her own help, drawing on Mafia connections back home in Naples who could pull strings within unconnected––but mutually interested––Russian groups.

  The issue was resolved the moment two cars pulled up, men surrounding Hilary, a gun placed against her temple. Then three men manhandled her and shoved her into the back of their vehicle.

  Ambra left the hotel just minutes after the cars sped away, her own car waiting to drive her north, to a private airport from which she could fly across the border into northern Finland and from there small regional airports would do the rest. She was due in the UK the following morning, and once she set foot in Finland, she would be untraceable as it was only the Russian border guard that was looking for her.

  Hilary Barber was held overnight and then released, untouched apart from the force used to get her into the car in the first place. She knew by then the game was over.

  21

  As Ambra left Russian airspace––her plane tracked crossing into Finland on the evening of the fourth day, the last
of the five tickets to clear the border––the atmosphere within the Games Room settled. Each of the five Hunts was over. There was no changing the outcomes––no point in even trying––as each of the losing Contestants had nothing left to go for.

  Stafford and Shane had been killed during the Hunt, Walther detained, Hilary kidnapped, and Josée defeated. Even Arnold, who had won his Hunt, was being held at the border, the murderous lengths he’d gone to win catching up with him.

  The departure of Sokoloff––Twenty as he had been––was however undoubtedly the highlight of an action-packed day for the Hosts. His fall from grace would be spectacular, and quick––not to mention very public. Calls had already been placed, rumours spread. Sokoloff was yesterday’s news and no one with any ambition was now to associate with him. His isolation was instant, signalled by the backing down of the Russian Guards. Even his own newspapers––the offices of which he’d been denied access to the following morning by teams of his security personnel––were already turning harshly on their owner, his name permanently tainted across multiple front pages ready to hit the streets.

  The Hunt was called. Now that four Contestants had made it out of Russia, there was no stopping them. There had been four winning Hosts––and one colossal loser.

  Svetlana Volkov, composure restored even if her face still showed signs of the slap she’d received from Sokoloff, called the remaining nine men back together. After all that had just happened, she was not yet clear if it was wise to continue as they had done before or whether this would have to be their final event. She hoped not, but this latest Hunt had stretched relationships perhaps further than they ought to have gone.

  “Gentlemen, I would like to congratulate our victors––Eleven, Twelve, Fifteen and Eighteen––Eleven, making this a victorious entry in your new group.” No one else in the room was going to congratulate Foma Polzin. He was nearly four times as wealthy as his next nearest challenger and money did buy you influence––and success––in modern Russia. Nevertheless, Polzin looked pleased with his efforts. He’d brought in the FSB against Sokoloff and his Russian Guards and shown them how it was all done.

  Svetlana continued, “I fear we allowed things to get out of hand during this event. I guess that’s always the danger in offering millions to people who would do anything––even kill––to get their hands on it all. Once more you’ve all kept your own hands clean,” which wasn’t entirely true, “and it’s been these common people, these Contestants, who have yet again bloodied the Motherland. Gentlemen, I assure you, we will not be doing something like this for a long time,” which brought a murmur of laughter around the room, the tense atmosphere dissipating, “but I would like to see you all again at some point. I think, for now, this concludes our four days together. Feel free to stay another night if you need to, and of course, do help yourselves to drinks.”

  Polzin raised his glass: “To our Chair!”

  Each man toasted her and finished their drink. They all did it automatically rather than from any sense of genuine loyalty. The moment passed, and a few people made their exit right away. The four winners––if you could call them that––remained. Polzin, Arseni Markovic, Aleksey Kuznetsov and Pavlov stood together, glass in hand.

  “To each of our winning Contestants,” Polzin said, very much the biggest fish in this much smaller pond.

  He felt he’d managed to get a good reading on the other men in the room over the last four days, apparently confirming his position as top dog. Over the next months, he would look to increase that influence, especially over Presidential hopeful Sixteen––Dmitry Kaminski. On him, he would be keeping an especially close eye, as had been the plan all along.

  It was the following morning, as Sasha drove the few hours it would take him to get to the Finnish border. Arnold had been detained overnight, his €20 million lottery ticket still on him––no one was going to bother claiming it now.

  Having taken custody of the man, they travelled back to St Petersburg in silence, the Englishman secured in position in the back seat, the Russian driving up front, occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror, but there was nothing but defeat in the prisoner’s eyes. He wasn’t a fighter, had found himself caught up in something he’d not been able to control––something much more significant than him––making him do something he regretted, and all for what? For some money that he would never get to claim? It sounded all so pitiful to him as he looked back on it as the miles passed.

  Sasha was bringing Arnold back to his own office, though was making one stop first––which was highly unconventional––but he wanted the two British agents to be in on his first interview. And that couldn’t be done if it was held at FSB HQ.

  Walther Bruhn was now also on his way to the safe-house. Sasha hoped that between the two prisoners and the three agents, they would be able to get information that would lead them to those higher up the ladder. He’d cancelled the alert out on Hilary––no need for her passport details to flag up at the border––as there was no crime that they were aware of that she’d committed.

  Sasha pulled up at the building––an FSB safe-house where the two Brits were already waiting for him––and escorted Arnold from the car. He led him into the white-walled main interview room located just inside the front door. Alex and Anissa were already sitting there as Sasha entered with Arnold, and neither stood. Arnold felt outnumbered––intimidated even––wondering if he would even be able to communicate with the Russians.

  Hearing Anissa telling him to take a seat––speaking to him in clear native English––therefore came like a hammer blow. If anything, it was yet more terrifying to have the British involved than had it only been the Russians.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “You are, and that will be finalised once you are moved to the FSB building.”

  “Where am I then? Who are you?”

  “All in good time, Arnold,” Alex spoke up, his English again clear and native. “We’ve been looking for you for some time.”

  Sasha dropped the photographs of him at the metro, the images a little blurry but they were as good as they had. Arnold acted as if he didn’t know about what they were talking.

  “This is you.”

  “Is it?” He strained his eyes as if trying to see the likeness.

  Sasha pulled out his tablet, playing the video he’d downloaded from YouTube, which showed him shouldering Stafford to his death. The video had since been taken down from the website.

  Arnold sat back in his chair, nothing more to say.

  “We want the people who put you up to this,” Anissa said.

  “And you’ll make this what? All go away, all vanish as if nothing had happened? Is that it?”

  “We can help you, Arnold, if you let us.”

  “How, tell me? How can you help me now? Really? Go on; I’m listening.”

  Sasha looked cautiously towards Alex as if warning his British friend not to say anything that might not be true. The Russians wouldn’t let Arnold go quickly, and they all knew it.

  “How much were you playing for?”

  “The ticket you mean?” and he stood up, reaching into his back pocket. Sasha instinctively drew his weapon in an instant, training it on Arnold, making the Englishman freeze.

  “Easy, easy,” Alex cautioned, Sasha lowering his weapon slightly, as Arnold pulled out the ticket.

  “This thing? As if it is worth the €20 million they told me it was worth. How stupid do they think I am?” He threw it onto the table.

  “You must have thought it was worth killing for.”

  “I didn’t want to kill him. I simply needed a delay. I wasn’t thinking it through. They hid the ticket in the middle of the tunnel, and we were both aiming for it. I’d recognised him from earlier in the day, so I knew it was him. I knew he was trying to get to the same ticket as well. It was the only reason he was there. I acted on impulse. I wasn’t thinking. I never planned to kill him.” He was shaking now, noticeably.
r />   “Who put you up to it? What were you doing earlier in the day? How did you recognise him?”

  Arnold composed himself a moment, looking each of them in the face, before addressing Sasha.

  “Who are you?”

  “FSB,” he replied, Arnold turning to the other two.

  “And you? Don’t tell me you’re also FSB as well.”

  “No, but we’re highly invested in your situation.”

  “Look, I don’t know about any of this,” Arnold said, noticeably agitated once more. “Don’t I get to speak to a lawyer or something? You can’t hold me here without charge. I’ve already been detained overnight and yet still haven’t spoken to anyone.”

  “Arnold, believe me, we’re your best bet at getting anything good from this,” Anissa started, sitting forward once more, a foot or so from him. “Once you get processed here, we won’t be able to help you. You’ll be taken into the Russian system, and that might be that. You’ve seen the footage they have on you. You don’t have a leg to stand on. Tell us what you know. We know all about the Games. We know you were working for a Russian oligarch, we know that he had you chasing a lottery ticket,” she said, pointing to the table. “There’s no need to hold anything from us now. You’ve been caught red-handed. Don’t cover for anyone. There’s nothing left in this for you now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know about anything you’ve mentioned, I’ve had no direct contact with any Russian. All I know is that I was dropped off at a warehouse on the first of January, and now I’m here.”

  “What warehouse?” Sasha said.

  “I’ve no idea. Some distance from the city.”

  “What happened to your head?”

  “I got hit, in the warehouse. It was dark, and I don’t know who did it.”

  “How did you get to the warehouse?”

  “A van collected me––there were two of us in the back, two Russians––I assume––in the front.”