by T. J. Lebbon
The hunters had also paused to watch the helicopter, and as it drifted off way down the valley two of them waved. Chris laughed. They were like kids on a hike waving as their parents drove away and left them to it.
He only hoped the helicopter really was leaving them to their own devices.
He moved off again, faster than before. The ridge was close, maybe thirty metres away. He had no idea what lay beyond – a gentle slope into the next valley, a tangled descent of fallen boulders and difficult climbs, a sheer drop. Whatever, he would have to make the most of it.
Thirsty, scared, heart thumping, sweat flowing, he gained the ridge and crouched down, running quickly across its highest point. He’d seen the movies, read the thrillers. He knew that he’d offer them a silhouette to shoot at.
Sure enough, the first distant cracks echoed up to him. A bullet ricocheted way downhill from him, and another buzzed past to his left. He didn’t know how close it had been, but for him to hear it he guessed pretty close. Luck? Or was at least one of them a decent shot? He didn’t know, and had no desire to wait to find out. He ran until he was below the ridge line, then paused.
The view was staggering. To the east and south, craggy mountains spiked at the air, a shoulder of ridges and ravines connecting them. The valley before him wound generally south-west, and to the west was the mountain he was working his way around, its summit speckled with the remnants of snowfields. It was wild country. There were no roads visible. The landscape was barren and appeared unfarmed, though he could make out a few irregular lines of random rubble-walling drawn here and there. Occasional huddles of sheep crumbed the wide expanses of open moorland. The sky above was huge, smudged here and there with high clouds but generally warm and blue. He needed sun cream. He should search his rucksack for a hat.
But all of that was later. Because now he had a chance to put some real distance between him and his pursuers.
Ahead of him, the whole slope was a field of scree.
If Chris was careful, this was where he could get far enough ahead of them to pause and take stock. Scree running wasn’t easy. It was dangerous, unpredictable, and it took not only a steady concentration, but a willingness to let go. Tense up, be too cautious, and the scree would have you. It wasn’t running, but falling with style.
Tensing and then relaxing his shoulders, shaking his hands down by his sides, he focussed only on the next few minutes. He’d make a diagonal descent, hopefully gaining the other side of the scree field halfway down the slope. From there, he’d make his way into deep cover.
He started a slow, even run. The first few metres were on solid slabs of rock, and he plotted his course almost without thinking, stepping from one rock to another, looking ahead, gliding over the ground. When he hit the scree, everything started moving. The loose shale beneath his feet slipped like cracked ice, disturbed by his footfalls and plucked from its precarious state by gravity. It flowed, and Chris allowed himself to be carried with it. Arms loose by his sides, shoulders relaxed, he maintained balance through his core and hips. Each sweeping step was three metres long, then five, as whole spreads of scree started pouring downhill. Dust rose around and behind him, but he was already moving too fast for it to affect his eyes or throat. By the time the grey clouds billowed, he was past.
He grinned. He couldn’t help himself – despite everything that was happening, all that he’d already seen, this simple act pumped adrenalin around his body and set his senses on fire. This was what he lived for, and how he’d continue to live.
He took long, high steps, going with the flow instead of fighting it. He aimed for the other side of the scree field, allowing himself to be carried downhill as well because to fight it would be to risk injury. The scree carried him, and his quick, long steps kept him on its rapidly shifting surface. Any hesitation or forced pause might allow his legs to sink deeper, and then would come the broken bones.
Even before he reached the far edge of the scree, he’d decided that he would wait to see what happened.
The noise filled his ears. If they’d already made it to the ridge and were shooting at him, he’d never know. But he was moving quickly, and the dust clouds behind him would offer some element of protection. Down the slope from him, great sheets of shale poured downward into the valley, whispering and then roaring across the stones beneath. For a moment he thought of going that way – down, instead of across – knowing that he could make it to the valley floor quickly. But once down there he’d have nowhere left to go, and he was sure he’d lose an advantage. He knew the hills, and he had the experience and energy to run them.
As he closed on the far edge of the scree, he started taking shorter, more calculated steps. At last the ground beneath him stopped moving, and instead he moved across the ground, darting for the shelter afforded by a tumble of rocks, and the trees that had grown amongst them. It was an ideal hiding place – shadowy, uneven, and with a stream tinkling down from the mountainside.
Crouching in the shadows of low trees, Chris settled and looked back up the slope. He had to squint, but he was pretty sure none of the hunters had made the ridge yet. That was good, it gave him time to have a drink and check the rucksack contents in detail.
There were two full water bottles, as well as the water bladder. He took a drink from one, and it was already warm. Then he fed the bladder’s water feed pipe through the hole and clipped it to the rucksack’s left shoulder strap.
Beneath the energy bars and gels he found a pack of flapjacks, some mixed fruit and nuts, two bagels with jam and peanut butter. That was a relief. It was good energy food, the sort he’d have chosen himself, although there wasn’t much of it. There was a map and compass, but that was useless if he couldn’t work out where he was to begin with. A head torch. The penknife had a three-inch blade, fork, spoon, and other implements he’d never need. The clothing was good quality outdoor wear.
He had maybe a day’s worth of supplies.
Tugging the phone from his back pocket, he activated the small screen and checked it again. There was no signal, and when he scrolled through the contacts there was only one number listed, unnamed. Rose. Even if he did have a signal, he guessed the phone was locked in some way so that he couldn’t use it to call anyone else.
Rose was using him as much as they were. He’d thought that from the beginning, when she’d saved him by slaughtering three people in his own home. And now? The police would be swarming all over his house – his neighbours had seen him with Rose, and seen the bullet hole in the car window. It would be a major crime scene, screened off from the rest of the street and all over the national news. Architect and family missing, leaving two men and a woman brutally murdered in their home.
‘I’m a wanted man,’ he whispered. But even if he did desire to give himself up to police, he couldn’t. To do so would be to doom his family to the same fate that Rose’s husband and three children had suffered.
At least, that’s what she’d told him. Could he believe a single word she said?
Movement on the ridge caught his eye, and he quickly packed the rucksack again, tucking one of the water bottles into the outside net pocket.
The first of the hunters was up there, shielding his eyes and scanning the scree slope below. Two others soon joined him. If any of them had an ounce of sense they’d see the disturbed pattern in the shale, the settling dust, and know which way Chris had come.
They were still too far away for him to make out their faces, but he could see by their stance and gesticulating arms that they were arguing.
‘Come on. Chase me.’
The first man – the tall, thin blond one – started across the scree slope. A shorter, fatter man followed. The third waited, obviously having decided to take a rest while the other two caught up.
‘Come on, Blondie,’ Chris said. And he smiled, because it was already obvious that these bastards didn’t know what they were doing. Blondie took small, hesitant steps, and when the scree started to slip beneath him he fel
l into the hill, reaching out to hold himself upright. He paused until the movement ceased, then slung his rifle across his back and started crab-walking across the slope.
Behind him, the fatter man was taking high, short steps, and Chris could see that his momentum was already getting the better of him. The ground started to shift, and the more he tried to slow down, the faster he moved. He might have cried out for help, but his voice was lost in the mountain’s amused whisper of loose stone. Accelerating into a clumsy run, heading straight downhill instead of across, he made the mistake Chris was waiting for. As he jammed both feet together in an effort to halt, the hundreds of tonnes of shale around him kept moving.
This time his voice was audible as he cried out in agony. One or both of his ankles had gone, perhaps his shins too. He fell forward so that his head was aiming downhill, and the way his arm folded Chris thought his wrist might have snapped as well.
Blondie paused in his crab-walk and looked back and down at his companion. They both grew still, and the roar of the sliding shale slowly lessened to a loaded stillness.
‘Help!’ the fat man shouted. His voice was high, almost comical. ‘Help me, I think I’ve broken my—’
‘Fucking idiot,’ Blondie shouted.
The other two men had arrived up on the ridge. Rambo had now removed his shirt as well, and even from this far away Chris could see rolls of flab and his heavy gut hanging over his waist. Good. He wouldn’t be able to keep this pace for much longer.
‘Help!’ the injured man called again.
‘Help him!’ Blondie shouted up at the ridge. Then he started moving again, taking slow, careful sidesteps. Whenever the scree whispered itself into motion, he paused until it subsided. Not the easiest or most efficient way to cross, but it would work. Leaving his injured companion behind, Blondie was continuing the hunt.
That’s the one I’ll have to watch. He’s learning already. And he doesn’t give a shit.
Chris was relieved that Blondie was not moving faster. But he’d have to move quickly to put distance between them.
Chapter Fourteen
lemons
Holt nursed her through the nightmares. Previously, fed by alcohol and the vagueness of a brain slowly losing its way, those bad dreams had been unfocussed, surreal visions, hanging with her when she awoke but never revealing themselves fully.
Sobering up and becoming part of the world once more, the nightmares hit her full and hard.
Holt was always there when she awoke. His hand clasped hers, as if pulling her up from the depths of nightmare, and she’d haul him down and hug him tight. She stank of piss and sweat and fear, but he never drew away. She knew he’d smelled it all before. There was nothing sexual, nothing provocative in their contact or her need for him. And ironically, the more snippets of his history she learned – the killing, the chaos, the life constructed of blood and war – the more she trusted his motivations. If he wanted her he could take her almost without blinking. This was all about being human.
And then one time the nightmare never came, and she found herself in dreams. There was a vague awareness that was dreaming, though she was not steering or dictating, but that didn’t make it any less wonderful. Adam and her beautiful children were there, and they were holidaying in a place they’d never been. She and Adam had loved the countryside from an early age, and now the five of them were camping in the Rockies. The scenery was spellbinding, humbling, life-affirming, and Molly, Isaac and Alex were all just a little older than she had ever known them. This is what might have been, she thought, and rather than sadness she felt contentment. They would have come here together and had a wonderful time. There would have been love and affection, adventure and wonder. A dream was all she could hope for, but it was something.
When she awoke, Holt was sitting in his usual place by the window. He’d nodded off in the chair, and the breeze brushed the light curtain back and forth across his arm. He seemed not to notice. His shirt had rucked up when he’d shifted, and she saw the angular black glimmer of a gun in his belt. It was the first time she’d seen him with his guard down.
Rose sat up quietly, and the movement woke him up. He stared right at her, expressionless.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You look better.’
‘I feel … ’ She shook her head. She didn’t know how she felt. Better? Sober? Not even nearly. She guessed that she’d never shake the taste for drink, but she could build a defence against it. Knowing that sobriety might occasionally give her such dreams would be a good start.
Holt stood, stretched, all creaking bones and groaning muscles. ‘Come on,’ he said. He grabbed a black holdall from behind the small sofa against the room’s far wall.
‘Where?’
He took a gun from the bag. It was small, squat, ugly, and Rose felt a flush of queasiness when she saw him check it over. Then he held it out to her.
‘Time to start learning,’ he said.
The sickness evaporated. Excitement rose in its place.
It was the first time they’d left Sorrento since he’d taken her there, however long before. She’d lost count of the days, each one fading into the next, periods of darkness marked as much by her disturbed sleeping pattern as the rise and fall of the sun. Holt had arranged for food to be delivered to their room, and several times they’d changed hotels. They were the sorts of places rarely included in tourist brochures, and while clean and comfortable, they’d never win awards.
They were never disturbed.
After three hours in the car – it was an old taxi, though she couldn’t imagine Holt ever working that job – he drove them up an old track that led into the mountains. Twenty minutes later they stopped in front of a long, low structure, weeds growing in its gutters, windows boarded up, firmly locked doors protecting an empty interior.
Holt did not have a key, but that did not slow him down.
She didn’t ask him what the old building was or how he knew they’d be safe using the gun inside. It was probably best she didn’t know.
He set up a few old beer cans on a wooden bench and fired a few shots at them. Four out of five found their target.
‘Your turn,’ he said. He loaded the gun for her and told her where to stand.
The weapon was heavier than she’d expected. He stood behind her and showed her where to place her feet, how to bend her knees slightly, how to clasp her right hand around the gun and cup it in her left hand. He explained about safety catches and grips, then stood back.
Rose rested her finger on the trigger.
‘Squeeze, don’t pull,’ he said. ‘It’ll kick a bit.’
She squeezed. It kicked. A splinter leapt from the wooden wall behind the cans on the bench. The gunshot was incredibly loud, but after the first two her ears were numbed and the explosions seemed more distant. Her hearing hummed as Holt changed magazines for her, and this time he held her arms for longer, chin resting on her left shoulder as he drifted the gun slightly left and right to help her aim.
The fourth shot found its mark and a can flipped back into the wall.
Rose smiled. A flush of success lit her. She looked back at Holt and he was nodding slowly.
‘Well done. You killed a can.’
Her smile dropped, and she turned back to the range.
‘Never go for a head shot,’ he said behind her. ‘Always shoot at their centre of mass, that way you’re less likely to miss. And even if your aim’s a bit off, a bullet to the shoulder or hip will incapacitate them for long enough for you to move in and make the kill.’
She blinked past her hands and the gun, looking at the old tins left standing. She waited for Holt to say more, but he had fallen silent once again. He was watching her, perhaps assessing how she reacted to his comment, and the realisation that this was all about killing people. Not tin cans.
Rose closed her eyes briefly, and when she looked again she imagined Grin standing in front of her. She aimed at her right eye and squeezed the trigger. A can bounced from the wal
l, blasted into two parts.
‘Head shot,’ she whispered. If Holt heard, he did not comment.
They spent another hour shooting, then sat in the shade outside and passed a water bottle back and forth.
‘But sometimes the hard bit is getting them where you can kill them,’ he said. ‘Aiming the gun, pulling the trigger, seeing what you’ve done to the person … that’s all in here.’ He tapped his head. ‘Morals, desires. The need for revenge. That’s something for you to handle and settle with yourself, and live with forever, and I can’t help you with that. But there are also practicalities.’
Rose took the bottle from him and drank a healthy slug of water. ‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘They’re not people. Not in my eyes.’
‘So these Trail characters, you think they’ll come to you? Stand quietly while you point the gun, not fight back while you’re hesitating, battling with yourself—’
‘There’ll be no battle. I get them where I want them, then I’ll kill them.’
‘Hmmm,’ Holt said. He didn’t quite laugh, held back a smile.
‘You doubt me?’ Rose asked.
‘It’s not my place to doubt you. I barely even know you. I’m just saying that the ability to kill someone isn’t just in your desire and willingness to pull the trigger. It’s in the planning. Lot of people forget about that. They get so tangled up in the why that they forget the how.’
Rose drank again, looking out across the harsh landscape. Heat haze feigned a lake in the distance, nestled within the rolling hills. Lemon trees hustled in strict lines, the crops covering mile after mile. In rockier places, hardy trees and low shrubs clung to pockets of soil. Evolution had given them the ability to survive in this hot place, and she too was evolving. She was nowhere near the woman she had been, though she retained a residue of that wife and mother inside, and she always would. That was essential.
But now she was growing towards someone and something else.