by T. J. Lebbon
Rose was surprised to find that she was shivering, even in the heat. Whenever she blinked, dark visions haunted the place behind her eyes. She knew who and what they were, but she didn’t want to look.
‘Shit, I could do with a drink.’
‘Of course you could!’ Holt said, laughing. ‘You think anything is that easy?’
‘Don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one who takes a water bottle into bars.’
‘Touché.’ He laughed and drained his bottle. He held it up to the sun and stared at it, like a drunk considering another empty glass. ‘I haven’t had a drink in seventeen years,’ he said.
‘Congratulations.’
‘And nine months, and probably a few days.’
‘And still counting.’
‘It’s just a thing, now. A part of me. Occasionally I want a drink so much it hurts, but that only lasts a moment or two, and those moments are fewer and farther between. Being an ex-alcoholic is as much part of me now as being French, or being someone who … ’ He tapped the gun in his belt.
‘Why did you stop?’ It was a loaded question, and once out there she realised how intensely personal she was being. The air between them was suddenly uncomfortable, the silence fragile and sharp.
‘Because when I was drunk, I couldn’t shoot straight.’ He stood, groaning and holding his knees like a much older man. She could see how fit and gnarly he was, and she thought the constant moaning and holding of joints was partly a facade. Maybe he didn’t even realise he was doing it any more. Projecting weakness would put a potential enemy at ease. And it made her wonder how much else of what she saw was not the genuine Holt.
Standing, he lifted his shirt and showed her his left side. His flank was scarred and knotted, skin folded and hard.
‘And one time, I missed.’
Rose nodded slowly. It was all about control. A younger man, a drunk, he had survived purely through chance. Now he balanced every move he made. He kept hold of fate by the tail.
‘So what else can you teach me?’
‘Let’s take it easy,’ he said. ‘One thing at a time.’
Rose went to object, but he silenced her with a look. Holt could do that. Sometimes he carried his whole violent history in one glance.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Got somewhere better to be?’
Sometimes she found Holt looking at her strangely. He never attempted to hide the expression, but neither did he explain it. It was enigmatic, a sort of worried confusion, as if he was trying to make a difficult decision. She tried to put her own explanation in place – he was falling for her, he wanted them to screw, he was starting to have second thoughts about what he was doing. None of them seemed to fit. Maybe it was hesitation or doubt she saw in his eyes.
He’d raise an eyebrow and wave away her concern, then talk about something else.
She only discovered what that look meant much later, long after she believed she would never see him again.
Chapter Fifteen
broken bones
Rose had never been a runner. When she was married – a wife, a mother, someone who still had a part to play in the normal world – she’d sometimes gone to Zumba with friends, and she and Adam had taken it in turns to walk their family dog. But she’d always left the more extreme, energetic activities to others. Adam had played football. Their children had gone swimming and biking, and Molly had been a ballet dancer since she was five. Rose had always said that being a mother kept her fit.
She’d always known that she was fooling herself, and there had been frequent vows to increase her exercise. Like many late-thirties couples, she and Adam had been the proud owners of an exercise bike that acted more as a clothes horse, a rowing machine that was gathering cobwebs in their garage, and she’d bought an expensive pair of running shoes that had served well when she was gardening or walking the dog. The will was there, but so were all the other time-consuming things that went to make up a life. She’d complained that she’d never had time, but in truth she had never made it.
After her family’s massacre, losing time had come easy to her. The drink, the city, the London stench and chatter of tourists and anonymity, days and weeks drifted by without her differentiating day from night, season from season. And then she’d seen Grin, and fled, and Holt had found her.
Now she wished to hell he’d taught her more. His reply when she talked about fitness and strength had always been, I can’t build your muscles or force you to run. And so she hadn’t.
After abandoning the BMW where she’d dropped Chris off only twenty minutes before, she had started working her way uphill. And she was suffering. She’d brought her gun, and given Chris everything she thought he might need to survive out on the hills, but she’d neglected to look after herself. Even as she reached the huddle of rocks where she’d told him to hide she was already gasping for water, sweating, and on the verge of passing out.
Good planning, Rose! she thought. Fucking idiot.
She moved on quickly. He’d have run away from the hunters, up towards the ridge she could see in the distance. She listened for the sounds of the helicopter returning. The gun was heavy in her waistband, her phone tucked in the front jeans pocket. She was sweating. The jeans were chafing.
Remembering the dead people in Chris’s house made the pain, the discomfort from sweat, and the thirst seem inconsequential.
She had shocked herself. She’d dreamed for years of pulling the trigger and seeing one or more of them die at her own hand. Holt had warned her that there was no saying how she might react. He’d known the hardest of killers crumble, and seen the meekest of people turn into heartless, soulless murderers.
‘Do you think about life?’ he’d asked.
‘I used to,’ she’d replied.
‘Every death is a story,’ Holt had said. ‘Every life halted is the end of every part of that story. You’re turning something living into something dead. Destroying a miracle.’ He’d surprised her with the use of that word. He’d claimed no religious beliefs, yet he’d used a term that surpassed science. ‘Life is something we can’t explain. And you’ll be stopping it.’
‘They’re not alive,’ had been her reply. ‘Not in any way I can understand.’
Ending three lives, she had barely blinked. Perhaps her reaction would be delayed. Maybe because she hadn’t yet had a chance to pause and consider what she’d done, the full implications of her actions were yet to impress upon her. But she could think of slashing the man’s throat open with the knife, shooting the other two at point-blank range, and there was not a flicker of remorse inside. For all she knew, those three had been present at her family’s death. They might even have done the killing.
She was happy with that lack of remorse. It made what might come next easier.
Chris and the hunters had a good head start, but she knew that she’d catch up with them. She had to. The men who paid for such a service were usually rich and, if not actually fat, then unfit. She’d found that out, as well as a lot more, during the years she had spent researching and snooping on the Trail. She’d never tried to understand them, because she’d known from the beginning that was way beyond her, and she didn’t want to understand. But she had attempted to know them.
Normally middle-aged or older, wealthy and successful, usually married with children, owners of their own companies or high-up executives in multi-national corporations. On occasion, a politician or a military man. She’d discovered some oddities – a younger, less wealthy man who somehow found his way into this sordid, sick world, and once, a woman. Rose had been shocked at that, because she’d discovered that the woman was a mother.
There had come a time when she’d considered exposing them all. But though she had some elements of proof, exposure might rob her of the chance for vengeance. Remaining covert, hidden away out of the Trail’s sight until she was ready, had been her priority.
There would come a time, though, when everyone who had been involved in a hunt would come to regret the
choices they had made. She had kept good records, and was careful about where they resided.
Closing on the ridge, she heard a distant rumble. She paused with her head tilted to one side, trying to ease her panting, one hand cupped behind her ear. It was a long, low whisper, like a strong breeze but somehow more solid, more textured. She ducked down and lay flat against the ground, ferns hanging above her offering scant cover. Helicopter? She didn’t think so. They’d still be making their plans for her, and she’d gambled that they would not yet want to corrupt the hunt with a hunt of their own. So far it seemed she was right.
The noise died down and a lonely silence fell across the valley once more.
Don’t worry about it, bunny, Adam said.
Rose frowned, shook her head. He’d spoken to her before since he’d been murdered, but only when she was rising from a drunken slumber into a consuming hangover. She’d usually silenced him again with more booze. She hadn’t heard his voice in some time.
‘Not now, baby,’ she said. ‘I don’t need that right now.’
Silence. She sighed and started climbing again.
By the time she reached the ridge half an hour later she’d heard that gentle, rumbling whisper two more times.
On the other side of the ridge, splayed down the hillside into the wide valley beyond, was a wide scree slope.
‘Hey!’
She ducked, hand reaching for her gun, looking around to try to locate the source of the shout.
‘Hey, down here!’
Halfway across the slope and a couple of hundred metres down, two men waited on the hillside. They were hunters, both wearing camouflage gear and small rucksacks, and she could make out the stark black lines of their rifles on the ground beside them. One of them was sitting, the other seemed to be crouched across the slope, lying at an awkward angle.
Rose thought quickly. They hadn’t been panicked by her appearance, so they probably didn’t know about her. And why would they? The Trail wouldn’t want to advertise that they had encountered a problem, and that one of their past targets – the only one who had ever got away, as far as she could tell – had returned. It would make them look bad, and that was something they could not afford. They’d probably found a way to explain the sudden change of venue. Maybe they’d suggested it was added excitement, an extra element to the hunt.
She smiled. Perhaps this was when her own haphazard plan – no plan at all, really, just an intention to kill as many Trail members as she could, even though she didn’t know exactly how many were involved in this hunt – began to take on a more manageable form.
‘I’ll be down now!’ she shouted.
The sitting man stood, and she was pleased to see that he left his gun lying there. ‘Edge down slowly, and don’t fight it when the shale shifts,’ he shouted.
Rose held up one hand. Yeah, right, easy for him to say. This was why she had brought Chris up here, because he seemed to know stuff like this. Like the hunters, she was just muddling through.
Several hair-raising minutes later, she was crouched ten feet from the two men. And in those minutes she had pulled on a disguise. It was more mental than physical, though she tried to exude control and confidence, and did her best to present an aura of professionalism.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Max broke his ankles and a wrist,’ the man said. He was average height and build, maybe fifty, with manicured nails and a haircut and shave that probably cost an average family’s weekly wage. He spoke like he didn’t give a shit.
‘Clumsy,’ Rose said.
‘Yeah, well, you pricks send us where we’re not expecting to go and—’
‘Hey, hey, who’re you calling pricks?’ Rose said. They do think I’m Trail. Of course they do. Why else would I be running around up here with a gun in my belt?
‘Just get me out of here!’ Max was pale and sweating in pain, propped awkwardly on his right side and in imminent danger of rolling downhill. His left foot drooped at an odd angle, and his left hand rested on his ample stomach.
‘You know there’s a recovery fee?’ Rose asked.
‘What? After all I’ve paid you?’ He was furious, but trying not to move because the pain was so great.
‘Which one are you?’ Rose asked the well-groomed man.
‘Patrick McMahon.’
‘Right, Mr McMahon. My guess is that you’re keen to—’
‘Hell, yes. You’ll stay with him? You’ll make sure he’s taken care of? I mean, you’re all right here?’ His voice trailed off as if realising the foolishness of what he’d asked.
‘Of course she’s all right,’ Max said. ‘She’s one of them! Dickhead. Anyway. Thanks for staying.’
‘No problem. Dickhead.’ Patrick looked down at the injured fat man, then rolled his eyes at Rose.
She forced a smile. He’ll have a wife, maybe kids. Big house, several cars. The name’s familiar … actor, TV guy, writer? Maybe just a well-known businessman. But today, he wants to kill Chris and cut his balls off as a trophy. Her smile turned into something else, a forced grin that hurt her face. Patrick’s face dropped as he backed away, then he snatched up his gun and was moving carefully across the scree, taking longer steps as it shifted beneath him. He didn’t look back.
She could have shot him from there. She rested her hand on the gun in her belt.
‘So are you going to call the helicopter back?’
Rose watched Patrick a moment longer, then squatted down next to Max.
He stank. He was shaking, even though the afternoon up here was pleasantly warm. A breeze whispered across the mountainside, flicking hair into her eyes. She reached out to touch his ankle, then held back. It was so tempting … but if he screamed in pain, Patrick might decide to come back and help.
‘So when the fuck are you going to … ?’
‘Just give me a minute,’ Rose said, pretending to look him over. In reality she was watching the other hunter gain more solid ground. He didn’t even look back before disappearing across the mountainside, hidden by tumbled rocks and a fold in the land that sprouted a few stark trees. His movements looked clumsy and desperate. He was keen to catch up, and she couldn’t understand how someone could be so eager to kill.
Not without a good reason.
‘You don’t look like one of them,’ Max said.
‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged, and the movement must have shifted broken bone against bone. The shrug froze and he winced, so hard that his fat face wrinkled into something resembling a bulldog.
‘Can you move at all?’ she asked.
‘No … ’ he croaked through that twisted-up face. He was paler than ever, and she thought he might puke.
She hadn’t expected this. The thought of what she’d do to the hunters was a possible part of her vague plan – hurting them might be a way to lure in the Trail – but she hadn’t expected one to present himself to her on a plate like this.
‘So, the others … ’ she said, trailing off.
‘Huh?’
‘You know, Patrick, and … ’ She waved her hand as if trying to recall.
‘I don’t know their names. Why the hell would I know their names? So are you lot going to get me to hospital, or what?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ she said. ‘Let me use your satphone.’
‘You don’t have one?’
‘Crap reception,’ she said, hoping it would silence him for a bit, at least. He’d already removed his small backpack, and she sat a few feet from him and rifled through it. She kept one eye on him, one on his gun. It looked like an expensive weapon. Of course it was. Rich people wouldn’t want to kill with a crappy piece of kit.
Max groaned, rocking backward and forward slightly on his one good arm.
He had water, food, ammunition, and a satphone. Its screen was locked, but when she unlocked it a single number was outlined.
Rose took in a deep breath, closed her eyes, thought things through. This was a gift, and she had to use it
well.
‘I’m going to ease you onto your back,’ she said.
‘No, don’t move me, it’ll hurt—’
‘I’ve got to check you over! Listen, I had medical training in the army, I can’t just leave you lying there in case … ’ She trailed off and looked at his feet.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Okay, quick and easy,’ she said, hoping she’d injected just the right amount of seriousness into her voice.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Just let me see.’ She eased herself in front of him and prepared to push him onto his back, glancing again at his left foot.
‘What is it?’ he asked again.
She pushed against his left arm and chest, rolling him onto his back and freeing his good arm.
He groaned, reaching for her, hand fisted. It was a clumsy blow that barely nudged her, but she leaned over him and pinned him to the ground by his shoulders.
‘You ever want to walk again?’ she asked.
Max nodded.
‘Here.’ She handed him the satphone. ‘Call and tell them what’s happened while I deal with you.’
She turned away, mind racing, pretending to look at his wounded ankles but listening, waiting for his reaction.
The satphone beeped.
Rose hovered one hand above the wounded man’s legs. She winced at the stink of him. He was a pissing, moaning nobody, a wretch, and while he probably had more money than she’d ever see or even dream of, it made him a monster. She wondered why he’d become what he was, but really she didn’t want or need to know. She wouldn’t question him or plead with him.
She’d simply use him.
‘Hey, yeah, it’s Max Lyons, you’ve gotta help me. I’ve fallen and broken my ankles, and I can’t … What? Yeah, already.’
A pause.
‘No I’m not alone, one of—’
Rose tweaked his ankle. Max shouted, dropping the phone and slapping his arm down onto the shale. She picked it up and handed it to him again, turning away and leaning over his legs again.
‘Sorry, yeah. Yeah? Okay, I’m about a mile down the valley from … oh, okay.’