On the Hunt

by Kerry J Donovan

  “The Prentiss family …”

  “What about them?”

  “Are you sure killing them all is the right thing to do?”

  “What!” Viktor drew closer to the bed and clenched his fist. “You dare to question my orders? You challenge me—”

  Lajos flinched and held up his hand.

  “Papa, I … Please, let me speak.”

  Viktor relented. He would not beat the cripple. At least not yet. He opened his hand, flexed his fingers, and stepped away from the bed.

  “Continue.”

  “Ryan Kai—Őrült said he would do nothing further if we did the same.”

  “So, Lajos One Arm,” Viktor said, jeering at the infirmity of his weakling son, “what would you do in my position?”

  “Papa, in your position,” he said in a near whisper, “I would let the matter drop. We have suffered significant losses and have gained nothing in return.”

  His true colours shone through. The colours of a weakling with a huge yellow stripe running down his back.

  “You snivelling coward!” Viktor snarled. “This is exactly what I would expect from the son of a whore.”

  “Papa!”

  “You expect me to do nothing? You expect me to sit here and lick my wounds while Őrült laughs at me? While the whole world laughs at me?”

  “Papa, I—”

  “If I did nothing to avenge Vadik and the loss of my money, what do you think would happen next?” he roared.

  Lajos One Arm fell silent.

  “Well?”

  “I-I …”

  “The world would see me as weak, incompetent. The families we have been fighting for years, the Kordas and the Horváths, those filthy vultures”—he made fists again and leaned forwards to threaten the squirming cripple—“they would gather together. They would drive us into the Danube and we would be finished. Finished!”

  The chin of Lajos One Arm trembled, but he found the courage to say more. “W-We have our compound and our wealth, Papa. We are safe here. Why risk everything?”

  “Enough!” Viktor screamed.

  He leapt forwards and swung. His open-handed slap rang out around the sickroom.

  Lajos squealed and cowered in his bed.

  “Do not speak of this again. Andris is on his way to England. He will obey my orders. Do you hear me?”

  Apart from his snivelling, Lajos One Arm fell silent, covering his slapped cheek with his hand.

  “I asked, ‘Do you hear me’, boy!”

  “Y-Yes, Papa. I-I hear you. Please don’t hit me again.”

  “Hit you? Hit you? Do not be ridiculous. I did not hit you, my boy. The Giant of Győr would never hit a cripple. That was merely a love tap.”

  Viktor sneered, turned on his three-inch heel, and left the sickroom. If he had his way, Viktor would never enter it again. Illness and infirmity made him uncomfortable and he refused to be uncomfortable in his own home.

  Outside, the housekeeper stood before him.

  “Any news from the doctor?”

  “No, főnök.”

  Damn his soul. If the man did not arrive on time and as expected, he would answer to Viktor. He would answer in blood.

  “See to the cripp—See to Lajos. I think he has hurt himself.”

  “Certainly, főnök. And you, sir? Is there anything you need?”

  “Send one of the girls to my chamber. I am in need of company.”

  “Which one, főnök?”

  “The youngest and the freshest, of course. It has been a trying day and I need some … relief.”

  The housekeeper, who had many girls under her care that met such a description, bowed. Once, many years ago, she had warmed his bed. Now, with her ugly, old-woman wrinkles and the white scar on her cheek—given to her by Viktor the one and only time she failed to please him—she now sent others in her stead. Delighted she no longer filled his requirements or his bed.

  “Certainly, főnök,” she said and reached for the handle of the sickroom.

  “Send the girl before you see to Lajos, woman. My needs take precedence over those of everyone else in this household.”

  Viktor left her to grovel in his wake and headed for the staircase. As he climbed, he undressed, dropping each item of clothing as he removed it. What was the point in maintaining a houseful of servants if they had nothing with which to occupy them?

  By the time he reached the landing at the top of the staircase, he was naked and proud to show the world his raw animal power.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Wednesday 10th May – Viktor Pataki

  Pataki Compound, Outside Győr, Hungary

  Seventy-two hours.

  Three whole days without news, without contact from either Andris or Cousin Ido. Seventy-two hours without receipt of the first photographic memento.

  What was happening?

  The first day had passed without undue concern. Andris needed time to travel to England and make contact with Cousin Ido. He would need time to plan the first hits. When the evening of the second day arrived and there was still no news, Viktor reached out, but his telephone calls remained unanswered and his messages ignored. He could reach neither Andris nor Cousin Ido. Where were they? What had happened to them?

  Andris should have completed the first kills by now. Something had gone wrong.

  All through the third day, Viktor raged through the mansion, berating all within to answer his questions. None could. He ordered one of the new men—another of the nameless creatures hired by Vadik—to travel to the UK and investigate. The man, a cretin who could barely speak Hungarian let alone English, begged to be released from such a duty. When the fool claimed to have no passport, Viktor drew the Makarov and aimed it at the man’s privates. He would have shot the creature then and there, but one of the others volunteered to travel in his place.

  During that day, Wednesday, he had even relented and allowed the wheelchair-bound cripple into the main room, and they talked. Lajos One Arm had tried to calm Viktor, to reason with him. Once again, he tried to change the mind of the Giant of Győr and encourage him to cancel the pogrom. Their discussions ended when Viktor threatened to shoot the miserable cripple through the head.

  The one positive feature of the whole mess was Lajos One Arm finding his voice and his balls. In the past, he would never once have questioned the plans of his papa, let alone for a second time. Perhaps the boy did have balls, did have a future, after all.

  By late evening on the third day, with his frustration building, Viktor summoned the housekeeper.

  She arrived without delay and stood in the open doorway, as instructed.

  “You called, főnök?”

  “Send the girl to my room. I am in need of entertainment.”

  “Which one, főnök?”

  “The one from the other night. She pleased me.”

  “I am sorry, főnök, but she no longer available.”

  “Where the fasz is she?”

  “The doctor took her away to hospital, főnök. Her injuries were very severe. She may not survive.”

  Szar.

  Slim, with blonde hair and big blue eyes, the child had been a real beauty, at least to begin with. She would be missed. Still, he had plenty more to choose from.

  “Send another. Make sure this one has not been defiled.”

  Viktor dismissed the disfigured woman with a wave of his mighty hand and retired to his chamber to await his entertainment for the evening. If he did not find release that night, he would surely explode.

  Viktor sneered at the naked child who gasped and struggled to pry his hand from her throat. Tears fell from a face of youthful beauty, a face that carried the bruises and the split lip he had given her when she hesitated to undress before him.

  Beating her made him hard.

  Her struggles made him harder.

  He would plough her, pummel her, and she would scream with each thrust. Her screams would make him harder still. Viktor relaxed his grip so she could breathe
, and he pushed her away. She flew backwards and landed in a naked heap at the foot of his four-poster bed.

  He stood over the child, admiring her unmarked, hairless body. Unmarked, at least for the moment.

  “To my bed, child. Get on your hands and knees before your master. You will see and feel the reason I am known as the Giant of Győr!”

  She cowered, unmoving beneath his gaze. Viktor bent, grabbed her long hair, and dragged her to her feet.

  The bedroom lights shut off. As did the floodlights. The room fell to total blackness.

  Bassza meg! Fuck it!

  Yet another fucking power cut? There had been so many in recent months. At any moment the generators would kick in and deliver enough power to feed the whole compound. Viktor yanked the hair of the child and flung her onto the bed. Again, she squealed.

  She would keep until the power returned. Without being able to see the terror on her face or the pain in her eyes, Viktor would not enjoy the ride half so much.

  “We will wait for the lights, child. Prepare yourself for ecstasy!”

  Outside, in the garden, a voice blared out over a loudspeaker, the words muffled by the thick stone walls of the house. One of the guards shouted and another replied. From the house came more shouts, these of annoyance and confusion.

  Gunshots cracked. Multiple gunshots.

  What the fuck?

  Close by, in the hall beyond, a glass smashed. Seconds later, the handle on the bedroom door creaked. The noise made him shudder.

  Viktor held his breath.

  A sound. The swish of a door sliding over carpet. Movement in the near total darkness. A dull grey light appeared and then vanished as the door closed again.

  “Helló, Viktor,” a man said. “You just wouldn’t listen, would you?”

  A man. English accent. Őrült!

  Mary, Mother of God!

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Wednesday 10th May – William Rollason

  Pataki Compound, Outside Győr, Hungary

  Darkness stretched out for kilometres around, ending at the aura spilling over from the city of Győr, some ten kilometres to the west. The compound, lit as it was by dozens of floodlights producing brilliant white light that turned the blackness of night into a defined halo of day, couldn’t have been easier to approach. Whoever designed the setup as a system of defence didn’t have a clue.

  Cool, dead calm, cloudless sky, full moon. Perfect conditions for a night-time assault. Colour Sergeant William “Rollo” Rollason couldn’t have wished for better.

  From his position, half way up an oak tree some seventy-five metres from the south face of the compound, Rollo counted six guards armed with military assault rifles, mostly AK-15s, but two carried AK-47s slung over their shoulders. Two men—one standing on either side of the front gates—smoked and chatted the night shift away. The others patrolled the grounds in pairs. Like the overconfident amateurs they most certainly were, each pair kept to the same route and maintained more or less the same pace—easy meat for snipers during a surprise attack.

  Rollo’s earpiece clicked.

  “Bravo One to Alpha Two. All set here, over,” Paddy O’Hara’s announcement came as something of a relief.

  Team Bravo’s role in the operation, especially Paddy’s expertise in demolition and PeeWee’s knowledge of household electrics, was pivotal.

  “Took you long enough, Bravo One. Any trouble? Over.”

  “Not at all, Alpha Two. Not at all. On such a lovely evening, a couple of our wee friends needed a little lie down, so they did. Ready to cut the external power just as soon as you give the word. Over.”

  Rollo grinned. Paddy’s “our friends needed a little lie down”, meant that he and PeeWee Ricardo had run into—and neutralised—one of the patrols at the rear of the compound while making their way to the single-storey outbuilding that housed the generators. Whether the “neutralisation” had been permanent or temporary was entirely at their discretion. Although, after what had happened to Danny, Rollo didn’t expect any of his men to offer much in the way of quarter to Viktor Pataki’s hired thugs.

  “Thank you, Bravo One. Hold fire for now. I’m still awaiting contact from Alpha One. How many bogeys your side? Over.”

  “There were four, but two are out of commission. If me ol’ maths stands up to scrutiny, that leaves two alive, for now. We have eyes on both and can take them out at will. Over.”

  “Alpha Three and I have another six out front under observation. Same conditions apply. Alpha Two, out.”

  Rollo descended the tree and stood in its shadow waiting for Alpha Three’s return. He’d only worked with Connor Blake a few times, but had never found the athletic Londoner wanting.

  He checked his watch. 23:48. Time marched on.

  Movement in the darkness three metres to his left betrayed the arrival of his partner for the night. In terms of a covert approach, it wasn’t bad, but Rollo and the captain wouldn’t have announced their arrival so early or made it so obvious.

  “Alpha Two,” Blake whispered, “permission to approach?”

  “Granted.”

  Blake stood and advanced, one hand raised, the other holding a L22 Carbine, his weapon of choice. “Didn’t want you taking no pot-shots at me, Colour Sergeant. Hence all the noise.”

  “Any louder and I’d have shot you anyway. Just for waking me up.”

  “You wasn’t dozing, Colour. You was up that there tree. I saw you, clear as day. It’s a wonder them buggers in the compound didn’t clock you and start shooting. Tut, tut.”

  Cheeky bugger.

  “Have you delivered the presents?”

  Blake flashed a set of brilliant white teeth. “Sure have, Colour. As instructed. One outside the front gates, two more on top of the wall at each corner. When they go off, the buggers are gonna wet themselves.”

  “That’s the plan, Alpha Three.”

  Blake turned to face the floodlights.

  “The captain’s taking his time,” he whispered, without tearing his eyes from the compound. “I expected his call before now.”

  “He’ll take as long as he needs, Sergeant. The captain’s played this bang on. Viktor Pataki’s going to be all over the place. Right now, the ‘Giant of Győr’ doesn’t know whether to shit, shave, or sing soprano.”

  “Understood, Colour. No idea why the captain don’t just get Paddy to nuke the fucking compound and be done with the lot of them. This way’s a lot more sticky.”

  “Nuke the place?”

  Blake nodded.

  “Only a small one, like. I ain’t talkin’ intercontinental ballistic missile or nothin’,” he said, adding another wide smile. “Be a lot easier and cleaner.”

  “Didn’t you listen to the briefing, Sergeant?” Rollo pointed to the mansion. “There are innocent civilians in the house.”

  “Yeah, I heard. Don’t mind me, Colour Sergeant. Just like flapping me gums while waiting for the director to shout, ‘Action’.”

  “Anyway, the captain doesn’t work that way. He prefers to use a scalpel rather than a mallet.”

  “And his way’s more hands-on, right?”

  “Exactly.” Rollo checked his watch again. The time hadn’t moved on much. “Okay, down to business.” He tapped his earpiece into action. “Alpha Two to Charlie One, are you in position? Over.”

  “Charlie One to Alpha Two, that’s an affirmative. Two more bogeys on the eastern flank. Both are in the open and lit up. One wrong move and they’re toast. Over.”

  Team Charlie consisted of “Fat Larry” Kovaks and “Slim” Simms. Both had known Danny since Boot Camp and neither would offer the bogeys any more sympathy than Paddy or PeeWee.

  “Did you deliver your present, Charlie One? Over.”

  “Affirmative, Alpha Two. Delivered, primed, and ready for broadcast. Over.”

  “Alpha Two to Delta One, report. Over.”

  “Three more bogeys on our side, Alpha Two. One down, two others in plain sight. The gift is in place and
live. Over.”

  Nate Montero and Jeff Baines, Team Delta, hadn’t known Danny for as long as the others, but that didn’t matter. Danny had been a teammate and they’d volunteered for the mission the moment Rollo had sent out the call.

  “Alpha Two to all, listen up,” Rollo spoke slowly so none of the men would misunderstand. “Line up your targets now. When Alpha One’s in position, the floodlights will go dark and I’ll play the audio. Give them one chance to drop their weapons. One chance only. Alpha Two, out.”

  Rollo kept the earpiece active and settled down to wait.

  “Alpha One to Alpha Two. Are you receiving me? Over.”

  At his side, Blake jerked upright. Rollo puffed out his cheeks.

  About time.

  “Alpha Two to Alpha one. Reading you strength five. Over.”

  “I’m in position, Alpha Two. Light them up. Alpha One, out.”

  Rollo tapped Blake on the shoulder. “Here we go, son, get ready.”

  “I were born ready, Colour.”

  Rollo clicked the selector on his SA80 from safety to single shot and lined up his target—the guard manning the left side of the main gates. Blake would deal with the one on the right.

  “Alpha Two to Bravo One, you are green for go. I repeat, you are green for go. Over.”

  Rollo counted seven seconds before the floodlights blinked out, along with the house lights. No muffled explosion, no flickering, just pitch black where there was once bright light. As usual, Paddy O’Hara had met his brief to perfection.

  Rollo’s target stood out brilliant white against the grey, lit up by the thermal imager built into the night ’scope on his SA80 semi-automatic rifle. The man barely reacted. His head—sporting a mop of curly hair—turned towards his buddy and his jaw moved in speech.

  Not happening, boys.

  “My target’s chilled. He ain’t hardly moved,” Blake whispered. “Bugger don’t ’ave a Scooby about what’s happenin’.”

  “They’re used to power outages. Expecting the generators to kick into action at any moment.”

  “Gonna give them that wakeup call?”