Hunted Page 5

  “Watch it, Barron,” jeered Colin, “he’s about to get all Bruce Lee on you.”

  With a shout Barron lumbered forward and Shelley decided to finish him. But this time he underestimated his opponent. Everything about Barron so far had said street-scrapper, but he had some boxing smarts and dipped his left shoulder, throwing a feint that Shelley fell for, hook, line, and sinker.

  Bang! The right hook came fast and from nowhere and caught Shelley clean on the temple—hard enough to knock him to his knees on the warehouse floor. He was too dazed to stop what happened next, as Barron did what Shelley, foolishly, had failed to do, taking full advantage of his opponent’s incapacity and following up fast.

  Again. Bang! Shelley’s vision went black as Barron threw a left that caught him above the bridge of the nose. A vicious kick to the ribs sent him sprawling.

  He cursed his own stupidity, pledged not to make that mistake again, and then slapped his hands to the ground to stand. Above him, Barron had turned away, thinking himself victorious.

  “There,” he was saying to the Quarry men, “I think you’ll find that settles it.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Sergeant Barron. Your opponent has a little fight left in him yet,” said Tremain.

  Barron turned back.

  “No ribs broken, I hope, Captain Hodges?” called Tremain. “Is the nose all right?”

  “Here, hold up,” protested Barron. “It’s me you should be worried about.”

  “Oh, I am indeed worried about you, Sergeant Barron. Your opponent looks extremely upset.”

  Shelley hated himself for what he had to do next. As well as providing Tremain and company with their sport, he was sending Barron to his death. And though Barron was a scumbag, he was still a down-on-his-luck human being and he didn’t deserve this.

  There was nothing Shelley could do about that—nothing except make it easier for him.

  The bones of the cranium take almost two years to fuse together from birth. As a result, there are particular areas that stay vulnerable for an adult’s entire life. An index and middle finger jabbed at the precise spot induces instant unconsciousness. You have to know exactly where and exactly how hard; you have to know exactly what you’re doing. Fortunately, Shelley knew what he was doing.

  It wasn’t a move he wanted to show the four Quarry men, so he danced around a little, bringing Barron’s back to them before throwing his punch. Aiming at the side of Barron’s head, Shelley’s fist became a two-fingered jab, striking the spot precisely. Barron took three unsteady steps backwards and then, as his eyeballs rolled back once again, sank messily into the concrete.

  The Quarry men looked at Barron, until it was beyond doubt that he was unconscious.

  Tremain looked up at Shelley. “Well, that really is that, then. I hereby declare the selection process at an end. Congratulations, Captain Hodges.”

  Shelley indicated towards Barron. “What happens to him?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about him. When he comes round we’ll see that he’s adequately recompensed. Who knows? Perhaps your paths will cross at some point in the future. Now, I hope you have no objection to us whisking you away right now?”

  His expression politely dared Shelley to object.

  Shelley shook his head.

  “Excellent. If you’d like to step into the car. Colin, if you wouldn’t mind staying here and taking care of Sergeant Barron, that would be most appreciated.”

  Colin’s eyes glittered. At least the unconscious Barron would know nothing about it, Shelley thought. He climbed into the car, taking a seat beside one of the twins.

  The other leaned in and Shelley saw the jet injector in his hand.

  “Arm,” the twin said and Shelley did as he was told, baring his arm.

  This is it, he thought as the injector gun came close to him. He had no idea what would happen next. No idea if he’d have an opportunity to alert Claridge. No idea if he’d even wake up from the injection they were about to give him. All he knew for sure was that there was no turning back.

  He belonged to The Quarry Company now.

  Chapter 15

  Some days later, Claridge was at home. His wife and two daughters were in another part of the house, playing Scrabble—or, if what Claridge had witnessed was typical of the game, mainly cheating at Scrabble. He’d taken the opportunity to creep away, installing himself at his office iMac.

  He googled for a while, then made more checks. “Christ!” he muttered, then opened his messenger application and sent an IM: “:-) SC”.

  As he sat waiting for Sarah’s call he thought of her and wondered if she ever regretted breaking up with him all those years ago, only to end up with Kenneth.

  Claridge had never liked Kenneth. Of course that antipathy was in the process of being entirely vindicated, but back then neither of them could have known what darkness lay within Kenneth Farmer.

  What turns a man that way? wondered Claridge. What corrupted Kenneth?

  Money, perhaps? Kenneth certainly had a lot of that. Even so, Claridge wondered how Kenneth was able to go toe to financial toe with the likes of Lord Oakleigh or the captains of industry that Claridge was convinced were involved. For something like this, the figures involved would be astronomical.

  Maybe Kenneth was able to offer them something in addition to the money, or in place of it? He was, after all, husband to the Home Secretary and had bankrolled her political career. What influence might he wield? Claridge shivered at the thought.

  His phone rang. “Hello, Simon,” said Sarah. “You have news?”

  “I do. You’ll recall our agent was going dark, and that he hoped to be picked as the quarry.”

  “I do. But presumably there is no way of knowing when that happens?”

  “The last time I spoke to our agent he mentioned he might have to gazump another man for the job, a Sergeant Philip Barron, previously of the Paratroopers.”

  “Yes?”

  “A vagrant by that name was found stabbed to death by the docks the day before yesterday. It looked as though he was beaten up beforehand.”

  “You think our man did this?”

  “If he did, then he would have had no other choice, Sarah.”

  “I see. So if he’s in place, what now? What can we do?”

  “There’s nothing we can do, I’m afraid. We assumed he’d be thoroughly searched for any kind of surveillance device, so he doesn’t have anything on him. His instructions are for us to wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Then God help him,” she said.

  “If he’s as good as his record indicates, God help them all.”

  Outside in the corridor, the Home Secretary’s security pushed down his sleeve and replaced his biro in his inside pocket, moving away to retake his position by the front door.

  On the inside of his wrist he had written the word “Simon.”

  Chapter 16

  Sir Eric Appleby, Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, was striding purposefully across the lawn in the direction of the Commons when his phone rang.

  Not long ago he’d gotten the hang of programming his phone so that callers had different ringtones, something he was disproportionately proud of having mastered. His teenage daughter had even awarded him an impressed high five. In return, he was able to screen calls from her and her mother with even greater ease. He didn’t even need to look at his phone to ignore them.

  Now, however, the hunting horn ring told him it was somebody else entirely—somebody it would not do to ignore. He stopped and, casting a quick look around to ensure there was nobody within earshot, took the call.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Voiceprint protocol, please, sir,” came the reply. “State your name, if you would.”

  “Appleby.”

  “And your keyword, sir.”

  “Steeplechase.”

  There was a short pause, then he heard an electronic cl
ick. In the distance the Thames shimmered, and across the lawn the Chief Whip was being pursued by a pair of underlings. The two men exchanged a wave, and Sir Eric wondered if his colleague knew anything of “The QC,” as it was called by those in the know.

  “Sir Eric, hello. This is Curtis. Your voiceprint ID check is complete. I hope we find you well.”

  He felt his pulse quicken. “You do, Mr. Curtis, thank you very much. You’re calling with news of an event, I take it?”

  “Indeed, Sir Eric, at a premium location. Our head of security informs me that the quarry is an experienced combat veteran with an excellent record. As a result, this event is open to Gold Club members only.”

  Sir Eric swelled with pride. Attaining the experience points needed to rise to Gold Club status with the Company had been a high point of his life so far.

  “Well, I must say I’m honored to be considered a part of the enterprise,” he replied. He was simpering a little, he realized, but then again it couldn’t hurt to keep on their good side.

  “And we’re grateful for your custom, Sir Eric. Our coming event is planned for the weekend after next. How does that sound?”

  “I shall need to consult my diary,” replied the Under-Secretary, knowing his decision already: whatever was diarized for that day would have to be rearranged.

  “Of course, sir. Shall we say 1500 hours for your second call?”

  “I’ll have an answer for you by then.”

  “And, as is the usual procedure, a bid, too, if you please.”

  “Certainly.”

  “It’s likely to be our last hunt of the season, Sir Eric; we intend to lay on some superb entertainment afterwards. Entertainment of a very willing and Russian persuasion. As you can imagine, we’re anticipating a lot of interest from Gold Club members. Bidding begins at a minimum of three million, I’m afraid.”

  Appleby drew a large intake of breath.

  “As ever, you have one opportunity to register your bid,” continued Curtis. “Only winning bids will be notified. All notifications to be made by 0800 tomorrow.”

  “Perfect. I shall make myself available at three.”

  “Good speaking to you, Sir Eric.”

  Financial recruitment specialist Stuart Cowie was carrying an ancient, brick-sized mobile phone to a Wolf of Wall Street fancy-dress screening when his phone—his regular phone—rang.

  Excited at the ID that flashed up on the screen, he answered quickly and then gave his name and voiceprint password, “Jerusalem.”

  “No,” he said, when his caller had finished speaking, “you don’t have to ring later, Mr. Boyd. My answer is yes and my bid is four.”

  There was a pause at the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” prompted Cowie.

  “We usually prefer our clients to consider bids and availability more carefully. These things really shouldn’t be rushed, Mr. Cowie.”

  Emboldened by the line of coke he’d snorted from his desktop not twenty minutes ago, Cowie was excited; his blood was up. “Make it five, then,” he said rashly.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cowie. You will be informed whether or not your bid has been successful by 0800 hours tomorrow.”

  “At five million quid, it better bloody well be accepted,” spluttered Cowie.

  In the five-star Chiltern Firehouse, the German CEO of the defense company Diamond & Perry, Daniel Kiehl, was lunching with city lawyer Sebastian Bramwell.

  Bramwell’s phone trilled and, after shooting an apologetic look at Kiehl, he took the call. Listening, he said, “Bramwell. Shortcut,” and then the number three. He ended the call, avoiding Kiehl’s gaze as he replaced the phone on the tabletop and then resumed his conversation.

  Nothing passed between the two men until, suddenly, Kiehl’s own phone rang and, with an apology to Bramwell, he answered.

  “Kiehl. Retinue,” he said, and at that Bramwell gave a start, staring across the table at his dining companion, suddenly aware of what Kiehl had also just realized: they were both Quarry Company clients.

  “Four,” said Kiehl, with a “what can you do?” shrug for Bramwell.

  The lawyer fumed.

  Later, as their meal drew to an end, Kiehl’s phone rang once more. Ignoring Bramwell’s searching look, he answered, passing voiceprint ID again. Bramwell bared his teeth in frustration, peering at his own phone as though willing it to ring with the good news. His misery was complete when Kiehl said, “Thank you, Mr. Curtis,” and ended the call.

  “Next time, Bramwell, perhaps you will be fortunate,” said Kiehl.

  In the home of Sarah Farmer, the Home Secretary watched with interest as her husband left the room to take a call.

  When he returned he was in an ebullient mood, kissing the top of her head before sitting back on the sofa and burying himself in his MacBook.

  She churned with helplessness, hatred, disgust, and fear.

  Chapter 17

  Shelley wasn’t sure whether he’d woken up or regained consciousness, but either way he found himself lying on a comfortable bed between clean and crisp sheets, in a room that was bright and smelled fresh.

  He was wearing white boxers, not his own, but otherwise was just as he had been the day before. Whoever had gone to the trouble of changing his underwear had obviously stopped short of giving him a bath into the bargain. Very sensible. Hanging from the handle of a built-in wardrobe opposite the end of the bed was a faded-blue set of overalls, and on the carpet stood a new pair of Dr. Martens boots. Those, he guessed, would be his uniform for the duration of his employment with The Quarry Company.

  So this was it, he thought, pulling himself out of bed. This was where they brought the quarry ahead of the hunt. No doubt where they’d brought Cookie. According to the autopsy report, there had been no ethyl glucuronide in Cookie’s system, which meant no alcohol. And by Shelley’s reckoning, that indicated Cookie was dry for at least three days before he was killed, maybe four.

  Three days of eating steak and drying out. The equivalent of fattening the goose for Christmas.

  He found the bathroom. Again, it was clean and bright, the fittings virtually new. Then he explored the rest of what turned out to be a small but well-appointed one-bedroom apartment. He came to the conclusion that he was being kept (and to what extent he was being “kept,” he wasn’t yet sure) in an old holiday camp chalet, complete with a small dining area, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom.

  He peered out of the front window. Opposite were the gray, dilapidated buildings of what he took to be other chalets, complete with smashed windows, graffiti tags, and guttering that hung off at angles. Most surprising was the contrast of outside to inside. When he opened the front door he saw that the exterior of the door was as neglected as those opposite. The inside? Like a show home.

  Somebody had gone to an awful lot of trouble here.

  He heard the sound of a vehicle approaching. Alerted perhaps? He scanned the living area and saw a smoke detector in the ceiling. Camera in there, probably. Somewhere there were people watching his every move. And now they were coming for him.

  Had it begun? Was this it? Whatever they used to knock him out would still be in his system. If it came to a fight, his reaction time would be reduced. His cognitive abilities, diminished.

  Otherwise he was ready for them. No, not quite ready. He returned to the bedroom and pulled on the overalls. Now he was ready.

  Footsteps on the walkway outside came closer. Then there was a knock at the door.

  “Captain Hodges?” came a female voice. “Captain Hodges, are you decent?”

  “I think you know very well I’m decent,” he said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She stepped in from the walkway outside. She carried a small suitcase and wore hospital whites, dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She was younger than him, maybe midthirties, and beautiful, with dark hair slightly graying at the temples framing a heart-shaped face and full lips, which he soon learned were in the habit o
f breaking out into a wide, impish smile.

  “I’m Claire,” she said, in a polished, privately educated voice. “I suppose you might say I’m your superintendent, care officer, concierge, and private nurse all in one.” Her eyes sparkled at “private nurse” and he wondered if she was consciously flirting. If she even knew she was doing it.

  Let’s find out.

  “Were you the one who changed my underwear?”

  “Ah, now that would be telling,” she grinned, and he decided that she knew she was flirting. She was accustomed to being desired, and reveled in it.

  She placed her briefcase on the coffee table and stood with her hands on her hips. “You’ve worked out that we have you under surveillance, then?” she said.

  “Yes. Why do you need to do that?”

  “Don’t they tell you these things?” she said, with mock irritation. “They really should, you know. You’re the prize in a high-stakes game and your identity is closely guarded, your whereabouts a secret. The only thing our players know about you is that you’re a Royal Marine commando. Thus we have to make sure you’re kept free from any interference or communication. We don’t want to give any of the players an advantage now, do we?”

  “It’s a competition?” asked Shelley.

  “Bloody hell, I’m going to have to have a word with Tremain—he really didn’t tell you anything, did he? Yes, of course it’s a competition, with quite a purse for the winner. Mr. Miyake is the current holder, but there’s a few who will be hoping to claim his title.”

  “Where does all this take place? Here?”

  “No, in the woods somewhere. I trust you’re an outdoorsman?”

  “You have to be, in the Marines.”

  “You should be in your element, then.”

  Shelley pulled at his overalls. “Where are my clothes?”

  “We’re having them fumigated. You can have them back when the game is over, if you like. I mean, if you insist.”