The Hunt: ‘A great thriller...breathless all the way’ – LEE CHILD

And something had happened. Her panic had dispersed, drawn back by the feel of warm blood cooling on her skin as her shoulder wound bled. There were smears across the shower tiles. Dad’ll see that, she’d thought, already starting to think ahead.

‘Please let us go,’ she said, knowing they would not.

‘Please,’ Megs said.

Vey pressed her lips tightly together and sighed. She still held the gun. She’d shown it to the phone earlier, the screen too far away to see clearly. Gemma thought Vey had been talking to her dad, although what she’d said was confusing. Something about one 9 away, and twenty-three minutes.

She flexed her right shoulder a few times. Her school shirt had stuck to the dried blood, and rolling her shoulder opened the wound again.

And then Gemma saw a long nail on the van’s bare metal floor. It had rolled into a joint between segments, and was now covered with a scattering of dirty sawdust.

She looked away quickly, down at her feet curled under her. Her legs were going numb. Looking anywhere but at the nail, she flexed her muscles, trying to keep numbness at bay. The time might soon come when she’d have to move quickly.

Chapter Seven (#ulink_d1f9d282-0d01-5faf-87a1-909a8b5b7fb4)

the hills (#ulink_d1f9d282-0d01-5faf-87a1-909a8b5b7fb4)

He dreamed of his family. Their voices accompanied him up and out of unconsciousness, and they were with him when he opened his eyes. His wife was beside him, Megs and Gemma were in the back seat, bickering softly over who was winning their game of Legs. They often played it when they were travelling, counting pub sign legs on their own sides of the car. The Duke of York had two legs, the White Horse four, and so on. Gemma made up pub names like ‘The World’s Longest Millipede’ and ‘The Herd of Spiders’, but she always let Megs win in the end. He tried to turn to speak to Terri but there was something wrong with his head, his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but the pain was too much. It throbbed and pulsed within him like a living thing, too big for the inside of his head, rolling and turning and pushing with its many legs, its horse’s spider’s millipede’s legs.

Where are we? he wanted to ask. What’s happening? But as he closed his eyes again, wishing away the pain, he remembered.

He looked. Hedgerows flashed by. The woman, Rose, sat in the driver’s seat, glancing over at him. Her expression betrayed nothing.

‘Sleep,’ she said. ‘Rest. You’ll need it.’

Where … he tried to mouth, but even moving his jaw sent spasms of pain through his skull. He closed his eyes. The car’s motion was lulling, and the dreams welcomed him again.

It seemed like moments before he woke again, but it must have been longer.

‘Nearly there,’ a voice said. He thought it was Terri, but then Rose tapped his arm. She had blood under her fingernails. ‘Here. Take these, and drink this. Need to have your wits about you. They’re close, so we haven’t got long.’

The truth crashed in again with a flood of sensory memories – the splash of spilled blood, the warm tang of gun smoke, the fear on his family’s faces in the back of that van. A freezing terror so deep inside that he could never hope to reach it.

He tried opening his eyes again, squinting at the liquid fire pouring in and swamping his mind. Each jolt and bump of the car on poorly maintained roads was amplified a thousand-fold and punched through his head. But pain was nothing. A transitory thing, barely remembered and beyond description. Several years ago he’d been on several pain management workshops when a twisted back had put him out of action for weeks. There, past a sheen of new-agey trappings, he’d learned a powerful truth – that pain was all in the mind.

He opened his eyes and sat up fully, groaning out loud against the hammering inside his skull.

‘You hit me.’

‘Sorry.’ Rose, the murderer, was driving with the gun nestled between her legs. He took the water bottle she offered, and then the small foil pack of pills. They were strong painkillers. He popped three from the pack, held them on his tongue, and took a swig from the bottle. It tasted strange, vaguely bitter. An electrolyte drink. He used them when he went on very long runs, replacing electrolytes in his body to balance those lost through excessive sweating. This was an endurance athlete’s drink, not a murderer’s.

He squinted at the bottle. It was full.

‘How long … ?’

‘Couple of hours. You were in and out, so I gave you a mild sedative. Needed time to drive, didn’t want you distracting me, jumping from the car, something stupid like that.’

‘My family,’ Chris said. The memory of what he’d seen of them on the phone screen hurt more than any physical pain could, and there was no way of ignoring an agony like that. He didn’t want to ignore it.

‘The best way you can serve them is by doing what I tell you.’

‘You sound just like them.’

‘I’m nothing like them!’ She did not shout, but still her voice was loud.

‘Where are we?’

‘Almost there.’

‘Almost where? Why can’t you answer me straight?’

Rose sighed and stared ahead, concentrating on driving.

Feeling sick and light-headed, Chris looked around, waiting for her to speak, hoping she would. There was no way he could force her to say anything. He could only hope that her promise of keeping him alive, and everything else she was doing, would help and not hinder him and his family. She knew what was going on, and the only way she’d tell him was if she wanted to. And how will that benefit her? he wondered. Because it was painfully obvious that everything she was doing was for herself.

They were in the mountains. Chris knew these places. The vista was wild, windswept, undulating, with still lakes hidden in deep valleys and sheer mountains looming over them. Streams carved glimmering routes down mountainsides. Grasses, ferns, heathers, and scrubby trees painted the landscape green and purple, and here and there forested areas huddled across mountainous foothills. Snow speckled the higher peaks. Sheer rock faces hung grey and forbidding, and even though sunlight touched them, the mountains remained cool and aloof. It was a mythical land where the true wildness of nature existed close to the surface, unhindered by considerations of civilisation. Even the road they followed was barely allowed here, twisting and turning through the rough terrain. Drystone walling lined the road on both sides, and here and there were lay-bys for parking, and rough tracks leading up into the hills.

The land was huge, the sky even larger. Humans were small here, stripped to the bare essentials of existence, the trappings of their lives made inconsequential by the scope and scale of where they were. Nature was in command.

Chris loved landscapes like this. He lived for the few times each year when he could get away for a weekend, with or without his family, and run and hike through the mountains. He was not a believer in anything divine, but being somewhere like this invoked the closest he ever felt to a spiritual experience. Once, running across the foothills of Ben Nevis, he had realised that he was an animal, just like any other. It was a sobering, thrilling experience. He had always remembered that time, and dwelling on it made him calm, and sane, and able to face the trivialities of business and human existence with renewed strength.

He thought he recognised this place, and a glimpse of a bilingual road sign confirmed his suspicions. They were heading into the Welsh mountains.

But nothing about this was right.

‘I’m just an architect,’ he said. ‘I live a good life. Nice, comfortable, uninspiring. Boring, some of my friends tell me. But I like my work, love doing sports with my girls. My wife and I get on well, still, after a long time together. We’ve got our differences, but who hasn’t? We’re happy.’ He nodded, blinking away tears. ‘This isn’t my world. I know stuff like this happens, and it scares me because of my girls. It terrifies me that people like them … and you … exist. I see it on the news sometimes, you know, “Young girl kidnapped, raped and murdered”, and sometimes the terror just makes everything seem so hopeless.’

‘That’s because you can’t protect your family,’ Rose said softly.

‘Yes. Yes! Terri and I do everything we can for our kids, but you can’t allow for evil.’

‘I’m not evil,’ she said. ‘My family was very much like yours.’

‘Was?’ Chris could hear something in her voice that betrayed that, perhaps, he was getting to her. Maybe she was starting to feel something. Even when she was tugging her knife through the remains of that man’s throat – an image he would never, ever be able to shake, try though he might – her face had barely changed.

‘They’re dead,’ Rose said. ‘The Trail killed them all. My husband and three children.’

‘No,’ Chris breathed, thinking of his own family trussed and blindfolded. ‘It was a woman in the van with them. She might have children of her own, how could she—’

Rose laughed, bitter and harsh. ‘Oh, don’t for a second think of them as human.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re not people. Not normal. They’re monsters. Now shut up, we’re almost there, and I need to listen.’ She powered down both front windows in the car and tilted her head.

‘For what?’

‘Helicopter. I think we’ve got the lead on them, but we’ll have to stop soon.’