Hunter Killer (54 page)

Moments later, they were moving.

To keep her mind off the horror, Clara concentrated on the movement of the car. They stopped three times. She heard the click of the indicators on each occasion. They turned left twice, right once. Then a long stretch of straight-ahead driving, during which time her mind lingered on terrifying thoughts. She couldn’t tell how long it was before they started to slow down. Ten minutes? Maybe a bit more? The vehicle bore round to the left, and the terrain underneath them became bumpy. They were heading off-road. That only made Clara’s nausea more acute, because off-road most likely meant they’d be isolated. Very far from help.

The vehicle stopped. The Pole in the front got out, then closed the door behind him.

Clara started shaking again. Once more she tried to cry out, but uselessly. After a minute or so she found the strength for another burst of intense struggling. It did no good: the Pole kept her pressed down and she wasn’t strong enough to wriggle free.

Clara’s passenger door opened. Cold air drifted in. The driver said something in Polish, then grabbed Clara by her collar and yanked her up. The windows were misted up inside the car, so it was only once the Pole with the pockmarked face had dragged her outside that she was able to see where she was.

They had parked up at the edge of an area of wasteland. The rain had started again – heavy, driving rain that soaked her in seconds. The ground was covered in low, ragged scrub, through which the vehicle had left distinct tracks – two ruts, with untouched scrub between them. She could see the lights of Hereford glowing in the distance, but there were no houses or other buildings nearby.

On the other side of the car, perhaps 20 metres away, was the railway line, raised up on a steep bank about five metres high. Clara’s eyes followed it along to the right, where a bridge carried the tracks over the river. Clara could just make out its gentle curve. A steep bank led down to the water, and in a matter of seconds she found herself being dragged in that direction through the rain by the tattooed Pole.

It was a futile gesture. She knew that even as she did it. But she had to try
something
. She kicked the Pole hard in the shins as they walked. He barked a curse and momentarily let go of her. Clara grabbed her chance. She turned 90 degrees and ran as fast as she could. Even with her hands taped behind her back, her wet, matted hair straggling in her eyes, and even though she could only breathe through her nose, it might have been enough. But after 20 metres, she stumbled on the uneven ground and fell heavily. Unable to break her fall with her hands, she landed heavily on her right arm. A shock of pain thumped through her. She ignored it and tried to scramble to her feet.

Too late.

A sturdy boot from one of the Poles connected just below her rib cage. Air shot from her lungs and painfully through her nose.

Another kick, straight in the thorax this time. She folded up her body, foetus-like.

‘Get up,’ said an angry, accented voice. She didn’t know which one it was. She shook her head and whimpered. Seconds later she felt hot breath near her ear. ‘Do that again, bitch, I cut you, and not just on face.’ She felt herself being pulled up once again.

Her eyes were blurry with tears of pain and fear as they dragged her back towards the river, holding her more tightly this time, and treating her more roughly. At the top of the bank, they pushed her down. She slipped and stumbled down the wet, muddy earth, her body landing with a thump on the riverside path. The river was hissing as the rain hit it. It briefly crossed her mind to make another escape attempt, but the two Poles were by her side almost immediately.

Bruised and muddy, she stood up. The bridge was 15 metres away. It was a dark brick arch over this narrow stretch of river. The Poles dragged her towards it. Once they were in its shadow, protected from the rain, one of them dealt her another sharp blow to the stomach. She collapsed again and this time she stayed there, bent double and weeping, wanting to scream but unable to make a sound, and suspecting that if she tried to escape again it would most likely be the last thing she did. She peered beyond the bridge. It was dark and gloomy there, obscured by the night and the rain. She could see nothing. Even if she could escape that way, she’d be running blind.

Thunder ripped through the sky. A flash of lightning. She heard them speaking. Low voices. Polish again. They sounded pissed-off and she realised why: Kyle wasn’t here. One of the Poles spat on the ground nearby. Then she felt warm breath again, and realised the tattoed one had bent down to talk to her. ‘You better hope your junkie boyfriend turns up,’ he shouted over the rain.

She shook her head, wanting to explain once more that Kyle was
not
her boyfriend. The Pole had walked away. They were standing on either side of the bridge, the side from which they’d entered, looking out. Clara did the same, first in one direction, then in another.

And as she looked in the direction from which they’d come, there was another flash of lightning. She blinked.

A figure.

It was standing on the towpath about 20 metres beyond the bridge.

Just standing. And watching.

Danny?

For a moment – just the briefest moment – she felt a twinge of hope. There was something about the figure – the slope of his shoulders, maybe, or the shape of his head? – that made her think it was him.

But that moment of hope soon vanished. The figure moved forwards and she could tell, from the stumbling gait and the way the silhouette held itself, that this wasn’t Danny but his brother.

Kyle stopped ten metres from the bridge. She saw that his wet face was still smeared in blood from where the Pole had cut him the night before.

‘Where’s my money?’ shouted the Pole.

Kyle wiped his nose with his sleeve.

‘Let her go first,’ he called. His voice wavered as he spoke.

The second Pole had joined his mate now. They were standing side by side underneath the bridge, looking towards Kyle as he stood bedraggled in the driving rain. They turned to each other and laughed. A nasty, forced laugh that had little to do with mirth. They conferred briefly in Polish, then the second Pole stepped back to where Clara was crouching. He dragged her over to their original position, then forced her to her knees again. His mate pulled a knife, grabbed her wet hair in one hand and rested the blade against the soft flesh of her jugular.

Clara’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. She tried to master it, but couldn’t.

‘Where’s my fucking money?’ shouted the Pole.

Kyle didn’t move. Even with her head yanked back, Clara could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

He took a step backwards.

‘You think we’re fucking stupid, junkie?’

Kyle shook his head vigorously, but he also took another step back.

‘We should just kill her,’ the second Pole said, loud enough for Kyle to hear. ‘Kill her and stick her in river. No one will find her for weeks.’

Kyle’s knees seemed to buckle. Clara simply couldn’t stop herself from whimpering behind the packing tape wrapped round her head.

All feeling seemed to drain from her body as the Pole raised the knife slightly, as though preparing to fillet her neck.

Indescribable horror crossed Kyle’s face.

Then, suddenly, behind them, coming from the other side of the bridge, there was a beam of light.

It cast long shadows on the towpath, of the Poles and of Clara, that stretched as far as Kyle. Clara could see the elongated shape of the Pole’s arm and hand, and of the knife he was clutching.

A moment of silence, broken by Kyle. ‘Y. . . your money,’ he called, stuttering. ‘Here’s your money.’

The Poles seemed to move very slowly. With care. The tattooed one let go of Clara, who collapsed on to the towpath. She saw her two assailants turn round. And beyond them, on the other side of the bridge, the gloomy side, maybe 25 metres away, she saw a single beam of light, like a headlamp, burning through the rain. It hurt her eyes. Dazzled her.

A figure stepped from behind the bike and into the beam of white light. The light distorted its shape, made it seem somehow ghostly as it stepped forward. Clara blinked as the figure stopped and removed a helmet from his head.

He spoke.

Clara swallowed hard. She recognised the voice, of course. She’d recognise it anywhere.

‘I’ve got your money,’ he said.

The Poles looked at each other. ‘Put your hands up in the air,’ said the tattooed one.

The figure paused. He dropped his helmet. Then, slowly, he raised his hands.

Danny took everything in through a filter of incessant rain.

The two Poles, standing side by side, 15 metres from his position.

Clara on her knees, just a couple of metres behind them, her head bound with tape, her wrists behind her back, soaked. She looked like shit, and it made the anger in Danny’s blood burn even hotter.

Ten metres beyond Clara, Kyle, shuffling nervously in the rain from one foot to the other. A bad cut on his face. He looked like he was about to leg it.

‘Where is it?’ called one of the Poles, stepping forwards slightly. Danny instantly marked him out as the leader of the two.

‘In my jacket,’ he said.

Silence.

‘Come closer,’ said the Pole. ‘Keep your hands in the air.’

Danny walked towards them. Rain coursed down his face. The gap closed to ten metres.

Five. He was under the bridge.

‘Stop,’ said the Pole.

Danny stopped.

His hands, still high above his head, were close together.

He saw now that the leader of the two Poles had tattoos on his neck. He also had a blade, which he held low. He looked like he knew how to use it. The second Pole had his arms by his side and was clenching, then releasing, his big hands. But not feeling for a weapon. There were no firearms here, Danny decided. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous, especially for Clara. If things went to shit, they’d go for her first.

The Pole looked him up and down, his face wary, yet still strangely arrogant.

‘Any bullshit,’ he said, ‘I cut your fucking throat.’

Danny didn’t reply. He just stood there, and waited for the Pole to get closer.

Because before he made his move, he needed less than a metre’s distance between them.

Clara was making noises from her throat. He zoned them out. He needed to focus. On the Poles.

And on the violence that was going to happen in just a few seconds.

The tattooed Pole raised his knife.

‘I’m going to look,’ he said.

Danny nodded.

‘Which side of your jacket?’

He looked down to the left.

Then back at the Pole.

Eye to eye.

The Pole took a step forwards through the driving rain. Danny could see his thumb caressing the handle of his knife. Like a pet.

Another step.

He kept his hands still.

The Pole stopped. Distance, two metres.

He looked back over his shoulders to where Kyle was still cravenly shuffling. Then he turned back to Danny. His eyes were sharp.

‘Why you bringing money for junkie?’ the Pole said.

Danny sniffed. ‘He’s my brother.’

The Pole grinned. He seemed to relax. If they’re brothers, his demeanour seemed to say, they must be equally fucked up.

‘Bad luck,’ he said.

Danny kept perfectly still. ‘You’ve got to help family,’ he said.

The Pole’s shoulders relaxed. He clearly felt in complete control of the situation. ‘Fucking idiot,’ he said. ‘You should have come tooled up.’ He took another step forwards.

‘Maybe I did,’ Danny breathed.

Ripley’s motorbike security chain was secreted inside the length of Danny’s left sleeve. One end was just peeking out of the cuff. At the other end, just above Danny’s armpit, was the padlock. With his right hand, he grabbed the end of the chain and pulled. It slid easily from the sleeve. In the same movement, and with all the force he could muster, he swung it round. The heavy metal padlock cracked hard against the side of the Pole’s skull. He roared in pain and fell to his knees, his hands clutching his suddenly bleeding head.

Before he hit the ground, Danny was stepping towards the second one. He barely seemed to have registered what had just happened and was staring dumbly at his collapsed mate. The second swing of the chain brought the padlock smashing against his left cheek. There was a sound of breaking bone. Blood sprayed from his lips. He staggered, but didn’t fall. Danny swung the chain for a third time, bringing the padlock crashing against the other cheek. The Pole’s eyes rolled. He hit the ground.

‘
Jesus!
’ Kyle’s cracked voice sounded distant. And as Danny turned back to the first guy, he was only remotely aware of Clara’s wide, horrified eyes, and of the increased, slightly panicked, protests that came from her throat.

The first Pole was dazed, but still conscious and trying to push himself up off the ground. Danny went to work on him with the chain. He whacked the padlock against his face three times in quick succession. It was like bruising a piece of ripe fruit. With each contact, the skin on his face split and started to weep with fresh blood. The final blow hit him in the left eye – a dull, wet slap. The Pole grunted, but not loudly. He was on the verge of unconsciousness now.