David Gilman - Blood Sun

Drew grimaced as he watched the narrow gap Stanton was edging them through. “What the hell is this? Army maneuvers are the last thing we need. They’re not supposed to be in this area,” he said.

Stanton weaved the big 4?4 through the obstructing lorries, Land Rovers and trailers. “Relax, they don’t have weapons. This is something else.”

Max saw the men in the Range Rover give a thumbs-up and nod to the gathered soldiers; then the driver turned the steering wheel and went effortlessly off-road.

“Let him through,” the officer instructed the pockets of men as the beast of a vehicle edged toward them. It passed within a couple of meters.

Stanton concentrated on avoiding the paraphernalia but caught sight of a bog-soaked kid wrapped in a space blanket. He looked as though he’d been pulled out of a sludge pit. Shivering, barefoot and clutching a mess tin of food, the boy looked wretched in the glaring floodlights. Except for his eyes. They seemed to bore straight through him.

“Must have been some kind of rescue operation,” Drew said. “These kids are so dumb. They have no idea how dangerous places like this are.”

Stanton got a clear run, then gunned the V8 engine, and the black beast made short work of the difficult ground.

Max watched it power away across the moor and then disappear from view. It was unusual to see anyone out here at this time of night. They weren’t tourists; that was for sure. Maybe they were bonus-heavy stock traders from London on their way to a shooting weekend, but the way the driver had handled the heavy 4?4 showed a subtle skill. Most city people had no idea how to drive off-road. So, who were they? And what were they doing all the way out here? Max’s natural curiosity teased him. Maybe he should stop being suspicious of anything that seemed out of place, he told himself. But maybe recognizing the out-of-place is what survival is all about , his thoughts answered.

Sayid was in Jackson’s study. The door closed firmly behind him. Were there any letters anywhere for Max? Satisfied there were not, Jackson gave Sayid strict instructions not to mention the intrigue of the men who had visited.

As if.

Mr. Jackson would decide when to tell Max.

Yeah. OK.

Did Sayid understand?

Of course he did. What? He wasn’t going to tell his best friend everything the moment he laid eyes on him? Maybe Mr. Jackson had never been young.

“You’ve done extremely well, Max,” Mr. Jackson said as the major delivered his soggy charge back to Dartmoor High. “Away with you now and sluice off that muck. Are you hungry?”

Despite the army stew, Max’s stomach felt like a punctured football. “Starving, sir.”

“Right. We’ll rustle something up once you’re in a more civilized condition. Off you go.”

The major shook hands with Max. “Well done, son. I bet your parents will be proud of you.”

He didn’t catch the flicker in the boy’s eye. Max’s dad, Tom, was in a specialist nursing home, unable to distinguish between dream and reality. Max was desperate to see and speak to him. There were tough questions that needed answering, but he could do that only when the nursing home contacted Mr. Jackson. It had to be the right time for a visit-a time when the father might recognize his own son. Mr. Jackson understood. He saw Max’s momentary hesitation and gave him a brief nod of encouragement.

“Thanks, sir,” Max said to the major. “It was great fun, but I’m glad it wasn’t for real.”

He squelched up the granite stairs. He heard Mr. Jackson offer a nightcap to the major, who declined, saying he needed to get his men back to barracks.

Sayid peered round the balustrade, careful not to be seen by Jackson.

“Hey!” he whispered urgently as Max reached the top of the stairs. He quickly fell into step down the long corridor that led to their rooms. “There’s been some really spooky stuff going on! What have you been rolling in? Anyway, something’s up, but I’m not sure what yet. All I know is these two men came here, really tough-looking blokes, and Jacko was acting like he was in the end-of-year play. He’s not exactly Johnny Depp, but he had them convinced.”

“Me? I’m fine. Hundred percent. Oh, did I mention I was the last one to stay out there, so I won the competition? Thanks for asking, Sayid.”

“All right, keep your shirt on. Well, perhaps not. You know you’re gonna have to burn your kit. You’ll clog the washing machines with sludge.”

“Sayid, stop beating around the bush and let me shower, get some nosh and sleep for a week.”

“Who’s Danny Maguire?”

“Why?” Max became immediately more alert.

“ That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. He’s dead.”

Grime sluiced away around Max’s feet. The hot water pummeled his muscles. He stood in the shower, head down, watching the muck swirl and disappear down the drain. Scratches and abrasions stung, but the pain helped drive away the numbness he felt after hearing about Danny’s death-and made Max feel alive. Very alive and very anxious. Max’s heart had gone up a gear. Had Maguire sent him something? Sayid hadn’t known much about the details other than that those men were looking for a letter or a packet. But where was it? Maybe he hadn’t managed to post it before he’d died. If he had, how many days for it to get here? Danny Maguire’s death shocked him, because Max’s instincts yelled at him that it was not suicide, as Sayid had said.

Maguire had been murdered.

Max’s thoughts swirled like the water. Was he being irrational? There was no evidence that Danny had been murdered. Sayid had told him there had been no mention of violence. No one had raised any alarms-except Max’s gut feeling, which told him otherwise.

Max had barely known Danny Maguire when he was still at Dartmoor High. He was four years older and a senior boy. Almost two years ago, he had left for an extended field-experience trip in Central and South America before continuing his studies at university in England, where he hoped to graduate as a forensic anthropologist-digging up the past and finding the truth behind ancient civilizations and the way their people had died. Max hadn’t known any of this until quite recently, when he’d delved into Danny’s background after receiving an email from him that promised the only real lead to finding out the truth behind Max’s mother’s death. Danny had answered Max’s cry for help over the Internet. A hundred others had plagued Max’s alias mailbox-eagle@high-tor.co.uk-that he had set up on a server, but this one meant something.

A cryptic message. Of no interest to anyone-unless they were deliberately looking for it.

Eagle. Dr. HG. Something unusual. Have last known location. Will be in London, 1 month. Will contact. Wolfman

One email out of hundreds and it had taken his breath away. It could have been from anyone or anywhere, but its source was an ex-Dartmoor pupil.

There were four houses at Dartmoor High: Otter, Badger, Eagle and Wolf. Max belonged to Eagle House, and when he’d first arrived at the school and found his natural ability to compete in long-distance races across the moor, one older boy had stood head and shoulders, both physically and academically, above the others. Danny Maguire. He could have been an Olympic runner, but he had planned a life of adventure. Two years later and Maguire had grown a beard, and that, combined with his long hair, amazing running abilities and position as head boy of Wolf House, earned him the sobriquet of Wolfman.

Dr. HG was Helen Gordon, Max’s mum.

Max’s father had met Max’s mother in South America, where she had been researching environmental damage caused by illegal logging in the rain forests. Tom and Helen Gordon both had reputations for fearlessness. Their integrity made them many enemies. They and the privately funded organization they worked for challenged governments to reassess their environmental credentials and forced many companies that endangered the environment to close. Max’s parents were known and respected by everyone associated with science and ecology. These brave, pioneering trouble-shooters were quietly acknowledged as being at the forefront of the fight against corruption. But four years ago, Max’s mum had died in the Central American rain forest. His father had barely spoken of it, other than to explain to Max that she had fallen ill and that they had been so isolated he could not reach help in time to save her. His father’s pain seemed even deeper than his own, and their shared grief brought father and son emotionally closer together. Until Tom Gordon’s closest and best friend, Angelo Farentino, betrayed him.