Tom Callaghan - An Autumn Hunting

The rain on my forehead ran into my eyes, and without thinking I used my hand to wipe it away. Blood joined the rain, and I had to blink to focus on Aliyev.

‘You’re right, of course. I don’t expect to live long enough to grow a white beard and complain about the state of the world. Burn brighter, burn faster. But until then, everything I want is mine for the asking. Or the taking.’

‘Except for getting your daughter back,’ I said, and pulled the trigger of the Yarygin, just as he fired twice. I felt Aliyev’s bullets slam like fists into my chest, hurl me backwards, saw Aliyev’s mouth gape and his face dissolve into a catastrophe of blood.

Redemption is always tentative. All you can wish for is that your hopes, your motives and your actions don’t make things worse, maybe even improve them. You do wrong, you do your best to right it. A parent dies, their child lives. There’s a balance and a harmony in that; maybe that’s enough.

I slumped against the memorial wall, the marble chill against my back, shirt crimson and sticky with blood, gun strangely leaden in my hand. I could see the blood pouring out of me, watched with a curious detachment. I coughed, tasted blood in my mouth. The rain was falling harder now, and the sky had taken on an ominous dark as the mountains loomed over me.

I thought of Chinara, at rest in her grave overlooking the valley and the mountains beyond, the poets she loved safe and eternal on a thousand shelves.

Of the dead child I’d found dumped in Yekaterina Tynalieva’s mutilated belly like so much rubbish, now both of them avenged and at peace.

And of Saltanat, journeying back to safety and Otabek, the mute boy we’d rescued, the new life in her womb turning and stirring, waiting to enter the light.

For the briefest of moments, I sensed all their kisses on my cheek, light and insubstantial as a moth’s wing beating its rhythm on my skin.

And I realised how beautiful and unknowable the world is, in all its mystery and passion and danger, how relentlessly hard it would be to leave it, and how easy it is to die.

The previous three novels in the Kyrgyz Quartet thanked the many people who have helped in their creation.

This book is no different, and I repeat my thanks to all of them.

However, four people deserve individual mention.

Stefanie Bierwerth at Quercus; her patience, encouragement and commitment to the series has been immeasurable.

Simon Peters, who has improved my grammar, spelling and plotting throughout; he helped the books gain whatever merit they may have.

Tanja Howarth, my agent and, more importantly, my friend; all I can say is sine quo nihil (without whom nothing).

And finally, Sara, who first introduced me to Kyrgyzstan.

Spasibo .

Everything in this book is solely the product of my imagination. Any flaws or mistakes are mine alone.

A Killing Winter

A Spring Betrayal

A Summer Revenge

First published in Great Britain in 2018 by

Quercus Editions Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

Copyright © 2018 Tom Callaghan

The moral right of Tom Callaghan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78648 237 2

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.