Stephen Leather - The Hunting

‘You dropped us in that clearing, you knew exactly what he was doing. You were part of it.’ Raj raised his carbine.

‘Please, my wife’s pregnant …’

Raj stepped forward and slammed the stock of his Heckler against the pilot’s head. He went down without a sound.

Raj put his carbine on the table. He went over to the counter and took the leads from the kettle and coffeemaker. He used the leads to bind the pilot’s hands and feet, then picked up his weapon and tiptoed over to the door that led to a large hallway lined with abstract paintings. To his right was a massive dining room with a gleaming oak table surrounded by dozens of chairs. To his left were a set of double doors opening into what looked like a ballroom with a raised stage and a piano.

The corridor led into a double-height hallway with a huge chandelier above a marble staircase. The main door was ajar. Raj moved into the hall, his gun at the ready. He walked on tiptoe to the front door and looked cautiously outside. Nothing.

He looked up the staircase, which was two metres wide and curved around the chandelier to the upper floor. At the top was a huge painting of Van der Sandt and his family, a beautiful woman maybe twenty years his junior and three good-looking children. That was what all this was about. His wife and children had been murdered and he wanted revenge. He’d got what he wanted; Sid and Jaffar and the rest of them were dead. But at what cost? He kept the gun trained on the landing as he took the stairs one by one. He reached the top and listened carefully. There were hallways leading left and right.

The left was where he’d seen Van der Sandt at the window, so he went that way. He moved cautiously. There were doors to the left and right, all closed. He reached the middle of the corridor. He eased open a door to his left. It was a bedroom, straight from the pages of a design magazine, and it looked as if it had never been slept in. He closed the door.

He reached the end of the corridor and paused as he considered which way to turn next. He figured he should go left, but first he needed to check that both hallways were clear. He stood at the junction and peered around to the right. It was clear. As he started to turn to look the other way he heard the crack of a Heckler and a bullet thudded into the wall above his head. As he jerked back, another round hit a light fitting and blew it apart.

Raj crouched down. He listened. There was no footfall so the shooter was staying put. He shrugged off his backpack and stood up. He held the gun in his right hand and the backpack in his left. He took a breath to steady himself, then tossed the backpack into the corridor. As he stepped around the corner he had the Heckler up to his shoulder. The shooter was midway down the corridor, his Heckler at waist level, the barrel pointing towards the bag. Raj saw the man’s eyes widen in surprise, and he recognised him immediately. He was the one who had cold-cocked Raj in the hangar. The man’s mouth opened as he started to swing his Heckler across but Raj had already pulled the trigger. The round hit the man’s vest and Raj took a step forward and fired again, two quick shots that both hit the vest but higher up this time.

The look of surprise had turned to terror and the man pulled his trigger even though the carbine was still pointing down. A bullet ricocheted off the floor and whizzed down the corridor.

Raj didn’t have time to use the sights as he walked towards the man. He pulled the trigger twice and both shots went high and to the left, slamming into the ceiling. He adjusted his aim, still walking, and both shots hit the man in the centre of the vest. The man staggered back and his left hand slipped off the carbine.

Raj fired another double tap. He tried to aim higher but he was closer now, just fifteen metres away, and he hit the vest again.

The gun was now swinging from the man’s right hand but his finger was still inside the trigger guard.

Raj stopped, his feet shoulder width apart, and he fired twice. The first shot hit the man in the forehead and the second one missed, but one was enough. The man fell backwards, rolled against the wall and slid down, smearing the wallpaper with blood.

Raj took a deep breath. The man had been standing between two doors, and he figured he had been guarding Van der Sandt. He put his ear to the door on the left and heard faint footsteps inside. He used his left hand to slowly turn the handle. He pushed the door and it opened. He stepped back and kicked the door, hard. It flew open. Van der Sandt was standing at a window to the side of a massive fireplace, looking out over the gardens. He was holding his rifle in his right hand and he started to turn towards Raj.

‘Drop the gun!’ shouted Raj, his finger tightening on the Heckler’s trigger as he walked into the room.

The man ignored the command and brought up the rifle as he continued to turn. Raj pulled the trigger. It clicked but didn’t fire. He pressed the trigger again. He was out of ammunition.

Van der Sandt smiled. ‘That’s unlucky,’ he said. He gestured with his rifle. ‘This one is fully loaded. Trust me on that.’

Raj tossed the carbine onto a sofa made from zebra skin. He raised his hands but he doubted that surrendering would improve the odds of survival, not after everything that had happened that day.

Van der Sandt’s finger tightened on the trigger and Raj tensed, expecting the worst. Then just as quickly the man relaxed. ‘Toss that knife, and get me a drink, will you?’ he said, waving at an oak drinks cabinet. ‘A whisky. You’ll see the bottle. Macallan in Lalique.’

Raj threw the knife onto the sofa, then went over to the cabinet and opened it. There was a selection of spirits including a bottle of Macallan.

‘I’d say help yourself, but obviously you don’t drink,’ said Van der Sandt. He walked behind a large oak desk and sat down in a high-backed leather chair. He swung his feet up onto the desk, keeping the gun aimed at Raj.

‘I drink,’ said Raj. He took out two chunky crystal tumblers and poured large measures into both. He walked over to the desk and put one down in front of Van der Sandt. He raised the other in salute. ‘Cheers.’

Van der Sandt looked at Raj curiously, then picked up the tumbler with his left hand and clinked it against Raj’s glass. ‘ Sláinte ,’ he said. The rifle continued to point at Raj’s chest.

They both drank. ‘This Macallan is sixty-two years old,’ said Van der Sandt. ‘I’ve always made it a policy never to drink a whisky younger than I am. It gets harder the older you get, obviously.’ He waved his tumbler at the drinks cabinet. ‘That bottle cost me more than a hundred thousand bucks.’

‘It’s a good whisky, no question of that.’ Raj walked over to stand by the fireplace. At first he had thought he was in a study, but he realised it was a trophy room. There were elephant tusks forming an arch around the man’s chair, and all along the walls were heads of animals – deer, big cats, and even a rhino. The room was huge, almost the size of a tennis court, dotted with sofas, winged chairs and coffee tables, and scattered around were stuffed big cats in various poses, including a male and female tiger standing together.

‘My name is Jon Van der Sandt. I figured you should at least know that.’

‘I know who you are,’ said Raj.

‘And you? Who are you?’

Raj raised his glass. ‘Rajesh Patel. My friends call me Raj.’

Either side of the drinks cabinet were two lights, each formed from an elephant’s trunk holding a bulb. There were half a dozen animal skins on the floor, including that of a polar bear and several leopards. The heads had been left on and glassy eyes stared back at Raj. On the far wall a crocodile that must have been almost six metres long had been stuffed and mounted, its jaws agape.