On the Hunt Read online

  “Good luck with that, Danny-boy. Corky’s off now.” He chuckled, faded away, and the GPS map expanded to fill the screen again.

  Slowly, one by one, the stars blinked out and a pale dawn washed away the darkness of night.

  Danny shivered, the morning dew had long since soaked through his clothes, and the chill had worked its way into every joint of his body. Should have come better prepared. A groundsheet would have helped, but no point crying about that now. Wasn’t as though he could call on anyone for help, either. For the first time in years, he was operating solo, which felt both good and bad. Good, to have no one questioning his actions or monitoring his performance. Bad, to have no one to bounce ideas off, not even the captain.

  What had originally seemed like the most obvious thing in the world—save the girl, punish the arsehole—had turned into hours of waiting in the perishing cold. Hours of double-guessing and doubt.

  Earlier, his post-floodlight searches hadn’t added to his small pool of knowledge. Peering through windows and pressing his ear to the glass achieved nothing. Heavy curtains hid the view inside, and double-glazed windows on the ground level prevented all sounds filtering through into the night. A complete bust.

  He’d been deaf and blind to whatever was going on inside Prentiss House and had failed to add to Corky’s intel.

  A thermal imaging camera might have told him how many people were in the house and where they slept, but he’d forgotten to pack one in his haste to “save the damsel in distress”. Another bloody mistake. One of many. No groundsheet, no parabolic microphone, no infrared or night vision glasses, no nothing. Damn it, he wasn’t even armed.

  What did Rollo used to say? “Fail to prepare and you might as well prepare to fail, laddie.” Yep, the team’s quartermaster wasn’t averse to spouting the odd platitude or three.

  And anyway, why the hell would he need a weapon?

  Danny faced nothing but a wifebeater. A bully and a coward, not a Taliban insurgent, and Danny knew how to handle bullies.

  Around him, the dawn chorus welcomed the onset of day and the temperature rose with the sun. With the minimum of movement, Danny loosened his joints and warmed his muscles in preparation for whatever the morning would bring.

  Before him, Prentiss House remained silent. The curtains hid what went on behind the ground floor windows, and shutters covered those on the upper two floors.

  Once again, Danny waited.

  The middle of the three high-security garage doors rolled up to expose the gleaming white and ludicrously expensive Range Rover 5.0 V8. Brand new, the top-of-the-range beastie would have set Robbie P back more than £130,000. The powerful monster’s engine growled in smooth anger. White exhaust fumes spewed from the tailpipe, and the SUV pulled slowly out of the garage and into the daylight, some thirty-five metres from where Danny hid amongst the rhododendrons.

  Finally, after damn near seven hours freezing his nuts off, Danny had movement.

  He allowed himself a little fist pump.

  Here we go!

  The Range Rover rolled forwards and stopped outside the grand front entrance, purring, waiting for release. Behind it, the garage door rolled down and clunked into place. The driver’s door popped open and a swarthy man with long wavy hair and a trimmed beard climbed out. Slightly below average height but powerfully built, the man wore a dark business suit, white shirt, muted brown tie, and polished leather shoes. He bore a striking resemblance to the driver from the previous afternoon.

  Yep, the same guy he saw driving the Range Rover yesterday afternoon.

  Robbie P?

  Danny raised the binoculars, focused them on the man. Pale blue eyes shone out of a weather-beaten face.

  Blue eyes?

  Can’t be right.

  Danny tweaked the knurled nut of the binoculars’ focus adjuster to sharpen the image further. Yep, the driver’s eyes were definitely blue.

  Shit!

  Definitely not Prentiss.

  The headshot Corky had thrown up on the BMW’s infotainment screen showed Robbie P with light brown eyes, not blue, and Corky’s bio confirmed it. The bio also stated that Robbie P stood at nearly six foot two, but the driver was no more than five nine.

  What the hell was going on?

  The swarthy man, Driver, glowered at the closed front doors and peeled back the sleeve of his jacket to reveal a heavy gold watch. He all but tapped his foot on the gravel in his impatience.

  Driver waited another thirty seconds before shouting something guttural in a language Danny didn’t understand. Moments later, one of the front doors opened and a second man in a business suit stumbled out, propelled by the stiff-armed punch of a third man.

  The man in the suit bunted into one of the columns supporting the portico’s canopy and fell to his hands and knees.

  The third man stayed in the open doorway. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt under a sleeveless denim vest. Squat with a shaved head, his muscular arms and thick neck were covered in black ink—prison tats.

  Tats shouted, “Idióta,” and coughed out a harsh laugh.

  With his back to Danny, the fallen man scrambled to his feet. He raised his hands to Tats, shouted, “Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt her again!” and spun towards Driver, finally showing his face to Danny.

  Robbie P!

  Fuck.

  In that instant, Danny realised his mistake. Robbie P was no more a wifebeater than Ryan Kaine was a terrorist.

  What the flaming hell had he stumbled into?

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday 3rd May – Danny Pinkerton

  Amber Valley, Derbyshire, UK

  From his hiding place in the shrubbery, Danny watched an evil grin split Driver’s face. “Follow my instructions and no more violence will be necessary,” he said, his accent thick.

  Robbie P wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Y-Yes. I promise. But, please don’t hurt my wife again.”

  Driver beckoned with a flick of his fingers. “Come!”

  Robbie P rushed from the shade of the portico into the sunlight and hurried towards the Range Rover, dusting himself off and smoothing out the creases in his suit along the way.

  Danny knelt, silent and helpless, as Robbie P dived into the Range Rover’s rear passenger compartment. Driver pushed the door, which closed with an expensive-sounding clunk, and swaggered, still smiling, to his position behind the steering wheel.

  Seconds later, the SUV pulled away. It rolled sedately along the gravel driveway to the open security gates and turned right, heading towards Derby.

  In the doorway, Tats waited, arms folded and biceps bulging, until the Range Rover moved out of sight behind the wall and the gates started closing. Then, laughing, he turned and headed back inside the house.

  The moment the front door closed behind Tats, Danny took off. Crouching low, he used the bushes and mature trees for cover and hugged the wall.

  Tats’ laugh had carried no mirth. Danny didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what was going on inside the tattooed thug’s shaven head.

  Still on the move, Danny dug into the breast pocket of his boiler suit, took the special glasses from their protective case, flipped the “activate” switch, and slipped them on.

  “Danny to Corky,” he panted, keeping his voice low. “Are you there? Over?”

  Three seconds of silence ensued.

  “Hey there, Danny-boy. Corky’s listening. What’s up?”

  “Hang on a minute. Be right with you. Over.”

  Breathing hard, Danny reached the place where the wall arced inwards to form the gated entrance and knelt in the shade of the column. On the other side of the wall’s arm, the wrought iron gates met with a metallic clang, and the hum of electric motors fell silent.

  Breathing heavily and keeping to the shadows, Danny stood, lowered the zip of his boiler suit, and struggled out of the grubby workwear. He rolled it up tight, hid it at the base of the wall, and faced the house again.

  “With yo
u moving about like that, Corky’s getting seasick,” the hacker said, as caustic as ever. “Why was you running?”

  “Shit’s hit the fan here. Over.”

  “How come?”

  “Tell you later. I’m about to make the approach. How’s the picture?”

  “It’d be clear and sharp, if you could learn to stop moving your head so much.”

  “Sorry, mate. Needs must. I’ll try my best, but things have to look natural. Okay, here I go. Please keep your eyes and ears open. I’m going in blind. No idea what I’ll find in there. Out.”

  “Yes you do. Corky sent you the plans.”

  “Not what I meant. Heading in now. Danny, out.”

  Danny took a settling breath, stepped around the wall into the middle of the gravel driveway, and started walking. He glanced down at his freshly revealed clothes. Work boots, chinos, polo shirt, leather jacket. All dark, all chosen to look reasonable even when heavily creased. Hopefully, he’d be acceptable enough to pass muster.

  Time to dial up the charm, Danny-boy.

  Not that he expected charm to get him far with someone like Tats. He plastered a pleasant smile to his face and stepped up his pace, aiming straight for the entrance portico.

  Danny had been staring at the entrance for most of the night. From his hideout in the grounds some sixty metres away, the portico looked ridiculously overblown. Up close his impression didn’t change. This was a large house trying its best to be imposing. Trying and failing. Mutton dressed as lamb.

  Here goes.

  Still smiling, Danny bounded up the steps, marched across the chessboard surface, and grabbed one of the iron rings. It was heavier than he expected. Might have even been real antique.

  That’s a surprise.

  He smashed the ring against its raised strike plate twice—the thuds echoed loudly through the interior—and stepped back.

  C’mon, Tats. Where are you?

  When nothing happened for thirty seconds, Danny repeated the knocking. This time, he used even more force.

  Behind the door, footsteps clacked on a hard floor, growing louder. The spyhole on the middle of the left-hand door darkened. Danny looked straight at it, maintaining the smile.

  A black handle turned and the same right-hand door opened to reveal a scowling Tats. His shaved head exposed the white spiral-flex cable running from an old-fashioned earpiece into the front pocket of his denim jacket. A suspicious-looking bulge near the jacket’s left armpit told Danny two things. Tats carried a gun and was most likely right-handed. He filed the information away in case he needed it later.

  As tall and strongly built as Danny, Tats filled the part-open doorway, blocking Danny’s view of the interior.

  Danny pricked up his ears, but the inside of the house remained ominously silent. No screaming. No crying. No one else’s footsteps.

  Where was Marian Prentiss? Had Tats finished her off already?

  “Corky here. Running facial recognition. Get back to you real soon.”

  Danny smiled inwardly, but didn’t let the reaction show on his face. Corky was a Godsend. The little man certainly knew his stuff.

  “How you get here?” Tats asked, his heavily accented voice booming beneath the canopy. He glanced towards the front gates.

  While keeping a close eye on the dark man’s right hand, Danny gave him the benefit of his most engaging smile. For all the response it generated, he might as well not have bothered.

  “Simple enough,” Danny said, pointing over his shoulder to the pathway. “I walked.”

  Tats opened the door a little wider, squeezed through the gap, and pulled it shut behind him. He leaned closer, trying to threaten. Not usually prone to intimidation, Danny was neither impressed nor daunted.

  “How you get through gates, asshole?”

  Danny let his smile drop, but maintained his position, refusing to back down.

  “They were open.”

  “No. Gates always locked.”

  “Not this time, my friend. But I have to say, you’re much quicker than most,” he said.

  Tats frowned. “Huh?”

  “Didn’t take you very long to sum me up.”

  “What you say?” Tats asked, his frown deepening.

  “Normally, it takes even the most discerning of individuals a little time to determine that I am, in fact, an arsehole.” Danny nodded and reprised the smile.

  “Fucking smartass!”

  Tats leaned even closer to Danny. He clenched his fists, cracking his knuckles.

  Unfazed, Danny maintained his position.

  “Yes, I’m one of those, too. You’re very good, you know. Really quick on the uptake. Do you have any other insults, or are you going to ask who I am and who sent me?”

  Tats bristled. The flat muscles attaching his neck to his shoulders tensed. His fists tightened, and his forearms rippled. He looked ready to attack, but something stopped him. Some doubt. Tats clearly wasn’t used to this sort of response from an unexpected and unannounced visitor. More to the point, he didn’t seem accustomed to visitors at all. Tats glanced behind Danny, looking for … what? Backup? The return of Driver?

  “Well?” Danny demanded.

  “Huh?”

  “Oh dear. You’re obviously not as bright as I initially gave you credit for. Ask me who I am, fool!”

  Tats took half a pace forwards. “You fuckin—”

  “No, no,” Danny said, raising his index finger for silence. “Wrong move. The boss won’t give you any credit for attacking a visitor whom you’ve not fully vetted. My God, man. You’ve not even asked my name or what I’m doing here.”

  Danny’s interruption struck home. Tats stopped advancing and peered hard at him, sticking out his chin in the process.

  “What your name?”

  Danny shook his head. “Not telling you now. You’ve been too rude. Let me speak to Mrs Prentiss.”

  Tats frowned in confusion again.

  “Got him,” Corky said, finally.

  Keeping his hand raised in case Tats attacked, Danny took a backwards step. “About time. I couldn’t delay this clown much longer. What do you have?”

  “What you say?” Tats demanded. “You go now before I—”

  “Will you be quiet for a just one moment? I’m talking to the boss. Please carry on, sir.”

  Tats blinked, raised a hand to the side of his head, and used his index finger to press the earpiece more firmly in place. He blinked again, then stared hard at Danny.

  “There’s an Interpol Red Notice on this bloke,” Corky said. “Name’s Csaba Nemeth. Hungarian. Real nasty piece of work. Escaped prisoner. Doing twenty-five to life for some real bad stuff. Multiple rape. People trafficking. Worst charge was the extended abuse of a minor. Suspected of murder, too. Take care, Danny-boy.”

  Keeping eye contact with Tats—Csaba Nemeth—Danny held a hand to his ear and nodded. “Okay, sir. I’ll tell him.”

  Nemeth tapped his ear a couple of times and shook his head again. “My radio not work.”

  “That’s okay, Csaba,” Danny said, stepping closer and holding out his hand. “The boss told me to introduce myself. I’m Danny, latest member of the team. How you doing?”

  “Yes?” Nemeth said. Confusion still raked his face, but he took Danny’s hand. “No one told me about new—”

  Danny yanked hard, straightening Nemeth’s right arm and tugging him off-balance. He shot a vicious left jab into the Hungarian’s exposed ribs. At least one bone cracked. Maybe two.

  Nemeth grunted. Crumpled. Folded in on himself. His knees buckled.

  Danny punched him again. Another rib snapped. He released his grip and shot the webbing between his thumb and forefinger into the Hungarian’s throat. Nemeth collapsed to his knees in a gasping, gargling, coughing heap. His hands reached up to his throat, fingers scrabbling, fighting for air.

  In Danny’s ear, Corky chuckled. “Nice one, Danny-boy. Them fists is lethal. Mr K couldn’t have done it no better. Corky’s glad we’re on the s
ame side.”

  “Me too.”

  Slowly, Nemeth toppled to the chessboard tiles, gagging, eyes streaming, floundering. Helpless. He lay on his back, one arm held tight around his chest to protect his damaged ribs, the other bent, its hand clutching at his throat. Danny swung his foot and kicked Nemeth in the bollocks, hard, merciless. Nemeth howled.

  Danny repeated the crippling attack, his boot’s steel toecap delivering untold, maybe permanent, damage.

  Two vicious, pitiless blows, and Danny didn’t give a fuck.

  “Ouch. That’s a bit nasty.”

  “Multiple rape and the abuse of a minor, you said. Over.”

  “Okay. Gotcha. Understandable. Do it again for all Corky cares.”

  “Nemeth won’t be messing with kids again in a hurry. Over.”

  “Fair enough. Want Corky to call Interpol or the National Crime Agency for you? They’ve been hunting the arsehole for the past eight months.”

  “Not yet,” Danny said, keeping his voice down. “Something’s fucked up here, mate. I need to find Marian first. Over.”

  Keeping an eye on the spyhole in the door and an ear open for noises inside the house, Danny dropped to one knee. He relieved the quivering, rapist-paedophile of his weapon—a Beretta PX4 Storm—and checked the load. Nineteen round magazine, fully loaded. What the hell was all the firepower in aid of?

  Danny told Corky what happened between Robbie P and Driver, while patting down the still groaning, spluttering Nemeth. He found a wallet bulging with notes, a smart phone, and loose change. Danny pocketed the wallet, powered down the phone—Corky might find a use for it later—and slipped it into the same pocket.

  “We must have missed something, Corky. Over.”

  “Whatcha mean, Danny-boy?”

  “I mean, what’s Robbie P gotten himself into here? What’s a shit-for-brains thug like Csaba Nemeth doing here, and what’s the story with Driver? Robbie P is just a businessman, yeah?”