The Machine (The Hunt series Book 4): Bad Men Fear Those Who Lurk In Shadows Read online

  The Machine

  The Hunt series Book 4

  Tim Heath

  Happy Content publishing

  Copyright © 2018 by Tim Heath

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  For Elizabeth Knight––on reaching a recent milestone as well as being a tremendous editorial help, to name just a couple of things.

  ****

  A character glossary is located at the back of the book.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Character Glossary

  Author Notes

  The Importance of a Review

  Free Book

  Acknowledgments

  The Hunt series concludes (Books 5&6)

  Books By Tim Heath

  The Boxsets––Tim Heath

  The Boxsets––T H Paul

  About the Author

  1

  January 2018––St Petersburg, Russia

  The first shot hadn’t killed him. That had been their first mistake. Yes, he realised they were after him now and as a trained FSB agent he knew a little about defending himself, especially if it was just a couple of street punks trying to get an easy score.

  Neither of them was that, however.

  Besides, their target was weaponless––his gun had gone flying when they’d taken the shot, sending the Russian agent crashing to the ground. Now they were moving in for the kill. There was no way the target could avoid the fatal shot.

  One minute later, the two men who were each still carrying a handgun and dressed in black combat gear, were walking away from the scene at speed, back down the street from where they had come just ten minutes previously. They put their weapons away, the barrel of one still hot.

  The larger of the two Russians pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket.

  “It’s done,” he said, speaking once more with the man who’d ordered the hit just an hour before.

  “He’s dead?”

  “Yes, we left him where we shot him. The FSB won’t be interfering anymore, sir. Do you want us to come back in?” It’d been months––nearly eleven in fact––since they’d had any contact from Command. It’d been almost five years since they were last in the one facility the organisation used exclusively for their own matters.

  “Yes, it might be time. Bring them all back in now, comrade.”

  The call ended.

  “He’s ordered all teams back in. Make the call,” the larger man said to his next in rank, a man and soldier whom he’d fought alongside for over two decades.

  The other man got on with the task, making several calls to the various team leaders, each group of five now ordered back to base––for some, recruited over recent years, it would be the first time they had ever been there.

  The early 1990s––Moscow

  A young man sat on the only piece of furniture that wasn’t their bed, putting together yet another cigarette. In the communal flat, the sound of other residents was an ever-present reality––people moving around, waking up, doors banging––all neighbours stuck in the same situation.

  A young female––the man’s girlfriend of fifteen months––came back into the room, not looking at all happy.

  “Water’s off again!” she screamed. She’d gone to take a shower just moments before as the shared bathroom was free. It was unusual to find no one in there but the reason became clear once she started running the hot tap. “Damn! I don’t need this today.”

  The man––Vlad, who was nineteen and nothing more than a typical street criminal––had started smoking by now, having assumed he would have had a few minutes alone. Months back, she would have cursed him for smoking inside. Now, she’d learnt to say nothing––it made no difference.

  “Relax, Svetchik, you could always jump back into bed with me.” If he wasn’t having sex, then Vlad was thinking about it. In truth, he couldn’t believe his luck with this one. She was way out of his league, which was evident to anyone.

  She, however, had had nowhere to go at the time and knew her chances were a hundred times better taking Vlad up on his offer to live with him than living out on the streets. Gangs and criminal organisations made that part of the city particularly dangerous––so much for the new era in the Motherland. It was all falling apart around her, the whole country in chaos.

  She’d actually grown to be quite fond of him over time––the sex was just her way of paying the rent. She wouldn’t tell him that.

  All she needed that morning was to get a shower, get to the latest audition, and she might finally be able to step out on her own two feet at last.

  She’d left home a year and a half before, aged just fifteen. She’d come under Vlad’s protection a few weeks after leaving behind the only family she knew––a mum and dad, her father working three jobs by the end of it and her sole male role model whom she never saw. That had evidently got too much for her mother as well. Her parents’ marriage collapsed. At one of the hardest of times in her country’s dark history, the secure world she thought she had around her suddenly collapsed. She ran away the same night her mother told her about the divorce. She’d not been in contact since.

  Her mother––an alcoholic at the best of times––had probably drunk herself to death already, for all she knew.

  For the young teenager she was then––as she still was, though the last year and a half had aged her beyond her years––she was well rid of the lot of them. When she’d complained to her father on one of the rare occasions he was home that she was being molested by her uncle––her father’s own brother––the brush-off had cut to the bone. The two brothers had sided with each other.

  She often wondered a little about what she’d once had. Life wasn’t comfortable now. It couldn’t have been easy for them then, either. She’d largely been shielded from all that apart from her drinking mother and abusive uncle. Her father being out all the time was only to make ends meet. She knew that now.

  Her own life hadn’t turned into anything special since then, either.

  She’d moved in with Vlad the month before the first McDonald’s opened in Moscow––she could see the queues of thousands of people from the window in their room, as the line snaked its way around the park down below. She felt sadness, not hope. She was as desperate for escape as those people were for a taste of an American burger. She didn’t even have the money for that.

  “You look fine,” Vlad said, at last. She’d been fussing for five minutes in front of a small mirr
or––the glass broken in one corner, damaged by one of the numerous previous tenants most likely.

  “I’m going, then. Do you think you could get some bread while I’m gone?” Bread and milk were about the only things Russians could rely on being available. They couldn’t have afforded meat, anyway, even if it was on offer.

  Vlad didn’t respond, he was already rolling the second cigarette. She hated the smell, always had. His whole body now seemed to ooze smoke from every pore––the flat was bathed in the smell though that was a welcome coverup from what it had been like before.

  Twenty minutes later she was walking in through the doors of the latest production company with whom she’d come to audition. It was her third such audition––the first two happening nearly a year before, and she didn’t really know what she was doing back then. Plus she’d been too young––she looked too young. She still was young, though her identification papers, something Vlad had been able to sort through one of his contacts, now at least had her down as eighteen.

  “Ms Zolnerovic,” a lady said, having scanned down the list of names in front of her a few seconds before and confirming she was expected. “Please, come this way,” and she was led down a small corridor and told to sit down on one of the black seats. There were three other women in front of her, all about her age––her pretend age––or maybe a little older. They all looked a little disheartened when she was led in. Ms Zolnerovic looked stunning, as she always did.

  The three in front of her had been called in over the next hour. She’d been joined by another two women behind her in the queue, each apparently waiting for their chance, their big break. Anything to get out of Russia, and that was precisely what this particular production company offered. Yes, it was Russian run, but they were one of the few Soviet-era firms that had permission to work with American studios. McDonald's was far from the only Western influence in a now more open Russia.

  The three women ahead of her had been in the room for varying amounts of time. The first was in for nearly half an hour, and came out slowly, but had not seemed too disappointed. The second was led out by two men after being inside for just five minutes––could her audition really have been that bad? The third lady––who left moments before Sveta was called in––walked out fast, head down, not even glancing at any of the ladies waiting, after about twenty minutes.

  “Ms Zolnerovic,” a man behind a large desk said, as three others joined him in the room. All around the walls were photos of various stars of the screen––some she recognised, most of whom she didn’t. In one corner of what turned out to be more of a mini studio than an office, there was a pile of lighting equipment. There was a small staging area opposite the desk that all four men were now sitting behind.

  “Please, take your position on the stage,” the same man said, motioning for her to stand in front of them.

  She was handed a script––she knew what was often expected of her in these situations, though she had never been given an actual screenplay before, usually just handed a book by Pushkin or Tolstoy and told to read it theatrically. This was an altogether different experience. Her heart started to race. She glanced down at the lines––they were in English.

  “You are able to read English?” the Director said, speaking in English, picking up on her initial surprise.

  “Yes, of course,” she replied in the same language. She’d spent much of the last fifteen months watching American films on Vlad’s stolen television set––that being by far the most appealing thing about her entire connection to that man.

  Fifteen minutes later the Director ended the exercise.

  “Thank you, Ms Zolnerovic. That’ll be enough for now. You’ve done a wonderful audition,” he said, calling her over to them, and she handed back the script.

  “I can see you going a long way,” the Director said.

  “Really?” She was more shocked than actually questioning.

  “Absolutely. You deliver your lines with passion and precision, you have a fantastic accent, and you are very beautiful,” he said, standing up at this point and coming around to the front of the desk. The other three followed behind, standing alongside him. “Very beautiful,” he said, now standing facing her. “Of course, these parts don’t come around easily,” and he started fiddling with his belt. “We will make someone a star––it could be you,” he said as he continued and unbuttoned the top of his jeans. “The question is, how much do you want it? How much are you prepared to do for us to get the part?” By now it was obvious what they wanted her to do. All four men had their belts undone.

  “On your knees, actress!” the Director said, a smirk of power, of control and mockery firmly planted on his face. Of course, they wanted something. She felt sick to her stomach as she lowered herself to the ground––lowered herself to their depraved level––but if this were to be her big break, she’d take it. Then she’d show them all.

  2

  Polkovo Airport––St Petersburg

  January 1st, 2018

  When the gunfire had started––the men who were behind the attacks that had taken place around Russia against perceived opposition had mainly fired at the airport security personnel who had commanded Sasha to freeze––the Russian FSB agent had immediately hit the deck. He’d taken a bullet in the thigh, but five minutes later, bullets no longer flying through the darkness, he had managed to drag himself away from the situation.

  All he could see were bodies.

  The jet that he had been watching had flown away immediately––it didn’t even wait for the men who had been about to board, men who had instead come towards him. So much for loyalty.

  Andre Filipov’s presence there––and that could only mean the involvement of Andre’s father Matvey Filipov––meant they were directly connected to the men who were carrying out the barbaric attacks on civilians. Assaults on gays and Muslims that were credited to both the Putin and Kaminski camps––news footage which made both Presidential candidates look evil in the eyes of the watching world.

  Sirens could be heard in the distance. Apparently, the alarm had been raised––the carnage would be evident for anyone to see––and it was, therefore, the last place where Sasha wanted to be seen.

  He strapped up his leg as best he could. The bullet hadn’t come out, and the pain was beginning to overpower him. He picked up a large stick that was lying on the ground amongst the trees, and using it as a crutch, moved as quickly as was possible––which given a man who was very fit, was agonisingly slow.

  Sasha couldn’t allow there to be any connection between him and the airport shooting––nor could he turn up for work with a bullet in his thigh. He knew he was stuck.

  Sasha would have to go to ground. He had managed to contact Alex in those frantic few seconds before the shootout with the photos he had taken––Sasha had checked his phone and confirmed that he had indeed saved the email draft correctly. So at least his two British friends would soon know the news––understand the connection––before too long. He wasn’t going to tell them about his injury.

  Two hours later Sasha was home. He’d managed to pick up a bottle of vodka on the way from an open-all-hours store that was just down the road from him. The cashier made no reference to his injury, and Sasha had left the crutch once he’d reached the city.

  Now in his bathroom, Sasha pulled out a medical kit from under the sink, taking a swig of the vodka, which would be used in equal measure to both sterilise the wound and be swallowed to numb the pain.

  He first had to remove the bullet.

  He’d thought about going to a hospital or medical centre. It was too risky, however. He didn’t trust anyone, and he had removed a bullet once before, though that time had not been from his own thigh. He had to control how much he drank––Sasha had lost quite a bit of blood already, and it would be no good passing out before he had managed to carry out his minor piece of surgery.

  In the end, he’d just bitten down on a piece of wood and using his two fing
ers, had managed to reach in, locate and remove the bullet. Blood oozed immediately from the wound, though not in the way it would have done had an artery been broken. He’d surely not have survived long had that been the case, anyhow.

  Sasha managed to stop the bleeding somewhat by just wrapping a bandage around the wound tightly enough––and a few swigs of vodka later, the bottle nearly half empty, he was at least able to start cleaning up the floor. He used a broomstick as a makeshift crutch to help him move around the flat, and went to put the kettle on. It was nearly morning.

  After breakfast, Sasha collected everything together––the bloodstained towels that he’d used to clean up, the bandage packets––as well as grabbing fresh supplies, before locating his keys and phone. He limped out of his flat, locking it securely behind him. There was no foot traffic around the building––most people were still sleeping off the night before, and after dropping his trash into the metal rubbish bins which adjoined his apartment block, was racing away in his car and heading for his dacha. He planned to keep his head down there for a while, assess how things stood, and when he had a game-plan, to make his move from there.