The Hunt series Books 1-3: The Hunt series Boxset Read online

  The Hunt Series Books 1-3

  The Hunt Series Boxset

  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

  Contents

  The Prey

  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

  Chapter 33

  Character Glossary

  The Pride

  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

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Character Glossary

  The Poison

  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

  Author Notes

  The Importance of a Review

  Character Glossary

  Free Book

  Acknowledgments

  The Machine (The Hunt Series Book 4)

  The Boxsets––Tim Heath

  The Boxsets––T H Paul

  Books By Tim Heath

  About the Author

  The Prey

  The Hunt series book 1

  Dedication

  For my wife, Rachel––standing with

  you always as you battle on.

  ****

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

  1

  January 1st

  A car screeched to a halt, horn yelling at the man just standing on the crossing. The driver of the vehicle shouted words that the man at the junction could not register, nor would he have understood. He spoke no Russian.

  Five minutes earlier he’d left his hotel, which rose five storeys high and a whole block back from St Petersburg’s main thoroughfare, Nevski Prospekt. The street was named after someone he knew very little about and was always busy, though its three lanes meant rarely did it get as blocked as some of the roads it intersected. Light snow was falling as Richard had exited his five-star dwelling, the standard of hotel in keeping with its location, and his usual choice of resting place.

  Richard was thirty-six, single and travelled extensively, for work mostly. He was financially stable without being rich. Enough to do most of what he pleased, but still having to work all hours to keep up his lifestyle. The pavements around him were full of people. It was nearly Orthodox Christmas, and the tourist season for that limited time of year was very much in motion. However, he wasn’t there to shop. As he walked, before he was even one hundred metres from his hotel, two men were following his every step. They’d been watching him for a long time. Not only as he left the airport two days before, nor even just as he boarded the plane in London. They’d been outside his house as he left for the airport, they’d dropped in on his office a week before that too, though not to see him. They were just observing, seeing if the Spotters had done their job. The next two minutes were about to answer that very question.

  Richard noticed the white piece of paper straight away. He’d been looking for it, anyway. When a note had been passed under his door half an hour before, he’d assumed it was a joke, some hoax. No one had been in the corridor as he’d opened the door to check. He’d read the words carefully. Something had caught his attention about it all, the photo attached helping him to summon up the courage to finally grab his coat and wrap his scarf around his head.

  He’d been expecting something to happen since landing in Russia’s second city. Now it appeared to have taken place.

  The white piece of paper was stuck to one of the many drain pipes that ran down the front of the elegant buildings he’d been passing, pouring streams of water across the pavements when it rained. They were frozen solid right now, huge chunks of ice sticking out of them like cotton wool from a bloody nose. Adverts of all sorts were plastered to the metal pipes, but he wasn’t interested in what they had to say. Grabbing the piece of paper, he found exactly what he’d been told he would see attached to the back with a staple. A lottery ticket.

  His heart raced, every fibre of his being awakened as if by some new reality. Suddenly feeling conspicuous, he started walking again, stuffing the ticket into the pocket of his jeans. He continued to walk down Nevski as if just another tourist who’d taken an advert off the pipe, heading for some strip club, restaurant or any number of places the illegally placed flyers were trying to get him to visit.

  Ahead of him was an underpass that helped pedestrians traverse the road that crossed Nevski at that point. He entered into it. Richard paused underneath, some market-style stalls occupying the walls of the pavements beside him, sellers and pedestrians mingling as people do in large, crowded cities. The two men following him paused, too, before one man continued ahead, the other hanging around at the entrance the Englishman had just used.

  Richard pulled out his phone, wanting to check for sure that what he was holding was worth what the note had told him. It was the first day of January, most people outside having been up all night celebrating the New Year, fireworks rocketing through the night as only a major city could do. The ticket he held between his gloved fingers had the date showing as Wednesday 8th July from the previous summer. His mobile shook in his hands as he gri
pped it, before he took a breath, knowing he had to steady himself. There was no signal standing where he was anyway, so he started to walk again, climbing the other sloping pavement, which took him back up to Nevski, now across the junction. His phone indicated it had a signal, and opening up a new browser window, he searched for the lottery results from that day in July. Moments later, on the third result listed, he had them confirmed. The six numbers that had been drawn were the same six he held in front of him at that moment. He read the text on his screen; one lucky ticket won Wednesday's triple rollover jackpot for £10,550,987. The claimant has until January 2nd, 2016 to claim their winnings.

  It was exactly what the note under his door had said. He looked up, swore under his breath, and stepped into the road, a car braking sharply, window open and the driver shouting something at him.

  The two men watching him had seen what they needed to see. Speaking into their Bluetooth headsets, which never left their ears, the first of the men quietly said; “Game on.”

  Racing back to his hotel room, he didn’t wait for the lift, striding the stairs two at a time, his long legs chasing the three flights to his front facing suite. He’d slept well the second night, despite the fireworks that only really slowed around three in the morning. His first night, he’d hardly slept at all, the noise of the city, the life so busy around him, just too much to give rest to his eyes.

  He called his travel agent, but their offices were closed with it being a bank holiday in the UK. He swore again. Grabbing his bag, he threw whatever he had into the case and dropped in his limited toiletries, which he needn’t have bothered to bring due to the hotel’s vast offerings, and zipped it shut. His return ticket was valid for Monday’s flight. Today was Friday. He left his room.

  In the hotel’s foyer, he handed his key in, the room already paid for in advance for the rest of the weekend.

  “You are leaving already, sir?” said the lady behind the desk, her English accented but very good.

  “Yes, something has come up. I need to fly back to London immediately. Could you please order me a taxi straight away?”

  “Of course, sir,” she said, phone already in hand, putting into action his request.

  Just five minutes later a taxi pulled up outside, the driver coming to take his case as Richard got into the back seat.

  “Polkovo airport please, the international terminal,” he said to the driver, not knowing if he spoke English, but the car pulled away suggesting that he’d at least understood, assuming the lady at the hotel had not already made mention of the destination.

  Behind the taxi, three vehicles were now trailing the Contestant. Cameras watched from every main junction, drones continually flying the skies mapping Richard’s position. It was vital they had him tracked the whole time. If they lost sight of him, they might lose the money, and a whole lot more besides. That wouldn’t be allowed to happen on this Games day, the shame of defeat far costlier than the measly millions that were a drop in the ocean to those pulling strings.

  Traffic was slow, even on a day that most people had off. As Russia’s most prominent holiday, there were plenty of people travelling between family engagements, not to mention those starting their winter sunshine holidays now that the ten-day break was upon them. That meant there were queues at the airport before Richard even got in, having paid the driver with a bundle of rubles, more than he needed to, but it had still cost less than when he’d first arrived and taken a taxi in the opposite direction.

  There was no one at the British Airways desk, nor was there a flight again that day, anyway. Richard cursed himself, not for the first time that day. He scanned the boards high above him, the destinations in English, a small mercy for which he was at least grateful. Nothing suggested a flight to England was happening anytime soon. He looked at his watch. Panic was starting to set in.

  Elsewhere, the image of Richard glancing at his watch for what must have been the sixth time in the last half hour was greeted with ironic laughter. They were going to win again with this one. The odds on the screen in front of them all were lengthening considerably. The man with most of the money riding on this one––for it was his Hunt this turn––busy on multiple telephones, always in contact with his Trackers. He was speaking with immigration personnel at the airports, lining up his people to make it as impossible as he could for this latest Contestant to ever leave Russian soil, let alone land in England with enough time to be able to claim his prize.

  Richard could see international flights were a dead end. He had a little over twenty-four hours, in his reckoning, to get back to London and make a claim, and no flights were going to London, or anywhere of interest, for at least the next six hours. Flights for later that night were not yet showing, but when he’d made the call to organise his trip initially, there had never been any nighttime options listed, he was confident of that. He’d have to find another option, but with the potential of over ten million pounds now so close and within his reach, he’d be as resourceful as he could to get that money. He already felt it was his––to allow something to take that from him now was madness.

  Next to the main terminal was a small private terminal from where he assumed, the rich and famous would fly in and out. Banging loudly on the door, it took two minutes before the security guard was annoyed enough to open it, staring at the tall but not very threatening man in front of him.

  “I need to hire a jet,” Richard said, fast and loud. He repeated himself, this time slower.

  “No English,” was all the guard replied, before pointing to a lady walking towards them. She was dressed in Russian border control uniform and carried a pleasant but naturally suspicious smile on her attractive face.

  “Please, can you help me?”

  “And what is it you need, sir?” she said, Richard pleased she at least spoke his language.

  “I need to hire a jet. I have to get back to London urgently, and no flights are leaving that are any use to me from the main terminal.”

  “You have money?” she said, her fingers rubbing across her thumb as if to emphasise the point.

  “I have a credit card.”

  “Has to be cash, I’m afraid sir, and besides…” she said, glancing across at the two men watching her, fully aware of who they were and why they were there, “all the pilots are off today. It’s New Year. They finished yesterday.”

  Richard put a hand to his forehead, trying to smooth away the tension, suppressing a scream that he wanted to let out at that moment. With nothing more to say, he left. He was fast running out of options, and the panic that this brought on was bordering on being crippling, hopeless, pitiful even. He wasn’t yet going to give up. He jumped into another waiting taxi.

  “Where to, sir?” the driver said, turning to him as Richard got into the front passenger seat, clutching his bag on his lap.

  “The main railway station, please, and as quickly as you can. I’m in a hurry.”

  “I’ll do my best for you, sir. So, what brings you to my great country?”

  “Business really, but please, just drive. I have a hurting head and just need to get onto a train to Moscow.”

  “Very well sir, you just sit back and enjoy the journey. I’ll get you to the station before you know it.”

  It took them an hour, in fact, sixty agonising minutes mainly sitting in lanes of traffic, people crossing the roads between the sitting cars like ants on a forest floor. Richard paid the driver, pulling his bag behind him and walked towards the main entrance.

  Inside the Moskovski railway station, there were banks of window booths, only about a third of them staffed, each of these with long lines of people in front of them. Richard went over and stood in what he deemed the shortest, though there was little in it. They were all much longer than he needed right now. Scanning the boards, he tried to make out what he could, the lettering and titles all in Russian Cyrillic, but at least Moscow was still fundamentally recognisable. There were several trains listed, the fastest of which was due to lea
ve in thirty minutes.

  Fifteen minutes further on, the queue had reduced by about a third but was not going to be quick enough. Frustratingly, he had seen people jumping between lines, sometimes whole families coming to join a single person in front of him, adding size and therefore time to each booking. Then there were the people who were blatantly just pushing in. Queuing, especially for an Englishman in a hurry, apparently was not working.