Intro 1

Monsters One

Running

  Almost everyone in the small community of Staunton had turned out for the funeral: Isla Young had been popular and her mysterious disappearance and untimely death had shaken the whole community to its core. Dozens of smartly dressed friends and well wishers stood around the casket as the rain drummed down onto their umbrellas. 

  Journalists from all over the world were fascinated by the case and each hoped to uncover the truth. A few photographers lingered just beyond the walls, sheltering their cameras from the rain and taking the odd shot of the funeral. But there was nothing to see now.

  No one spoke as the local minister read the eulogy, accompanied by the distant rumble of thunder. As the reverend tried to make himself heard over the rain a black Audi A4 pulled up outside the graveyard. Four men in plain dark suits got out, not seeming to care about the pouring rain. They stopped a respectful distance away and carefully scanned the faces of those present.

  One of the men stopped searching and nudged the man next to him. A few muttered words were exchanged and the word passed down the line. He had come after all.

  As they waited a blue van rolled quietly to a halt at the other side of the graveyard, hidden from the mourners by an ancient and twisted yew tree. No one seemed to notice the van; all eyes were on the coffin as a handful of wet earth thudded into the lid.

  One of the men spoke softly into a microphone hidden in his collar, whatever was about to happen he was in charge, the team leader. As the gathering round the grave began to break up and sodden mourners drifted away towards their cars the men tensed slightly.

  People muttered to each other, whispering condolences to the family or discussing the unusual events leading up to the girl’s death. Why she had disappeared was a mystery, and how she had come to meet her end so deep in Poland was anybody’s guess.

  Even stranger was the news from a week ago, that the prime suspect in the case had escaped from the Polish hospital where he was being held for questioning. Everyone had heard the story and repeated it at least once, but here and now it was on everyone’s lips. Only the four men waiting away from the grave seemed unconcerned with these events.

  They nodded politely to the mourners as they passed and waited for them to clamber into their cars and drive away. The minister had gone indoors and only one person remained by the grave.

  It was a man, hidden by his long coat but still visibly young. His skin was pale, his hair dark and his eyes where a shocking blue. He paid no notice to the four men as they advanced on him; he simply stood staring at the mud covered casket.

  “Are you going to come quietly?” One of the men called out to him.

  The young man looked around, looking each of the men over carefully but not making a move. The four men unbuttoned the jackets but did not draw the weapons they had concealed beneath.

  For a brief moment the young man turned his eyes back to the grave and a rumble of thunder boomed overhead. He ran.

  They had been expecting him to but his sudden turn of speed caught them by surprise. They started after him, tearing their weapons from the holsters and bringing them to bear. The team leader yelled into the microphone in his collar: “He’s running, all units move in.”

  There was a bang as the rear door of the blue van flew open and armed police officers poured out, bringing the butts of their MP5s into their shoulders as soon as they where through the doors. Muddy water splashed up around their legs as they tore across the grass towards their quarry.

  Suddenly the air was alive with noise as they called out, screaming for the young man to stop running. But there was no way he would. As he approached the fence that joined the graveyard to a large open field the first shot rang out, followed by another and another.

  Mid stride the young man stopped and spun around, his long coat flapping behind him. Dropping to one knee he drew a silenced Mark 23 handgun from beneath his coat, steadying the weapon with his left hand as he took aim. There was the barest click of the firing pin as he squeezed the trigger.

  The .45 calibre round clipped one of the suited men in the shoulder, splashing his blood across the ground. The man cried out and dropped to the ground. Even before he fell a second round punched through the thigh of one of the armed officers.

  Seeing their comrades go down the remaining men threw themselves into cover, diving behind headstones or trees, whatever they could shield themselves with. For a few moments there was silence, broken only by the agonised groans of the injured men. The team leader spoke hurriedly into the microphone in his collar and began gesturing to the others.

  When they broke cover to return fire barely a moment later they saw only empty space where the young man had been stood. Two men ran around the church and another two to the stone wall that led into the field. They found nothing.

  For several intense minutes they searched: bursting loudly into the church and scouring the field. There was nowhere he could have gone, but still he had vanished.