Blood Sun

top of his ears-he needed to hear clearly.

“Thanks for the extra cash,” Max said.

Sayid had raided his sock drawer and pulled out every note he’d stashed there from doing odd jobs on people’s computers. Max had his own small savings pot and the credit card his dad had set up for emergencies. But Max had wanted to avoid using that until the last minute.

“I’ll come downstairs with you,” Sayid said.

“No. Kill the lights and I’ll get going.”

Sayid knew Max was right. His friend could move more easily without having him to worry about. The two boys embraced.

“Take care, Max.”

“I will. Don’t worry, I’ll be in touch. I just have to sort this out.”

Sayid switched off the room’s light as Max settled his backpack onto his shoulders, left the room and walked quickly and silently toward the back door that would lead him to the yard.

Within minutes he had skirted the dark edge of the building, finding clear ground that would leave no footprints. He lifted Sayid’s mountain bike onto his shoulder, edged around the outbuildings and found an animal track etched through the gorse and heather. He ran, balancing the bike as best he could. Clouds were pushing in, hurried along by the north wind, its chill biting through his cargo pants. Tears from the cold filled his eyes.

For the next twenty minutes or so, it would be almost as bright as daylight, a chance to make fast time. A bomber’s moon, his gran had called a full moon on a clear night. As a child, she had endured saturation bombing in the Second World War, and whenever there was a beautiful, cloudless night, she would hastily close the curtains in her modest home. Well, he was glad of the moon. The sky’s glow helped Max see exactly where he needed to go. Within minutes he would drop out of sight from the school; then there was no chance of anyone who might still be awake seeing his shadow flit across the white-topped land.

Except that the threat did not lie in the school behind him.

Drew ran steadily on a bearing that would cut Max off. There was no need for night-vision goggles or binoculars: he saw the boy’s dark shape cut in and out of the folding ground. Somewhere behind him, and over to one side, Stanton would have the Range Rover ready to plunge through the night if for any reason Drew could not catch the boy.

Max was already more than a kilometer from school. Sweat ran down his back, his T-shirt clinging to his skin. As the track became a path, he climbed onto the mountain bike and kept his legs pumping. At this rate he would make good time. If his plan was going to succeed, he had to be in the city before the commuter rush hour started. He was so busy projecting his thoughts, following the plan in his mind, that he failed to see the rock in the path. The front wheel hit it awkwardly, the handlebars twisted and, because he was riding out of the saddle, using his body weight to power the bike along, he fell sideways into the gorse, rolling a couple of meters into the undergrowth.

Frozen snow and gorse needles scratched his face. He swore, picked up the bike and was immediately grateful for the accident. As he got to his feet, he looked back the way he had come. Across the low hill to his left, a shadow came on relentlessly. It was a big man, less than three hundred meters away. A determined energy powered the spectral figure forward, jumping and dodging any small obstacles like the inconsequential nuisances they were.

The shock of seeing the man momentarily stunned Max, but he recovered, kicked down on the pedals and felt the tires bite into the frozen sludge. Sucking in air, he kept going as fast as he could. Gran was right! A bomber’s moon brought the enemy right down your throat! Where were those clouds?

He dared a look over his shoulder. The man was closer. A horrible sensation gripped Max. The man pursuing him with such relentlessness must be superfit. Not only had he kept a fast pace going across difficult ground, but also he had increased his speed. He obviously had untapped reserves of stamina.

Max knew he was not going to outrun this man.

Know your ground, use your mind. Survival needs more than guts and strength. Dad whispered in his mind like a guardian angel.

Max knew where he was. He had run these hills and paths ever since his dad had placed him in school here. Dartmoor had dozens of danger zones. Military no-go areas, old mine shafts, bogland-there were plenty of nature’s traps ready to snare the unwary.

Where to go? Max’s mind raced faster than his legs. Get off the path! Make it difficult. Make him look where he’s going! Make him take his eyes off you!

Cold, raw air scoured his lungs. Pedal harder! No need to turn and look now. He could hear the man’s boots brushing aside the frozen gorse. Carrying the bike again would slow him down, but he had to take the risk. He couldn’t ride here. The crossbar dug into his shoulder. He dipped left, downward past an outcrop of knuckle-like boulders, saw the edge of the moon smiling its farewell as clouds crawled all over it. Darkness! He needed darkness. Another twenty meters. In the distance, the woods, spiky grassland in front, a last glint of light to help confirm what he saw in his mind’s eye. He veered right, banged his shoulder on an unseen fist of rock. It threw him off balance. But he was almost there. Now he ran straight, right out into the open where the man could not fail to see him.

He turned and faced his pursuer. Like a cornered rat.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he yelled, shaking with exertion, offering himself to the predator, who was less than fifty meters away. The man was expressionless. His eyes locked on to the seemingly helpless boy.

Max saw the ground in his head, remembered it in daylight, watched his finger trace the map as he took part in orienteering. Saw the places to avoid.

The mantraps.

As the darkness blanketed the moor, Stanton watched through night-vision binoculars. One of the ghosts had stopped. The other, a silvery, fast-moving apparition, raced toward it. And then floundered, half of its ghostly image disappearing from view.

Drew was down.

Stanton turned the ignition key.

Max gasped in air, letting his lungs settle, watching as the man spluttered and gagged on the foul bog water. The craters were deep, some of them bottomless, according to local legend. This was Blacksnake Mire, one of the primeval pockets of sludge, camouflaged by a covering of vegetation.

The man was trying to clamber out, but there was no means of reaching the edge. He trod water, except there was no buoyancy. The glutinous liquid was like quicksand.

“You’re going to die. You can’t get out of these mires unless someone helps you,” Max said evenly, surprised at the objective tone of his voice. Death was part of nature, and this hunter was about to be taken into a foul grave.

Drew spat out vomit-inducing mud and swore at Max with an even more evil spewing of expletives.

“Why were you chasing me? Tell me!” Max demanded.

Drew stayed silent. He was convinced he had the strength to get out of this, but the mire was sucking him down. Maybe he wasn’t going to make it.

“Gordon! Get me out, kid.”

Max was surprised to hear the man call him by name. “Tell me!” Max yelled. He could hear the purr of a powerful engine some distance away. It wouldn’t be a farmer. Their old workhorses coughed and spluttered through thirty years of use. This was controlled power. Like a Range Rover. Exactly! The one that nearly hit Sayid. These were the same men and they were still out here.

Drew had sunk down to the top of his chest; there was no chance of using his arms except to spread them out-to delay the inevitable.

“I dunno, boy. Your pal Maguire. He found out stuff.…”

“What stuff?” Max asked desperately. The sound of the engine was closer; it must be just over the rise of the hill behind them.