The Demon Club

Wolf let go of his groaning, bleeding and prostrated adversary and turned to face the rest. The one with the chain was scowling and looked as if he might want to have a go. Wolf said, ‘Come on, then.’ But then the chain guy had second thoughts, let the weapon slink to the dirt and took off at a run. The one holding the dog’s rope let it go and followed him, along with the sixth guy, who had no desire to be left there to face the enemy alone. The three-legged dog bounded away in the opposite direction. Wolf watched the men run, and shook his head in disgust. ‘Cowards.’

When they were at a safe distance, three of the gang turned and shook their fists, yelling threats. Wolf didn’t need a translator to understand that they were promising that this wasn’t over. Wolf said, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ First day in a new place, and he was already making friends.

The guy on the ground looked up at Wolf with dustcrusted features and pain blazing in his eyes. His jaw was at a distorted angle but he managed to blurt out ‘¿Quién eres tú?’ Who are you?

Wolf replied, ‘No soy nadie importante.’ I’m nobody important.

He went over to his holdall and picked it up. As he was walking away, he felt eyes watching his back and looked over his shoulder to see the dog standing there. Its head was cocked and it was observing him with a kind of curiosity. The rope was still attached to its neck. Wolf walked slowly over to it, extended a gentle hand for it to sniff, then carefully removed the rope. He said in a soft voice, ‘Well?’

For a moment the dog seemed to be deciding whether or not to tag along with him; then it turned, trotted lopsidedly off and disappeared. Wolf wouldn’t have minded its company, but he understood. He’d always been a loner, too.

He muttered, ‘See you around, amigo.’ And set off towards the hills.

Chapter 12

Ben had entered Wolf’s apartment at 4.45 a.m. and spent less than an hour inside. It was 5.38 when he got back to his car, already working out his next move.

Now that he knew where he needed to go from here, he considered his travel arrangements. A flight from Heathrow or Stansted to Zaragoza or Valencia, plus checking-in and waiting-around time, plus the extra driving distance to his final destination, was going to take a few hours but was his fastest option. By road, he faced a sixteen-hour marathon journey, or even longer if he factored in minor details like the need to eat or rest – but with the important advantage of being able to travel armed, as long as he didn’t get caught. Getting caught was bad. But going after Wolf unarmed was worse. At least the customs officials wouldn’t kill him and make his body disappear.

Ben made the choice to go by car. Retracing his steps from London back to the coast, he stopped on his way south to replace his gun in its hiding place. He arrived in Folkestone at 7.07 a.m., grabbed a paper cup of sour-tasting coffee while waiting for his Eurotunnel connection, and got the car on board for a 7.30 crossing. By 9.06 local time, he was rolling out the other side in Calais. After parading his concealed stash of weaponry right under the noses of the customs officials for the second time in hours, he grabbed another coffee and a sandwich to munch en route, and was off. His route would steer him southwards past Paris and cut straight down across France: through the nature reserves of La Brenne and Perigord-Limousin, then Montauban, Toulouse and the French Pyrenees before he hit the Spanish border. He would zip by Aragón’s capital city of Zaragoza before the final two-hour leg of the journey took him to Albarracín. A long way for a single person to drive, but Ben had driven longer.

He made two stops for fuel, one at a crowded motorway services and the other at a quieter countryside station where he popped the bonnet and retrieved his Browning and ammunition, which he tucked under the driver’s seat. The rest of the way, he stayed sharp by burning through two packs of Gauloises and forcing himself to keep mentally revisualising the video footage Saunders had made him watch. The combination of fear and nicotine made for a powerfully stimulating cocktail that impelled him to cover the fifteen hundred kilometres like a racing driver on amphetamines and shave nearly ninety minutes off his estimated journey time.

It was just gone 9.45 p.m. when he arrived in Albarracín. Every mile of the way, the same nagging voice at the back of his mind hadn’t stopped telling him how thin his lead was. If he was on the wrong track, he had no idea what to try next. He felt nauseous with worry and exhaustion and badly needed to sleep a while, but couldn’t stop moving or shake from his mind the image of Saunders’ spooks shadowing Grace, ready to step in and put a bullet in her head if he failed in his quest.

He parked the Alpina in a quiet layby on the edge of Albarracín, took out his phone and a notepad and pen, and got to work using Google Maps to put together a list of all the hotels, boarding houses and guest houses in the town and the surrounding area. The sure knowledge that his target would have been travelling incognito gave him nothing to go on, except for Wolf’s picture. It meant that he’d have to do this the hard way, hoofing it from hotel to hotel with some pretext for showing the picture to people in the hope that someone might recognise it and point him in the right direction. With his list complete, Ben sat staring at it for a long time before he felt a stabbing ache in his temples and realised that this wasn’t the right approach. He ripped the page from the notepad and crumpled it. Then reclined into the driver’s seat, closed his eyes and tried to let his mind take a step back.

To catch a wolf, you have to think like a wolf.

The Jaden Ben knew wasn’t the type to check into a hotel. He was a man who sought solitude and loved the wild places. Chances were that he’d be living rough in the hills somewhere close by. By Ben’s reckoning, if indeed Wolf made his way straight to Albarracín from London, travelling as discreetly and covertly as possible, he probably hadn’t been here much longer than a couple of days. Long enough to have picked a spot to make his camp, somewhere up there on the high ground overlooking the town. But not so long that he’d have got itchy feet and started drifting further afield. He had a sentimental attachment to this place that wouldn’t wear off so fast. He might even be planning on remaining here long-term. If he was here at all, then he’d be somewhere not far away, within easy range of Albarracín for the purposes of restocking provisions whenever he needed them.

That psychological profile worked for Ben. Now he refined it further, thinking that when Wolf first arrived here, he’d have hung around the town for at least a couple of hours or so, getting his bearings, maybe revisiting some of his old haunts from the long-ago visit that he’d talked so fondly about that night in Afghanistan. Ben recalled that he’d mentioned a young lady. What had she been called? Sofia. Easy to remember, because it was the most popular name for Hispanic parents to give their little girls. Wolf might have been interested in tracking her down. Might have asked around to find out if she was still living there.

The newly arrived Wolf would also have needed to eat. And so did Ben, before he passed out from energy depletion. He took the Browning from under his seat, loaded it and slipped it in his waistband, then locked up the Alpina and headed through the town on foot. It was a beautiful night, in a beautiful place, if only Ben had been in the mood to appreciate either. The older part of Albarracín dated back to medieval times, with narrow winding streets in places barely wide enough to drive a car through. He found a little restaurant that was still open late, went inside and took a corner window table with a view of the street, just in case his target happened to come wandering by. Ben ordered a steak and a whisky. No salad, no trimmings. Meat and alcohol were the things he needed. Rare and strong, in that order. He ate and drank fast and felt re-energised, relaxed and ready to go to work.

Ben had first studied Spanish at the Ministry of Defence’s Centre for Languages and Culture in Shrivenham, and later refined his fluency during his years as a private kidnap rescue operator. As he was paying for his meal he showed the waiter the photo of Wolf and said in Spanish, ‘This is my brother, Mike. Said he’d meet me here in town, but he hasn’t shown up. Wondered if you might have seen him in here?’

The old standby. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. When the waiter looked blank and shook his head Ben asked, ‘Think anybody else here might have seen him? It’d be within the last couple of days or so.’

The waiter shook his head again. ‘I’m always here, six days a week. This job, you have to be good with faces. If your brother – you said his name is Mike? If he had been in here, I’d have noticed him.’

Win some, lose some. Ben thanked him and left.

He was wandering further through the town, deep in thought, when he came across another restaurant in the maze of narrow, winding streets. It was a tapas bar, smaller than the place he’d eaten in. They were closing up for the night but the door was still open. Ben looked in, saw the simple decor and the mismatched chairs and tables, and his instinct told him this was more the kind of place that Jaden Wolf would gravitate to. A woman with an apron and black hair tied back was sweeping the floor. She turned as Ben appeared in the doorway and said, ‘We’re closed.’

He stepped inside. ‘I know, and I’m sorry to bother you, but you might be able to help me. Do you have a moment?’

He gave her the same story that he was looking for his brother. She leaned on her broom handle while she gazed at the photo, then shook her head no. Ben thanked her anyway and was about to take the photo back when a middle-aged guy emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel, and she called him over. They related like husband and wife. ‘Tomás, this gentleman is looking for his brother.’ She showed him. Tomás peered at Wolf’s picture, frowned at Ben and said, ‘Your brother?’

Ben said, ‘Technically my half-brother. We don’t look much alike, I know.’

Tomás touched a finger to his own lips. He asked, ‘Does he have—?’

Ben felt a little electric current whirr in his chest. ‘Gold teeth?’ he replied, beating Tomás to the punch. ‘That’s him. He had an accident when he was younger.’

‘His name is … Jack? Jack Cullen?’

Ben was glad he hadn’t said it was Mike. ‘That’s right, Jack. So when was he in here?’

‘Oh, two, three days ago. I remember that he asked me about the Moncayo family.’

Ben nodded. ‘He was friends with their daughter Sofia.’

‘They’re gone now. Living in Zaragoza.’

The buzz of excitement in Ben’s chest became a momentary stab of worry. ‘Did Jack say he was going there too?’

‘No, no, he said he was staying here in Albarracín. Waiting for you, maybe, no?’

‘That’s what we’d planned.’

‘He said he loves it here.’

‘It’s a beautiful town,’ Ben said. ‘Did Jack happen to say where he was staying?’

‘No, he just said he would come back to our restaurant sometime soon. He loved Maria’s cooking.’ Tomás touched his wife’s shoulder. ‘Everyone does.’

Ben smiled. ‘I’ll have to try it myself. Sorry I missed out tonight.’

Tomás said with a grin, ‘Never mind. Come back tomorrow and we’ll feed you a great meal.’

‘Sounds great. Maybe I’ll have caught up with Jack by then.’

Ben thanked Tomás and Maria for their help, and went on his way.

So there it was. Brother Jack, aka Jaden Wolf, one of the most capable military operators Ben had known back in the day, a man he had liked and admired and now must kill to save the life of the woman he cared for, was definitely here in Albarracín. The easy part was over. All Ben had to do now was narrow down his search and finish the job.

He reflected on the challenge ahead as he slowly walked back to the edge of town where he’d left the car. He decided to kip for a couple of hours in the Alpina’s back seat before his hunt began in earnest. Pausing for a moment to light a cigarette before getting into the car, he looked up at the sky and took a long, deep breath of the cooling night air. The heavens were filled with stars, a vivid and breathtaking display. Against the diamond-glitter backdrop the tall blackness of the surrounding mountains circled the horizon. Closer to the east, a tall rocky escarpment overlooked the town. Ben thought that if he were Jaden Wolf, the escarpment might be somewhere he’d choose to make camp.

Ben finished the cigarette and was about to toss away the stub when, from up in the hills he’d been gazing at just a moment earlier, a distant sound caught his attention and he stiffened, listening hard. From this far away it was just a random POP … POP-POP … POP, carried on the soft breeze and easy to miss. Maybe someone out in the sticks was having a fireworks celebration, but Ben didn’t think so. He could see no pyrotechnics lighting up the night sky. And to his experienced ear the crackle of sporadic gunfire was unmistakable.

This time of night, Ben doubted that anyone was out hunting. Not for animal quarry. It was the sound of violence. It had drawn him a thousand times in the past, and like a magnet it drew him again now.

He got into the car, rolled down the windows and set off in the direction of the shots.

Chapter 13

Ben sped out of Albarracín, heading into the hills on a narrow, winding road with his windows cranked all the way down so he could maintain his bearing on the source of the gunfire. As he left the town behind him and the rocky escarpment rose tall against the night sky he killed his headlamps. The moon was bright enough to drive by its light alone, and he didn’t want his approach to be seen by whoever was doing all the shooting up there.

The road became a track. The lights of the town receded into the distance behind him. Loose gravel and stone pattered under the Alpina’s wheels and rattled against its underbody. Over the engine note he could hear the reports growing closer. POPPOPPOP … POP-POP. Whatever was happening up there on the escarpment it was still in full swing, and it no longer sounded like distant fireworks.

Spotting the dark shape of a stationary van up ahead on the track, Ben took his foot off the gas and let the Alpina roll to a halt a few yards behind. It was an ancient Peugeot J7 utility commercial from way back sometime in the seventies with battered, dirty bodywork and rusty skirts. Its lights were off and both its front doors and the side sliding door were open, and it appeared to be empty. He waited a few seconds to make sure, then got out of the car with his Browning in his hand and walked towards it.

There had been a pause in the shooting. Ben stepped around the driver’s side of the van and looked in the open door. The keys were still in the ignition, as though its occupants had got out in a hurry. The bonnet was warm and the engine ticking as it cooled.

Ben stepped back from the van and looked around him. It appeared as though whoever had left the vehicle here had headed on foot up a pathway that led off the main track, too narrow and steep and rocky to drive up. He knelt and examined the ground by the moonlight, and soon found fresh footprints in the dry, dusty dirt. He reckoned on at least five sets of prints, maybe six. Stones were dislodged and blades of coarse, sun-yellowed grass were snapped and bent where they’d hurried by.

Ben rose to his feet and moved up the track. Just as he was wondering what it meant that the shooting had stopped, now it suddenly started up again with a fusillade of reports that sounded much closer by, no more than a few hundred metres away beyond a rocky mound further up the path. It sounded to Ben as though the action up there was moving across the terrain, a running battle. He kept moving quickly up the track, chasing the sound. The going was steep and treacherous in places. In less than a minute he’d climbed a long way. Glancing back over his shoulder he could see the lights of the town far in the distance, and his car and the van like miniature models below. The rocky mound was just up ahead of him, overhanging the slope and surrounded by scrubby bushes. He stuck the Browning in his belt so he could use both hands to scramble up around it; and now he had a clear view of the escarpment above him.

Craggy rocks cast long, dark shadows everywhere in the darkness. As he scanned left to right, watching for movement, the momentary white blossom of muzzle flash lit up a patch of rocks at eleven o’clock from Ben’s position. A millisecond later, the blast of a rifle shot shattered the silence and the crashing echo rolled out across the valley. Ben redrew his weapon and kept moving towards the source of the gunshot, staying low, keeping to the shadows, not taking his eyes off the spot where the muzzle flash came from. Now he spotted the running figure of a man break from cover and dart across a gap between the rocks, just fifty or sixty yards ahead. The man was a silhouette, half swallowed by shadow and too dark to make out any detail except that he was clutching what was unmistakably a scoped hunting rifle. Ben froze. Kept watching as the figure paused in his stride and seemed to be looking around him, as though searching, hesitant, unsure of himself. Ben wondered what was happening.

That was when one of the patches of impenetrable shadow that lay all around the figure of the man seemed to flicker. It was the briefest movement, so barely noticeable that Ben couldn’t even be sure he hadn’t imagined it. But the man with the rifle must have sensed something too, because Ben saw him turn abruptly around and raise his rifle as though startled.

And then the man with the rifle disappeared. He was there; and then he wasn’t. As if the shadows had simply reached out and taken him, without a sound or a struggle. From the rocks where Ben had seen the muzzle flash before came a hoarse yell in Spanish. ‘¡Diego! ¿Dónde estás?’

Diego must be the man with the rifle. One of the men from the van. Diego’s cronies hidden back there among the rocks sounded anxious, even frightened. Ben had no doubt that they were armed like their comrade – but they held their fire, no doubt worried about hitting the vanished Diego in the darkness. Nobody came out.

Ben could guess why that was. These hunters who had come here tonight, seeking to do violence against someone, were beginning to realise that they should have brought more men. They were not the predators in this scenario. They were losing their confidence and growing fearful of what was out there waiting for them.

Ben wanted to know who the hunters had come after. Wanted to know if his guess was right.

Keeping low to the ground, he ran up the slope to where Diego had vanished. It took him half a minute to get there, bush to bush, rock to rock, fast and stealthy and unseen. He covered the last few yards with extreme caution, pistol ready, watching the shadows, watching everything. Diego’s pals could open fire if they spotted him. But Ben sensed that Diego’s pals weren’t the greatest danger up here on the escarpment.

As for Diego himself, he was no longer a threat to anyone. As Ben crept like a panther through the shadows he saw the body slumped among the rocks. Diego was a rough-looking character, or had been, with a mess of curly black hair and a bristly moustache. He lay on his back and stared up at the stars with bulging eyes that were unblinking, unseeing. Something dark and wet oozed from his neck and pooled on the ground. His throat had been slashed, straight and surgical, from ear to ear. The scoped hunting rifle was gone.

Only one kind of person could have sneaked up on an armed opponent from close quarters and taken him down so fast and efficiently. That was a trained professional like Jaden Wolf.

Ben flinched and ducked behind the rocks as another shot rang out. At first he thought Diego’s friends had spotted him and opened fire, mistaking him for the man they’d come here to kill. But then another shot crashed and echoed across the escarpment and this time he spotted the yellow-white muzzle flash coming from a V-shaped cleft further up the slope. The sparking impact of a bullet strike told him that the shooter was aiming down towards the rocks where Diego’s friends were taking cover. Whoever he was, he had an excellent position and an open field of fire.

His third shot found its mark. There was a short, sharp scream and a dark figure staggered out from behind cover, tottered, spun around and then tumbled down the slope to come to a sprawled-out stop against a boulder in a pool of moonlight. Ben could see the body clearly from his hiding place. The man was lying face-down with his arms and legs outflung. He wore jeans and a denim jacket. Tattoos laced the sides of his neck and his skull was shaved smooth, showing the gaping exit wound of a perfect headshot glistening in the moon’s glow.

Ben looked back up towards the cleft and thought that he saw a slinking shadow dart from cover and down the slope towards the rocks. Seconds later, he knew that his eyes hadn’t cheated him. There was a brief, furious exchange of gunfire. Four, five, six detonations of rifle shots. A scream. Two more loud reports. Another strangled cry. A man stumbled from the rocks, dropping a rifle and clutching at his chest, then jerked backwards to the boom of another gunshot that caught him in the head and sent him rolling down the slope like his dead buddy before him.

Then silence. The shooting stopped. With two bodies on the ground that Ben could see, and by his conservative estimate at least one more dead man lying out of sight behind the rocks, or maybe two or three, he sensed that the battle must be all but done. He saw the same flitting shadow slip away and thread a path back up the escarpment and out of sight over a ledge. By now there remained little doubt in Ben’s mind as to the identity of the skilled operator he’d just witnessed eliminating the last of the men who, for reasons as yet unknown, had come here to hunt him down.

It seemed that Jaden Wolf had wasted little time since his arrival in Albarracín to make some unwanted new acquaintances. Ben very much doubted that Diego and his unlucky cronies were killers sent by Saunders. First, because hiring a bunch of rough-arsed thugs didn’t seem to be Saunders’ style. Second, because only Ben knew who and where he was.

And that was something Wolf was about to find out.

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