Page 22 of Savage Warrior

There’s nothing else for it. I grab a rucksack containing a change of clothes and some sandwiches I picked up from a late-night supermarket in Fort Augustus. I extract a torch from the side pocket then hoist the bag onto my back. Finally, I turn up the collar on my leather jacket.

Two hundred and fifty metres to my left, Sally said. Right, then. I set off walking.

The cabin appears out of nowhere. Squat, nestling in a clearing, it’s suddenly right in front of me. If it hadn’t been for the What3Words reference and my phone, I might even have trudged straight past. It’s almost entirely covered by snow.

I allow myself a heady moment of relief. I’m here. I’m finally fucking here…

I sweep the beam of my torch over the small cabin to locate the door. And it’s only then that I spot the obvious flaw in my plan to get inside, clamber into bed, and sleep for several days.

Someone else is already here.

I take in the wisps of smoke drifting from the chimney, the only sign I’m not alone, but more than enough.

Shit. I flex my jaw and creep forward.

There’s no light to be seen from within, but I peer through the window anyway. It’s too dark to make out much of anything inside, but my torch helps. I sweep the beam around the interior and pick out the shape in the bed. One person, from the looks of it. And they’re either asleep or making a good job of pretending.

According to Ethan, the only person who ever comes here is the ghillie from the neighbouring estate. He uses the place occasionally when he’s out this way and in return maintains it and keeps the stocks supplied. But he’s been told I’m coming and to stay away, so either he’s chancing his luck or I’m dealing with another sort of intruder. A stranded hiker, maybe. A squatter.

Whatever, it’s not happening. That’s my bed, and I don’t share nicely unless by special invitation. Random strangers can fuck right off.

I edge around to the back to retrieve the key from the key safe. It occurs to me that it may not be there. What if my unwelcome guest already got their hands on it to let themselves in? They haven’t, so, key in hand, I make my way to the front—and only—door. A final check through the window assures me my intruder is still asleep and I have the element of surprise. Fair enough. I insert the key, turn it, and let myself in.

I close the door behind me with a barely audible click, then take stock. I see nothing in the way of weaponry and no one else apart from the figure in the bed. One on one, plus I’m awake and I have a gun. I call that overwhelming odds in my favour.

I approach the bed and assess again. Whoever it is, is lying facedown, breathing gently. All I can see is a shock of pale hair, at least shoulder-length.

Okay, time for some introductions.

I draw my gun and place the muzzle an inch from that tangle of hair, then grasp the edge of the blanket and yank it away.

“Wakey, wakey, Goldilocks.”

The figure spins onto their back with a startled scream, and I’m gazing into wide, terrified blue eyes. Terrified female eyes.

Naked female, at that.

She dives to the edge of the bed, away from me, but I’m faster. I grab her by the shoulder and roll her back, then re-sheath the weapon. I can’t see me needing to shoot her anytime soon. I do, though, pin her to the mattress, both her wrists caught in my one hand above her head while I use the other to shove the bedding to the foot of the bed and make sure she has no concealed weapon. Once I’ve covered that, I draw my gun again, release her hands, and step back.

“Sit up,” I instruct, the gun trained on a spot right between her eyes.

She doesn’t move.

“Up,” I repeat, beckoning her with my free hand.

Still nothing. It’s not defiance or bravado that pins her to the mattress. It’s fear. Sheer, unadulterated terror. She lies motionless, staring up at me, her mouth working but no words coming out.

“I need you to sit up,” I say again, deliberately gentling my tone.

“Please, do not hurt me…” she whispers. She scrambles up and away from me to huddle against the headboard.

It takes me a moment to register that she spoke in Russian.

“Who are you?” I ask, also switching to Russian.

Her brow furrows, but she answers me. “Arina. Arina Kovalyova.”

“So, Arina Kovalyova, what are you doing in my house?” I can’t call to mind a suitable Russian word for ‘cabin’.

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