Page 141 of The Chain

She remembers what she was told at the range: wait until your target is close or your target flees. But this man is not running toward her or running away from her. He’s just standing there at the end of the long corridor.

He finishes reloading. He looks at Rachel and raises a long black gun.

Rachel pulls the trigger.

Her aim is off.

The wall to her right erupts in fire. The kick takes her in the shoulder. The man yells, drops his gun, and staggers into a room next to him. Pete turns, checks that Rachel’s OK, and goes down the hallway after the man, but he’s gone.

Pete picks up a dropped MP5. A perfect weapon for close work. He clears the mechanism and shoulders it.

“I think I’m out of ammunition,” Rachelsays. Pete hands her the nine-millimeter and she sets down the shotgun, which has served its Chekhovian purpose.

The house’s lights finally go off and stay off.

The darkness is nearly complete.

Darkness. Smoke. Pools of dank water.

What can they do but forge on by iPhone light?

They come upon a big open-plan living room. Dozens of hunting trophies on the walls, and not just local animals—antelope, cheetahs, lions, a leopard. Predators and prey together.

Fear is coursing through her, but fear is a liberation too. Fear releases power and is the precursor to action.

Pete is drenched with sweat. “Are you OK?” she asks.

“Fine,” he replies. He feels the opposite of fine but the MP5 is comforting against his shoulder, there’s nine left in the magazine, and he still has his trusty .45. All good.

“Mommy!” a distant voice calls from somewhere outside.

They slide open a set of glass doors and find themselves in the snow. It’s blowing hard from the north and swirling about them in an icy wind.

“Over there, I think,” Rachel says, pointing to a series of disused farm buildings. There are footprints in the snow heading toward the closest structure.

They follow the prints toward the entrance to an old abattoir. This had presumably been a working slaughterhouse once but now there are gaping holes in the walls and roof, and ivy covers everything.

They kill the phone lights and go inside.

They’re immediately hit by the stench of blood, putrefaction, and rot.

Broken glass litters the floor and crunches under their feet.

It’s hard to see; the only illumination comes from the flickering lights of the house erupting in flames behind them.

Wind howls through the ruined walls and the roof.

Rachel jumps as she almost collides with a sow hanging from a ceiling beam. The pig’s lifeless dead eyes are level with her own.

Adjusting to the dark, she sees other animals on hooks—pheasants, crows, a badger, a deer.

The abattoir is on two levels with a small set of steps between them.

“They must be on the upper level,” Pete whispers. “Stairs are a classic place for an ambush. Watch out.”

Rachel nods and tries not to make so much noise with her boots.

They move forward slowly.

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