The party of men and women walked quietly along the edge of ‘the gallops’ – thin, undulating corridors of grass bordering thicker patches of mixed woodland that stretched for some three or four miles around the estate, close to the edge of the strictly manged moorland. The landscape resembled, and indeed would have made for, a decent golf course. Yet, that was not their purpose. The grass was kept naturally short by the grazing deer – and a few centuries before, these were the hunting grounds of the lord of the manor and his guests. Today, the mixed herd was made up of both fallow and sika deer – and although they were no longer hunted with hounds as Lord Croftman would have liked, they were still managed and butchered to supply top-end restaurants and butchers across the North and Borders region. His opposition to the banning of hunting with dogs had not been successful, but a more recent endeavour had been. He had led a last-minute derailment of legislation to ban hunting trophies being imported into the UK, organising enough peers within the House of Lords to suggest amendments to the bill. In America, his attempts would have been described as ‘fillibustering’ – although not quite correctly. However, the end result was the same; the bill had all but been killed. After successfully being voted on in parliament, and even being included in his party’s manifesto – who were still in government, it was a small group within the unelected House of Lords who had been able to veto the much-wanted legislation being called for by the British public. 

Lord Croftman liked to shoot. In his native Britain, he was restricted to his private deer herd and other managed game, such as the pheasants, grouse, and perhaps woodcock they sought this morning. Yet, rooms of his mansion were adorned with more exotic exploits. At the banquets, parties, and public events he attended, he argued – and argued well, how hunting played a significant role in conservation. That fees mustered from safaris and hunting licenses supported local communities living alongside wildlife and protected habitats. As a politician, he was the first to admit that the truth rarely played a part in a good story. His argument ignored both that photographic safaris brought in around ten times that of hunting outfits, and the corruption endemic to both the politicians and private businesses profiting from the latter. 

The success had put him in a good mood. He was looking forward to his next trip to South Africa, where he planned to stay on a luxurious ranch that offered him the opportunity to hunt not only what was known as the big five, but also, almost amusingly, a tiger. Although not native to the African continent and only being found in Asia, private hunting operations had stumbled upon a loophole that offered hunters a legitimate way to claim the endangered big cat – with no way to legally do so in their Asian homelands, unless through more illegal means. But with numbers of tigers in captivity outnumbering wild tigers by nearly three to one, “farmed” tigers could be bred under license and raised to be killed, on a continent they were never meant to set foot on in the first place. He would have to wait a few weeks before he could enjoy that sport, but today, he was quietly celebrating his victory with other interested parties who’d helped him stall and kill off the new legislation. After the shoot, both a banquet and a cocktail party would reward those that had remained resolute, even against the overwhelming will of the British public. 

But what do they know, Croftman thought with a smile.

He smiled as the little Land Rover 90 pick-up pulled up beside his guests. The larger, more luxurious SUVs that had dropped them off were parked behind them, on the edge of the trees. Croftman pushed open the passenger door and stepped out, greeting his friends yet ignoring the driver who’d ferried him across the estate, prepared his gun, packed his bag, and supplied his coat.

This was just fine with the driver, Dominic Grey, who trundled the vehicle over to the others and parked up. Dominic had served the estate since leaving school. It didn’t pay much, but it came with accommodation, and Lord Croftman had suggested he might be able to get him into the army if he ‘kept his nose clean’. That, as with many of the Lord’s promises, had never come to fruition. But it didn’t matter now. He took a small, military looking radio from his pocket and switched it on. He checked the channel with a glance and pressed the signal button twice, before switching it off again. Opening the driver’s door, Dominic slipped from the Land Rover and silently made his way towards the trees, moving away from the party as fast as he could without drawing attention.

From where they stood, they could see the mist was beginning to clear from the moor – and in the distance, they could now hear the beaters. Lord Croftman nodded to his companions and the murmurs of conversation came to a stop. The breaches of shotgun barrels were snapped open and charged with cartridges. Then, they waited. The first covey of birds flew over them so fast and so low, only a few of the shooters even had time to raise their guns to the sky, before realising it was hopeless. The natural dip in the land created by the gallops meant that the hunting party were out of sight, even from the air, until the very last minute – and the birds would naturally flee towards the woodland, where they were equally at home. And now, the guns were ready. 

Specks appeared in the sky, rising, and falling in quick, darting, and panicked flight. They lurched back and forth as one, as if being pulled by unseen wires against their will. But in truth the birds were desperate and tired, discombobulated after being forced into flight so early during the day. The guns too moved as one, tracking their targets. Then, just as they appeared overhead and began to wheel about, seeing the danger below, a raucous eruption of simultaneous thunder belched from the barrels. Excited spaniels and Labradors rushed forwards, trimmed tails wagging as they went about their work. 

Lord Croftman smiled broadly, his revelry showing in the twitch in his moustache. He turned to congratulate his nearest shooting partner, a young member of his political party who was blue right down to the blood, when a movement caught his eye. It wasn’t unusual for the mist to cling to the trees the longest, especially along the gallops, where the uneven ground rose and fell more obviously. Beyond a few feet in, unformed shadows hung in the air ominously – their lack of definition inviting speculation and suspicion what might lurk there. But today, the shadows moved – and moved towards them. In a few seconds, a line of men – and several women, Croftman noticed, stepped into the open. They were all dressed in dark, high-end, military-style clothing made of wool and some other material he couldn’t identify. The mottled conifer greens, midnight blues, and dark chocolate browns made for perfect camouflage among the trees. He noticed their lack of body armour and he knew their attire had been chosen for stealth. But it was the modern-looking submachine guns they carried that none of them could take their eyes off.

The line split into two as they approached the shooting party, with an advancing line training their guns directly at them, whilst a rear line formed in their wake, filling the gaps between the others, and maintaining a clear line of sight. Croftman saw one of his gamekeepers, on the far left of his party, swing his shotgun round to face the strangers. The three short bursts of fire came without hesitation before he was even halfway through his turn. He crumpled to the ground, his shotgun spilling from his hands. That’s when the screaming started. 

“Drop your weapons,” ordered a man at the head of the line of armed strangers. 

Croftman noticed how they automatically slowly spread out and flanked the shooting party in a wide semi-circle. These people were military, or ex-military. They had waited until the shotguns had been emptied on the birds before they commenced their assault, striking quickly and effectively before they could have reloaded. And, as they had shown, they were willing to kill. Perhaps, even, were looking for the slightest excuse to do so. Croftman decided not to give them one and threw his shotgun to the ground. He studied the man who had given the order. Tall and lithe, but well built, the man had dark features and hair with thick stubble across his cheeks, chin, and top lip. With him at least, there was no doubt about being military. There was something familiar about him. The man looked at the world though a slight, semi-permanent squint that hid a hawk-like ability to see everything. Croftman knew the man was sizing up most of the party using his peripheral vision and was paying close attention to the hands of those nearest to him. Only an elite and highly trained soldier did that on instinct.

“Listen up,” the man commanded. “Each and every one of you is guilty of two crimes. The first was against democracy, and the second, against the natural world. You ignored the will of the people so you could have a little sport,” he smirked. “The penalty, I’m afraid to tell you, is death.”

A few gasps and stifled scries rose from the shooting party. Croftman felt a swell of anger in his gut. He despised the swagger of this stranger, but he was sickened too by the cowardice his comrades showed so quickly and easily. They were weak. But then, he knew that didn’t he. Wasn’t that how he had been able to bend them to his will in the first place?

“However,” the man continued, “we’re not against a little sport ourselves. Just over half a mile through these woods is the border of the estate. If you get there before we catch you, you’re free to go.”

“And if we don’t?” Croftman growled at the man, glowering.

“Then you’ll be the one hanging from my wall, Lord Croftman,” the man replied, meeting his stare with indifference. “You have a three-minute head start, starting in five… four… three…”

Croftman looked dismayed as his guests leapt towards the trees like greyhounds released from their traps on race day. He went to follow them, but the man who, for now, controlled his destiny, raised his gun a fraction, indicating he should stop. 

“I’m afraid I may have misled you,” the man said. “You and I shall be taking a walk together Lord Croftman – if you’d be good enough to head along the gallops just ahead of me.”

A scream echoed out of the woods and Croftman’s head whipped around in the direction the sound had come from. Confused, he looked at the line of armed men, all still in place. None had moved. The man smiled knowingly, and indicated with one hand that he should keep walking. 

“Your woods are a dangerous place for predators, Lord Croftman,” the man sighed. “They are unwelcome. We’ve just evened the odds a little. Your friends are learning exactly how your kind of conservation treats anything other than humans that might prey on your precious birds.”

~

Julian Gough ran swiftly, weaving through the trees with ease and tenacity. He knew that his youth and fitness were on his side – and maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be first to the road – he just had to be faster than the majority of the party behind him. To that measure, he glanced behind him. Following his path, but a good distance away and already bright red with the exertion, was Lord Altmann and Baroness Chadlington. Perhaps they thought he knew where he was going and had decided to follow. Out of the two of them, Julian’s money was on the Baroness. Although in her 60s, she was in good shape and seemed active enough. The same could not be said for Lord Altmann, who enjoyed the pleasures of the members dining room in the House of Lords far too often. In fact, he seemed determined to eat his way through the taxpayers’ £3 million subsidiary that covered everything from chargrilled ribeye to duck leg terrine, single handed. He remembered Altmann leeringly jibing about what the members paid for the exquisite version of fish and chips the members restaurant served – coming in at under £8, when the public paid often twice that and more on any High Street. Julian felt little pity that the big man was likely to make it. 

Julian returned his attention to the path ahead and left the trees behind him as he entered a small meadow. He fought the cry of relief that lodged in his throat as he saw the grey bluntness of the high stone wall that marked the estate boundary. Then panic began to set in as he realised it was too high to climb. His feet kept moving though, clinging to the hope that there would be handholds or a way of scrambling up and over. His eyes widened in joy as he saw two round, smooth wooden columns that rose from the ground – some kind of sculpture he guessed. One was shorter than the other, and he was sure he could clamber on top of the shortest and jump to the next, or at least get a handhold on its top, before levering himself up. He sprinted towards them, his desperation fuelling the momentum. The ground seemed to favour him, with the ferns and moss underfoot adding a natural bounce to his run. Julian closed the distance to the sculpture with a few lightning quick strides, then leapt, confident of his footing. His left boot connected well with the shorter stump, and he let the natural momentum and trajectory propel him upwards. His hands reached out for the top of the second pole, his legs spread to grip the smooth wood as his boot heels kicked in further down for full purchase. Then his fingers crept over the top of the pole.

From the sound of the soft, metallic ping to the snap of the bone in his wrists was a matter of milliseconds. Julian screamed. The agony was unbearable and relentless. Panicked by not being able to see what was causing him such unstoppable torment, he thrashed back and forth and bashed his skull against the smooth wood of the pole he was now trapped on. The pressure against his wrists was not just constant but increasing. As his eyes rolled into the back of his head, he was only dimly aware of the arterial blood that began to spill over from the top where the invisible force continued to clamp down on his limbs, denied of fulfilling its purpose to close completely. Phlegm flew from his throat as he convulsed against the pain. One sporadic, desperate, mournful moan escaped his lips before his body, which had felt like it had been on fire for the entire sixty-three seconds he had managed to stay conscious, shut down. Julian Gough slumped against the pole, hanging from his wrists at the full extent of his arms. He died a few moments later. 

The sight was enough to stop Baroness Chadlington in her tracks. She turned up her mouth in disgust as she realised what she was looking at. The anti-hunt mob turned terrorists had constructed a giant pole trap. Used by gamekeepers, they were baited and used to kill birds of prey on estates such as this – often illegally. Of course, that was only if you get caught. And Julian Gough had well and truly been caught. She shuddered. The whole thing was a trap. None of them were meant to get out alive. She could only wonder what else lay in wait for them between here and the wall. Seemingly keen to find out, Lord Altmann dashed past her without a glance back, or up at the unfortunate Gough. For the first time in her life, she froze and did not know what to do. Altmann dashed on, ducking under the bough of a large field elm, and disappeared from sight. Deciding there was nothing to do but follow him, the Baroness tried to calm her nerves – but a short, sharp, miserable cry that could only be Altmann, stopped her in her tracks again. 

Somewhere behind her, she heard the movement of foliage, and it spurred her into movement. Taking care, she moved the obscuring branches of the elm out of the way. She let out a little gasp, as she saw Altmann’s sagging body caught fast by the simplest of traps – a snare around his neck. It was only as she stepped closer that she realised the snare was made from razor wire, and Altmann had near decapitated himself by sheer momentum. Still partially wrapped in the thin, stripped branch strands that had disguised it, the Baroness noticed how the singular path was boxed in on both sides by dense patches of thorn and bracken. It was then she saw that there was also a grim view of Julian Gough, hanging lifelessly from the pole trap. Altmann would have only had to glance away for a second to have become ensnared – and she was in no doubt about what had distracted him. Worried she was now making the same mistake, she moved carefully on along the path, until she came to the estate’s boundary wall.

The path ran along the bottom of the wall in both directions, but she was in no doubt where she needed to head. Dangling from the lofty top of the wall was a thick, green-coloured rope. It looked like it could be military – as the terrorists attacking the hunt clearly were. Both fearing and suspecting a trap, she considered all possibilities. The terrorists hadn’t come through the main gate or along the drive in vehicles, as they would have been heard and stopped. Even if they had forced their way through, the commotion would have caught their attention, and the main house would have called the police, or come to their aid. Neither the police, nor aid, had arrived. The group had approached through the woods – from this direction. There was a chance, perhaps even a good one, that this was how they had entered the estate. 

She could hear the bushes moving around her in more than one place. Her pursuers were no more than 30-50 yards away. Cornered, she realised she had only one chance, and it was right in front of her. Gingerly, she clasped the rope in one hand and pulled gently on it. She felt it become taut – but nothing else happened. Hope sprung in her chest and she leapt upwards, pulling on the rope with haste and bracing her feet against the wall as she began to clamber up. There was a metallic scraping sound, and the rope gave by about half a foot. Instinctively, she looked up as a black, pipe-like object dropped from the top of the wall, held by a counterweight. As it straightened, she found herself looking directly up through its opening. As soon as it clicked into place, there was a flash of light and an explosion of sound.

It was a good few seconds after she had hit the ground that the agonising pain registered. She rolled on the ground, clawing at her face and crying out. She was blind, but her fingers found the raw flesh of her face. Her throat burned as if scalded by acid, yet she gurgled blood that was filling her mouth. It was only then, as her heartbeat hammered in her chest, only to pause erratically and start again slow and unsure, that she realised she couldn’t breathe. As she began to convulse, her arms fell to her side against the ground and her mind became clear and calm. She knew what had killed her. Her own gamekeepers used them on her own land. A pipe gun, filled with a single shot of cyanide crystals. Bait was put on a line, and when pulled hard enough, the trigger depressed – delivering a fatal charge of poison, usually into the unsuspecting creature’s mouth. It was almost ironic. Or perhaps, simple justice. Death came and she thought no more. 

~

As Lord Croftman walked slowly along the gallops, back towards the manor, he glanced over his shoulder at his captor. More screams and the sounds of shots had echoed out of the woodland. His guests were being hunted down and murdered. But by who, and for why? At first, the shock of the events had scrambled his mind – but now, his thoughts were becoming linear again. He realised he knew the man.

“Payne… you’re Montgomery Payne’s boy… goddammit, you’re a soldier,” Croftman realised aghast. “Your father would be ashamed.”

“Not nearly as ashamed as I am of my father,” the man shrugged nonchalantly. “His opinion matters as much to me as mine does his. The only difference is, I can make my grievances felt, as well as heard. That’s far enough.”

Croftman stopped, puffing slightly from working their way up hill, back towards the house. He caught movement to his right and saw two more men crossing a path to reach them. They were carrying a barrel with them. Croftman frowned, not understanding. As they neared, they placed the barrel down, still upright.

“Lord Croftman,” Payne addressed him, perfectly politely and respectfully as he had before. “You instruct your gamekeepers to trap and kill almost any predator that dares to step foot onto your estate. Our recon missions and intelligence revealed some ingenious, if not original devices. Pole traps for birds of prey, pit falls for badgers and foxes, and a variation of this for the stoats and weasels. Do you recognise it?”

Croftman shook his head. “If you intend to have me drink myself to death, I can imagine worse,” he growled. 

“No… this is one of the simplest but most effective traps we found. We just had to make it a little larger, to account for a slightly more… shall we say robust target,” Payne smiled, looking over Croftman’s ample figure with a somewhat judgemental glance. 

Still not understanding, Croftman took a step towards the barrel and craned his neck, not wanting to get too close but curious to see what it contained. What he saw made him freeze in his tracks and he grew visibly pale.

“Just imagine,” Payne explained. “A polecat – protected under the Wildlife and Countryside Act – yet legal for your gamekeepers to shoot, visits your estate. There, they come across a pipe with an inviting scent too tempting to resist. The put their head in and their whiskers tell them there’s room to pass. So, they squeeze in further. On the way in, the indented spikes pointing down at an inward angle brush harmlessly against their fur. It is only when they retreat that they realise, all too late, that it is a trap – as they impale themselves viciously and tear themselves to pieces in their futile attempt to escape.”

Croftman couldn’t keep his composure. The very thought of what Payne was suggesting had him doubling over and he vomited over the grass, splashing his own boots as he did so. Before he could stand up straight again, he was lifted upwards by both arms. His head still spinning from nausea, he looked confusedly as the two men dragged him towards the barrel. Just as Payne had described, the inside of the barrel was rammed with 12-inch nails on all sides. They all pointed downwards at a sharp angle. Croftman tried to clear his throat, but nothing happened. In pleading terror, he looked at Payne. He was sure he saw pity there, as Payne gave the nod to the two men holding him. 

Croftman fought desperately, trying to yank his arms from their grasp, but it was to no avail. Before he had time to react, he was being hoisted into the air as they manhandled him. Each held him under the arm, interlocking with their own as they used their other hand to grab at the seat of his pants. He screamed as he was upended and lowered into the barrel headfirst. He felt the press of the sharp metal against his skin, scratching and pressing persistently at his flesh. He opened his eyes, gasping for air. A blaze of pain ripped across his left cheek, shoulder, and neck, as the barrel was upended again and he found himself on his feet. With the confines of the barrel tightest against his midriff, Croftman stood still as a statue, not wanting to risk further injury. He could feel the blood running down his face. His arms were pinned to his sides and the slightest movement resulted in stabbing pain.

“Think of it this way, Lord Croftman,” he heard Payne say – the voice slightly muffled by the barrel. “You will be remembered for generations for what you did. As it should be.”

Croftman felt the kick that took out his knee, causing him to stumble and then fall. The agony of hundreds of footlong iron spikes ripping into his skull, chest, arms, and back all came at once. Instinctively, he jerked his head back, not realising he was already held fast by the nails, and one found his right eye and sliced through, cutting off his scream as more nails were rammed into his mouth with the force of his fall.

Payne watched the barrel roll gently back down the gallops, Lord Croftman’s legs flailing wildly as only that of a corpse could. By the time they dug in like anchors and brought the peer’s makeshift coffin to a stop, he was sure they were broken – and he was even more sure Croftman was dead. Payne sighed and shrugged, then made his way down the gallops with the two men to collect the other trophies of their hunt.