Cash’s grim expression was different to anything I’d ever seen in him before, as if he’d stepped up a gear. Though I’d fought for it from the start, it scared me. “Police might already be there,” I said. “If the Beds and Bucks forces have communicated on this.
A Bucks sab shook his head. “Fat chance, and not on our patch. I don’t know what you lot have done to warrant so much attention, but we’re lucky if a PCSO rocks up to our hunt.”
Luckywasn’t a word I’d ever used on hunt days.
Cash drove like a rally driver across the county, following the direction of the Bucks sabs, who knew the rural shortcuts. A journey that should’ve taken forty minutes by road, was done in twenty-five, thanks in part to the huge, obnoxious wheels Cash had fitted to the van when he’d convinced himself this life wasn’t for him.
We parked in a layby, and as soon as my feet hit the ground, the racket of an on-going hunt slammed into my senses.
There was no time to do anything but follow the orders Cash and the lead Bucks sab had cobbled together on route. I wasn’t used to being sidelined, but this was war, and if Cash wanted to be my general, I wasn’t gonna stop him.
We split into teams of two, each with a sab from each county. I got partnered with a hard-as-nails Scottish bloke, Sprig with a dude that was pretty much their version of me, while Cash shot off with a young woman who moved like lightning.
They charged over the hill, literally chasing down the horses, leaving the rest of us to engage the quad bike gangs, and distract the hounds. Sprig’s team spotted the quads first. I turned my back on them, shouted to my partner, and ran west of the direction Cash had taken in the hope of cutting straight into the hound pack’s path.
I lost sight of Cash, and was fleetingly glad of it. We were all in danger right now, and watching him get hurt would’ve been the biggest distraction of all.
My partner shouted in the wind. “Sab! Sab! Sab! On your six!”
I whirled around, grateful for the caution of rarely using each other’s names in the field. A hunting horn sounded, signalling that the hunt was following a scent, and the hound pack appeared behind me.
Adrenaline propelled me forward. A flash of auburn fur streaked through my peripheral vision, and every negative emotion I’d ever had morphed into anger so bright a red haze descended over my vision.
Horses followed the hounds into the next field, leaping the hedges in their path. My body burned to intercept them, to rip riders from their mounts and inflict on them the kind of pain they called sport, but that wasn’t my job today. The hounds were mine.
I called to my partner. “Sab! Follow me.”
We doubled back and leapfrogged a stile, putting everything on the fleeing fox shooting through the hedge by the stream. Still undetected by the hunt, we crouched in the brambles.
I grabbed my partner’s coat sleeve. “On my call.”
He nodded. “Aye.”
A moment later, a bolt of orange dashed past my feet—a young vixen, still tearing the ground up. Hope hit me, and as the hounds came up on us, we burst from the bush, hollering and waving, and threw ourselves into the pack.
My wingman produced two freezer bags of raw meat. The scent hit my vegetarian nose like sewage on a hot summer day, and the first wave of dogs fell on him, frantic, as if they hadn’t been fed in days.
The scenario was too likely for me to contemplate for long. I turned away from my partner and ran a wide circle, driving the rest of the pack towards him, praying he had enough meat to keep them occupied.
Hooves thundered behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. The hunt was approaching fast, Goon at the front, flanked by two red coats. A sea of tweed, blue, and black was close on his tail, and for the first time all day, fear hit me. There was no way this was just one hunt—the Bucks hunt had run after all.
Bastards.
I sprinted towards the last wave of straggling hounds, no longer coherent enough to drive them to the impromptu chicken feast the others were having, just desperate to disband them too much for Goon to regain control.
The ground seemed to shake beneath me. Goon and his crew hurdled the final hedge, heading straight for me. I waved my arms and stood my ground, bracing myself for impact, but they never reached me.
A furious shout rang out above the tattoo of horse hooves. Cash charged into the field, his partner a heartbeat behind him. He shouted again, caught Goon’s boot, and pulled the bastard from his horse.
***
Cash
A fist fight with Goon hadn’t been on today’s bucket list, but on hunt day we had to be ready for anything, including a row with an out of shape and out of luck master of the hunt.
Goon fell like a sack of shite, but scrambled quickly to his feet to avoid his pals riding over him. I could’ve run away, but the masochist in me stood my ground, almost as though I wanted him to hit me. As though the pain of a good hiding would drum some sense into me.
Trouble was, the conclusion I longed for was one I’d already put down. Add in the fact that Goon couldn’t swing a punch to save his life and I was fresh out of luck.
