The car disappeared behind the gates. Slater squatted and examined the tire print. You wanna have some fun, Master? But what fun is it to chase a harmless victim? Why don’t we change the rules?
His finger glided over the tire texture before he got to his feet and raced toward the fence.
No one stopped him.
SLATER’S BLACK, DUAL SPORTS motorcycle caught up with Talha’s car in half an hour. The backpack heavy on his shoulders, Slater slowed down, and for the next three hours, he had to stop every now and then to grab some sugary treats, equipment, and allow a bigger distance, so his bike wouldn’t rub in Talha’s face.
Tracking down Talha became easier when he took a country road. In the dry dirt, Slater’s eyes picked up his tire print as if it was luminescent. By the time he arrived at the farmhouse that bordered both, the forest and the clear field, many expensive cars were parked on the driveway.
Leaving his motorcycle in the forest, Slater camouflaged it with a green and brown military cover and tree branches, then stole toward the farmhouse.
Horses had already been saddled and stood outside. Their soft huffing and neighs of anticipation joined the low buzzing of the summer field and the smell of mown grass and manure.
Lurking in the shadows, he crept up to one. Stronger than the others, it was probably prepared for someone heavy. Its dun coat glazed with pink in the setting sun, which only accented the white star mark on its forehead.
The horse’s ears twitched as it pawed the ground, but Slater, catching the reins, patted its nose. Calming down, the animal let him closer.
“Easy,” Slater hissed, stroking the horse’s side before he slipped his palm under the girth and grabbed the saddle buckle. Pushing the throwing needle out of the loop, he shoved it between the metal parts and used it as a lever. With a decent effort, the tongue and layer broke off, releasing the belt. Fiddling with it, he reassembled the whole thing so it appeared whole again.
Swallowing the sweet taste of victory, he drifted into the foliage, waiting. People inside the house drank and ate; the glee in the air so potent it made him sick. Through the windows, he caught the glimpses of Talha too. With his hair messy and changed into a long-sleeve black shirt with epaulets and black cargo pants, he looked younger. For some reason, his confident look rubbed Slater the wrong way. He shrunk back into the woods.
The sun hovered above the forest. Slater had grown tired of waiting when men littered the small farmyard. He recognized most of them, but some new faces wore gloomy, dark expressions. Watching them move, Slater suspected that they were related to those who died in the shootout. Simple-mannered, they lacked that predatory aura Talha’s men possessed.
A few people carried bows, but most of them seemed terribly underequipped for a three-day-long hunt. Slater wondered if the main equipment was stored in the hunting lodge. He regretted not checking. Ruining a few bows sounded fun. Too bad it was too late now.
Attaching saddlebags, Talha’s men checked the horses, before mounting them. Blindfolded and with his hands cuffed in front of him, Salik was forced onto the spare horse that was bound to the gray one Dinçer rode. Güvenç strode to the beige horse with the white marking. Slater grinned. He was right about that horse, and he suspected that the black Arabian stallion waited for Talha.
When Master left the house, Slater counted the men.
“Eighteen little mafia boys went out to hunt…” Mood lifting, Slater murmured under his breath as he watched Güvenç tug the horse toward the wooden fence to mount it. Using the lower bar for support, Güvenç shoved his foot in the stirrup, huffed, and threw his leg over the horseback. The buckle fell apart. The saddle slipped, and Güvenç’s back flopped across the wooden fence. The top bar snapped in two under his weight; he tumbled onto the ground, his bushy head resting in manure.
Someone cackled, someone dismounted and rushed toward him. Güvenç sat up, gasped, palmed the spot on his lower back, and fell back onto the ground.
Satisfied, Slater grinned and jogged toward the forest, leaving the commotion behind.
“One broke his back, and then there were seventeen.”
Slater didn’t need to keep his eyes on them. They made so much noise and left so many trails that even a blind person couldn’t lose them. Slater wasn’t blind.
Even though Slater didn’t ride a horse, he didn’t have a problem keeping up. The forest was dense enough to allow him to walk close to his Master yet stay hidden in the foliage. Riding the black Arabian stallion, Talha led the group down a narrow path. Not frequently used, it overgrew with weeds, and Talha had to shield his face with his arm from stray twigs.
The sun ducked behind the horizon when the group reached the hunting lodge. The large, two-story building resembled a small fortress with stone and wooden cladding and vertical arrow slits that were shielded from inside. Golden light streamed out of wide windows, welcoming the travelers. Each window had a metal rolling shutter above.
By the sole look of the house, Slater knew the hunt won’t begin here. Located in an open space, it provided a hunted person the opportunity to set traps or trail back the way they’d come. Slater winced, realizing that he had to spend a whole night in the forest, full of mosquitoes, spiders, snakes, and centipedes; his good mood dispersed.
A few locals left the building. Greetings exchanged, they took care of horses, as the travelers disappeared indoors.
Through the windows, Slater saw Talha going upstairs. The second floor lit up with golden light. Slater craved to go inside and stay in the same room. It was his place, his right. It was the part of the deal his master refused to keep.
A sting to his neck got him going. Though horseflies disappeared with dusk, mosquitoes never stopped their feast.
By the time Slater completed a circle around the lodge, most windows blacked out. The atmosphere calmed down, and after exploring the vicinity, Slater extracted a linen sac out of his backpack and went snake-hunting.
A WHITE, TIGHT SHIRT RIPPED around Talha’s biceps; he stood in front of his people, glorified with the morning sun. At that moment, he didn’t look like a mafia boss. He didn’t look like someone Slater would want to call Master at all. Young, too young, Talha held a quiver of black arrows in his hand. His voice too loud in the morning serenity as he explained the rules.
“Salik will be given two hours headstart before the chase begins. While we wait, you are welcome to use the archery targets to refresh your skills.” With the quiver, Talha pointed toward the archery stands lined up against the house. “Before the hunt begins, you will pick colors for your arrows. Each arrow hitting Salik’s body will bring you ten thousand Euros. Please remember, that any lost arrow is a potential weapon for Salik. You aren’t allowed to use firearms, but in close combat, you can use knives. If you separate from the group supervised by one of the juries and manage to wound Salik, you are obligated to use a signal gun to summon a juror to confirm the shot. I repeat, you aren’t allowed to aim at vital organs. To receive the reward, you must summon a juror. You aren’t allowed to pull the arrow out of the wound until a member of the jury arrives.
“Rüzgar, Abdullah, Ismail, Burak, and Deniz are the jury. Please, step forward.” Five men separated from the crowd. “They are here to keep the hunt fair for everyone.”