Mark Walden - H.I.V.E. 4: Dreadnought

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Bloomsbury Publishing, London, Berlin and New York

First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

36 Soho Square, London, W1D 3QY

Text copyright Mark Walden 2009

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This electronic edition published in July 2010 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

All rights reserved.

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A CIP catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 4088 1300 3

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Also by Mark Walden

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H.I.V.E.: Higher Institute of Villainous Education

H.I.V.E.: The Overlord Protocol

H.I.V.E.: Escape Velocity

H.I.V.E.: Dreadnought

H.I.V.E.: Rogue

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For Mum and Dad.

Thank you.

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Contents

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Chapter One

The young girl ran through the knee-deep snow, her breath escaping in ragged gasps, leaving a trail of thin white cloud that hung in the air. She could hear the sounds of pursuit all too close behind her, the barks and snarls of dogs and the coarse shouts of the men who followed them. She could hardly feel her bare feet and lower legs any more as she plunged on through the deep icy powder, the dark ancient trees of the forest surrounding her in all directions. She wore nothing but a tattered dark blue dress made of a rough material that offered little protection from the biting cold.

As she ran over the crest of a small hill, the girl tripped on a rock concealed beneath the blanket of snow and fell, tumbling down the slope. Staggering to her feet, she spotted the vague outline of a cottage, its dark walls half buried beneath deep white drifts. She stumbled towards it, desperately rattling the handle of its only door. It was locked.

The girl gritted her teeth and kicked the wooden door hard, ignoring the pain in her foot. The door refused to budge. She cursed under her breath and kicked again, harder. The ancient lock gave way and as the door flew inwards the girl half staggered, half fell inside. She quickly shut the door behind her and looked around the darkened room. It was obviously a hunting lodge: stuffed animal heads were mounted on the walls and animal skins were scattered on the floor and chairs, but there were no signs of life. Everything was covered by a thick layer of dust which the girl disturbed as she frantically searched the ground floor for anything she could use as a weapon.

Outside, several men in heavy cold-weather outfits ran towards the cottage, led by the vicious snarling dogs straining at the leashes they held.

The trail ends here, the first man said in Russian. Shes inside.

Go get her, said the tall man at the rear of the group. The men on either side of him unslung the rifles that hung across their backs and headed towards the house. They pushed the door open and cautiously entered. Seconds later a single shot rang out from somewhere inside the cottage. Then silence returned to the snow-covered forest.

Vasilly? Gregor? the tall man called out, but there was no reply. Send the dogs in, he said with a frown.

Two large, heavily muscled dogs sprinted across the snow and into the cottage. There was sudden noisy barking and then a quick panicked whimpering sound before silence descended once again.

What should we do, Mr Furan? one of the dog handlers asked, staring at the darkened windows of the cottage.

Wait here, the tall man replied and pulled a handgun from his belt. He walked towards the house and went inside.

How old is she? the first dog handler asked.

I dont know, the other man replied. Ten, eleven years old maybe?

Shes not going to make it to twelve if Furan has anything to say about it.

Suddenly, there was a pained yell from inside the house and one of the windows shattered, exploding outwards in a shower of glass as a wooden stool flew through it. The girl dived out through the jagged hole and rolled to her feet, sprinting off through the snow, darting between the trees. Furan staggered out of the cottage, blood streaming from under the hand clutched to his right eye. He raised the pistol and took careful aim at the fleeing girl. He squeezed the trigger, the shot seeming unusually loud in the quiet of the snowy forest.

The girl spun, the bullet striking her in the shoulder, and she collapsed on to the snow. She tried to struggle to her feet but Furan was already on her, pistol-whipping her to the ground, knocking her out cold.

Furan stared down at the unconscious body of the pale, dark-haired girl with his one good eye. The fresh blood stained the snow crimson beneath her shoulder. Her breathing was laboured. He raised the pistol, pointing it at her head. He stood there for a moment, blood dripping from his ruined eye, seemingly unsure whether or not to pull the trigger before he slowly lowered the weapon.

No, Natalya, he said, his voice cold and hard, that would be too easy. Rest assured though, you wont escape again. This will be your last flight, my little Raven.

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Twenty years later

State trooper Sam Fletcher was having a bad night. He knew hed drawn the short straw when hed been dispatched to the old gas station on the desert road. Mrs Trenton had called to complain, as she did at least three or four times every month, that she was being harassed again by mysterious flying objects and lights in the sky. Sam had known it would be a waste of time, but the Sheriff had insisted that he go and check on the batty old woman. Shed been all alone since her husband had passed away recently and the Sheriff was a friend of the family, which explained why Sam had ended up being sent out there at that time of night. Hed sat in the old womans front room while she went on about the strange noises she kept hearing and the lights she kept seeing in the sky. On that particular evening she complained that something had flown low right over the house and scared the living daylights out of her as shed been feeding her chickens in the backyard.

Sam had dutifully listened to her ramble on and had eventually left, promising her that he would look into it and see if the local US Air Force base knew anything about the mysterious aircraft. It would be a futile task; in this part of Nevada they were no strangers to unusual aerial activity, but the kinds of aircraft that were being tested around those parts were not the sort that the air force would be prepared to discuss with someone like Sam. Chances were that some bored fighter jockey had buzzed the Trenton place at a lower altitude than was technically permitted just to liven up a test flight. It wouldnt be the first time something like that had happened and he was fairly sure that it wouldnt be the last. With a weary sigh, he reached for the radio on the dashboard and spoke into the handset.

Dispatch, this is Car Four, come in, over, he said.

Hey, Sam, you rounded up those little green men that have been spooking Clara yet? the voice at the other end asked.