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Finding Justine (Andy Lang)

(Libertine)


Finding Justine by Andy Lang

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Adam Hurst felt his reason for existence crumble as all hunting with hounds became outlawed. The battle against an ancient barbarity had been won, and he had become redundant. Yet one target remained. The titled owner of vast estates who presumed that he lived above the law. Adam's new crusade; to expose the Earl of Silverleigh for the monster that he knew him to be.

Earl Marcus, bloodsports enthusiast, and devotee of the sixteenth century libertine the Marquis de Sade. A man of unimaginable wealth, and unspeakable depravity, Driven by the writings of his hero, a man determined to translate the sordid fiction of Justine, his favourite book, into terrifying fact.

Theresa. The very essence of virtue. Stolen from her home, her identity erased. A girl desperate for love, but finding submission as her only hope of survival.

Theresa has become Justine, but her nightmare has only just begun.

Product type: EBook    Published by: PMO Publishing    Published: 12 / 2016

We do not recommend this book for readers under 18 years of age

No. words: 102070

Style: Erotica -    Open Minded BDSM Erotica, Erotic Domination - M/F

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle

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Current all-time sales ranking: #4500


Excerpt..

Prologue

Justine stared at droplets of ruby blood, her mind disconnected from fact. It looks quite pretty, she thought as an irrational smile formed on her split and swollen lips, like a cross shape! A Crucifix.
Her mind, as always, sought an avenue of escape as her body screamed for mercy and relief. Her spilled and dripping blood gave her consciousness focus, a point of attention to distract from reality. The immediate reality of pain and abuse, of torture and humiliation; and the long accepted reality of the forced servitude and depravity that had become her life.
The droplets began to blur as she lost focus, a fact that saddened her. Probably a concussion, the analytical portion of her brain kicked in, feeding fact and realisation that she found unnecessary, given her now clear understanding that the end had arrived. It would have been nicer to have left with the pretty cross in my mind, she thought, and closed her eyes, anticipating the final blow. Prayer had long since departed from her existence, but the bloody crucifix had given her heavy heart some small comfort. A sinister chuckle broke her silent acceptance, her ultimate serenity shattered. If he could have just done it without laughing, she thought as she squeezed her eyelids tighter, the image of a sacred cross violently replaced by the sadistic smile of her abuser. She didn't need to open her eyes to understand the look upon his face, the twisted and cruel smile, the cold and calculating blue eyes, sometimes soft and warm; now, intense, loaded with hate and finality.
“You have had sufficient time to make your peace.” his chuckle returned, almost gentle now, yet loaded with menace.
“Goodbye, my love.” she whispered as a tear broke free to track through heavy mascara. “I'm sorry Adam.”
Stars burst flaring bright, searing through her closed eyelids. Her clenched jaw strained, her teeth grinding under the force of his blow. Pain upon pain ricocheted through her tortured mind, sickness bloomed, nausea and despair engulfed. Darkness enveloped her mind, nothingness robbing thought of entity. Her body sagged; and muscle control deserting she slumped forward, face down onto unyielding concrete. Justine forced her eyes to open, the vision of a cross reappeared, but swiftly faded, now darkness reigned, her vision lost to the nihility of death.

Chapter 1 – Adam #1
2001 - Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, United Kingdom.

Adam flicked through a copy of the Horse and Hound, gleaning information and making plans. The season approached and his blood began to boil, just as it had done in previous years, since that fateful day that had marred an unexceptional childhood.
Unexceptional in so many ways, he laughed quietly at his own honest self assessment, he hadn't needed a string of teachers and frustrated employers to point out his flaws and absence of focus. Those traits were clear in his carefree mind. “You lack drive, boy!” His old headmasters voice drifted up from deep memory.
“You're dead right, Sir.” he had replied, the cockiness of youth clear in his tone. Let things work themselves out in their own time, that had been his credo then, and a resolution that he had stuck to religiously. With one exception, and in this case he had proven to be far from unexceptional.
“Call me the rural terrorist,” he chortled as he stroked a black balaclava mask flat under his hand. The dark mask, the insignia of his true calling. Wearing it he became powerful, invincible, even feared - he hoped. Dark eyes staring from slits in the black wool. Thin lips drawn tight into a daunting line, no hint of a smile, no vestige of mirth. “I will be the scourge of those blood-thirsty bastards for as long as I can draw breath.” he whispered with an air of certainty, “I won't stop until their barbarity is finally outlawed.”
And if it is outlawed, banned... what then? The small voice inside that haunted him spoke softly into his ear; taunting. He wanted the sport banned, but it had been his goal for so long that he understood that it had grown to define his existence. Without fox hunting, would his life lose all definition?
“Then I will find another cause.” he declared with finality. It's a small world, I will find another crusade... “Bull-fighting,” he voiced aloud, “That can be my next challenge, or whaling, or stopping baby seals from being clubbed to death on the ice. We live in a sick world, there will always be a need for my special skills.”
He returned his gaze to the magazine, “But until then, I will remain a saboteur.”
What had sparked his calling? The memory still stalked his nightmares.
He remembered a fresh winters morning, frost nipped his young fingers, the tips poking through fingerless gloves, and his breath came like smoke, “a chilly dragon,” he had laughed while blowing imaginary streams of flame, the white vapour hanging in the still air.
Searching for conkers, that is what had drawn him to the woodlands that bordered his village home, he had a reputation to defend. The schools official conkers champion for three years running. The first frost promised a good haul as he carefully lifted the top strand of a rusting barbed wire fence, the metal fangs edged with crisp white frost. Slowly and deliberately he eased himself underneath. Of course he had snagged his coat, he always did, never bending quite low enough, so he paused for a moment before deciding to back away and try again. “Strange,” he told himself as the sound of dogs broke the silence. To hear one barking in the distance he considered normal, not even registering in his mind, yet to hear so many struck him as decidedly odd. “No one has that many around here,” he said as he pulled himself free of the wire fence and made his second attempt, successful and snag free this time. Standing on the very edge of the forest he paused and strained his hearing. “I'm not so keen on dogs,” he declared in a small nervous voice, the first tingling of concern entering his mind. Having been bitten as a small child he had developed a healthy distrust of all things canine. Now, to hear so many, and clearly approaching caused him to glance back toward the boundary fence and the open fields beyond. “I came for conkers,” he whispered, attempting to bolster flagging courage, “And I won't leave here without them.”
A horn sounded, shrill and drawn out, yet distant. “At least there are people with the dogs,” he told himself, feeling a modicum of his confidence return, “It's dogs on their own that scare me.” His open admission of fear came as a surprise, “They do scare me,” he stated, and gave himself a small smile, “And you know what? I don't care who knows. I'm almost nine now, grown up, and grown-ups don't hide their fears, they don't care what other people think of them.”
Admission and determination to face his fears shepherded his deserting courage, and swallowing hard he took a final glance over his shoulder in the direction of home, before taking his first faltering steps into the cover of the trees. The canopy closed above his head, and dead dry leaves fluttered down to land soundlessly onto a soft bed of their kin, the barking and yelping appeared to diminish as the woodland engulfed him, insulating him. Deeper he ventured and again a horn split the growing quiet, “The dogs aren't so close now, but the horn blower is,” again he paused and heard the sound of horses hooves. In the opposite distance voices sounded, urgent shouting and calling, a barbaric sound loaded with aggression, He heard shouts of Tod and Charlie, distant hooves pounding, the horn blowing again behind him as though the voices and horn spoke to each other across the breadth of the overgrown woods, the crack of a whip preceded a sharp yelp, and more shouting, the sound growing. “Come away,” a call rang clearly from his edge of the forest, very close now, the horn returned from the same location, and too his horror, the distant barking transformed to howls and excited baying, the frantic din growing in his ears.
“I'm not that brave,” Adam squealed, and turned to run, his mind filled with the safety of home, his imagination beginning to crowd with images of wolves, packs of ravenous wolves, following his trail, hunting him down.
“So close now,” he gasped. He had wandered further than he remembered, his mind had been filled with adult bravery and images of shiny chestnut conkers gleaming from within their splitting spiky protective cases. The sound of heavy animals crashing through the undergrowth urged greater speed from his young legs, but he couldn't win the race. Baying filled his senses and he felt tears threatening. “There's the fence,” he cried in relief as the strands of thin wire came into view, somehow the open fields that stretched out to the horizon promised safety. Another horn blast cut through the frenzied barking, sound assaulted his young senses feeding panic and confusion. A small creature, obviously as scared as himself scurried by, also heading for the safety of the open grasslands. In that instant Adam felt an affinity with the terrified animal, so sleek and beautiful, glowing red fur, almost orange-russet, and such a magnificent bushy tail tipped in white trailing behind. “A fox,” he gasped, the fence approaching quickly, “And he will be half way home before I get out of here.”
Suddenly shouting erupted as the lithe creature shot under the lowest strand of wire, it paused; uncertain yet alert. Horses hooves pounded the ground, a whip cracked, the voices multiplied, louder now, more urgent. Adam froze as horses came into view, red clad riders atop, white ties and black bowler hats, black boots topped with chestnut leather. The terrified fox turned and bolted back under the fence only to skid to a halt as it spied Adam. For a moment he looked deep into its eyes, and wondered if the fear that he saw mirrored his own. That moment of hesitation proved fatal for the fox, and served as a moment of guilt that Adam carried through life, his own culpability, an unintended yet decisive moment that sealed the fate of another living, breathing creature.
His eyes wide, and mouth open in a silent scream he witnessed the baying hounds tear the animal that he had considered to be so beautiful to pieces, its terrified squealing, cut short almost instantly. Yet almost twenty years later he still heard the agony in his frequent nightmares, a sound that fed his hatred, a sound that had proved to be a pivotal moment in his life. That sound drove him to don his black woollen balaclava, and along with a small group of hardcore activists... he waged a secret war.
***
“Did you have a good weekend?”
Adam turned toward the source of such banal conversation and smiled. If only you knew, he thought, but replied with a small shrug. “Same as always, quiet, did some washing, went out for a pint on Saturday night, slept late on Sunday.”
“What an exciting life you lead,” his friend Duncan replied, “Don't you ever do anything different?”
Adam shrugged again, “Sure I do, in summer. But now winters back, so I prefer to stay at home. No point in going out just to freeze my nuts off.”
“What about the footie, are you up to watching a match sometime?”
Adam smiled again but shook his head, “Not really my thing mate, cricket in the summer maybe, if the offer still stands!”
Duncan shuddered at the thought, “Doubtful,” he chuckled, “I can sit at home and watch paint dry, I like my sport with a little more action.”
“What about bloodsports?” asked Adam, his interest quickening, a question that he had never posed his friend before.
“What? Like hare coursing or shooting?”
“Yeah, something like that, or maybe fox hunting?” responded Adam casually.
“Never really thought about it,” his friend replied, “I guess it's not really my thing, but I don't have anything against anyone who enjoys it. Why? Is that what you're into?”
Adam shook his head and forced a smile. Your answer is only half way there mate. “Nah, not my cup of tea either.” he grinned. We may be friends, and although you are not particularly in favour, apathy and acceptance make you also guilty to a point, you will never know what really makes me tick, my friend, he decided, pity though, it would have been nice to have an ally at work.
He returned his attention to the computer screen, and endless columns of numbers. His job in accounts numbed his mind from nine until five, but it paid the bills, and didn't tax his brain over-duly. Who cares what the figures are, he told himself as he attempted to apply a little focus, all that matters is that they balance at the end. But the regional sales reports blurred as his concentration waned, his thoughts were replaced by satisfying memories of a very successful weekend.
His Saturday had begun before dawn huddled within the smoky confines of his battered and rusting land-rover as a shared joint passed from hand to hand. Steam rose in the dim glow of the interior light as a flask of coffee opened and plastic cups gathered in silence. “So we're all clear on the plan today?” he whispered as he poured wake up caffeine into the waiting cups.
“Usual routine.” replied the girl with too many piercings.
She must drive the metal detectors crazy when she goes to the airport, Adam laughed inside, nose, ears, lips, eyebrows... this chick is a walking pin cushion. He looked closer, and another thought entered his mind, I wonder where else she's pierced? Shaking his head he dispelled the forming image and drew his gaze away from the shapeless and baggy jumper that she always wore, probably an attempt to hide any pretence of femininity, he decided, and wondered if her carnal preferences truly lay where the rumours pointed.
“The public team will be here by mid morning,” she added, “Vocal but peaceful protest, try to disrupt the meet, confuse the hounds with horns, let these toffs understand that we won't go away.”
Toffs... Adam debated their different motives. “Anna, right?” he whispered, drawing her attention away from the tongue bar that she constantly rolled disconcertingly around her mouth.
“You know that this really isn't a class thing!”
“Speak for yourself,” she replied, a shortness in her tone.
Adam shook his head sadly, left wing extremists, he had met so many. He fought for animal rights, they struggled against those that they collectively determined to be the privileged, the upper classes... the posh people!
“Just because they can afford to buy and keep a horse doesn't make them toffs,” he rebutted, “I know lots of them are working class just like us.” Or maybe not like all of us, he wondered. Maybe the piercings and socialist posturing stemmed from rebellion. The daughter of wealthy parents, slumming for a while, and sticking an index finger up to daddy. She fits the description, he decided, but swiftly returned his focus back to the job in hand.
“Anyway, that's not our concern.” he said cutting her objection, and probably another dose from the manifesto, “I'm the local here, and I've learned their habits over the last few years. This current Master lacks any imagination, always insisting that they draw the same coverts, so ladies and gentlemen, our job this morning should be relatively simple. I will drop you all off at the most likely places... from there,” he laughed softly, “Spray that aniseed around like it's going out of fashion, let those bloody hell hounds sniff their way through that.”
Under cover of darkness they had a daunting task ahead, yet despite their divergent motives, he knew that every member would play their part. Armed with cannisters of aniseed spray, and dragging scent soaked sacks they would criss-cross the land, covering as much terrain as possible, laying down a heavy odour that would defy the nasal prowess of even the sharpest of the trained hounds. To catch the fox under such conditions would mean that it had to be within line of sight. I'm sorry old Charlie Fox, he thought with a wry smile on his lips, but if you are stupid enough to show yourself... well, there is bugger all that I can do to save you.
***
The morning had grown old as Adam stripped away his balaclava and climbed into the land-rover. Turning the key he stared down at the grass below his vehicle through a rotting hole in the floor-pan, I guess one day I should get it patched, he thought absent-mindedly as the engine roared instantly to life. His old credo pushed aside the thought, she still starts well, who cares if I get a breeze up my trouser legs. The old car never let him down, old faithful, even if a little shabby and world weary in the chassis. Deftly he snicked the lever into gear and pulled back onto a narrow country lane, the big diesel engine burbling. Through the open window he heard the unmistakable sound of steel horseshoes on asphalt and pulled back onto the verge, seconds later the land-rover became an island amidst a sea of black, white and tan hounds, floppy ears and lolling tongues, silent now and formed into a tight pack, shepherded efficiently by hunt servants, the whipper in's to either side, keeping the pack organised with the occasional well aimed flick of a long leather whip, and the huntsman following close behind, chastising stragglers with a sharp word, the hounds attention fixed on his voice, obvious love in their soft eyes. Adam smiled as they passed, the huntsman nodding his thanks. Adam now played the role of supporter and countryman, and leaning out of the window called up to the pale faced rider, “Any luck this morning boss?”
The huntsman shook his head and spat, “Not a bloody thing,” he lamented, “We drew a complete blank in Corbett’s Covert, now the Master has decided to try over on Ted Johnsons land.”
“Oh well,” Adam replied supportively, how very predictable. “You can't win every time, I hope your luck changes.”
The huntsman nodded before rebuking an errant hound that had obviously scented a rabbit and decided to start its own hunt.
Adam buried his feelings of satisfaction as the hunt followers came into view, the field of riders held back at a respectable distance by the Master. I have to agree with Miss Anna Pin Cushion when it comes to this arrogant bastard, he thought as he tugged his forelock, the universal acknowledgement that one had met their better, and received no more greeting than a look of distaste and disdain from the mounted leader. Now there is a fine example of everything that is wrong with a feudal system, that prick still hasn't realised that Master of Foxhounds means sod all in the twenty first century. Staring into the rear view mirror he allowed his smile to surface. “No luck for you on Ted's land,” he laughed, “I screwed that up for you well before dawn.” and shifting back into gear he set off to collect his troops.
“The rural terrorist strikes again,” he almost sung the words. “And if trespass makes me a criminal, well, I can live with that.” The main reasoning behind the balaclava. He had been close to capture once or twice before. Terrier men had spotted him on one occasion, they had been out early blocking fox holes, an effort to deny the quarry any escape. Adam had been out undoing their industry. He had grown complacent and stumbled upon them before they had completed their task. He could look back and laugh at the event, but at the time he couldn't be sure who had been the more surprised. He had found two wizened old men stuffing a hole with chicken wire. They had turned to face what must have looked like a hardened bank robber or fanatical suicide bomber. A second of stunned silence descended before a shotgun began to level unsteadily in his general direction. “We don't want no trouble here.” an elderly voice quavered. Adam hadn't needed a second warning, and with an uncomfortable loosening sensation spreading to his bowels he had turned and fled. But the mask had protected his identity, not that prosecution for trespass worried him, but to be revealed as a saboteur, that would seriously curtail his activities. Hunters maintained a close knit and insular world, news of his unmasking would be disastrous, relegating him to passive protest. He prided himself on action, to rob him of that would be the end of his world.
And he felt his world beginning to crumble as the Labour government pushed through a blanket Hunting Ban four years later.
Adam had won.
Yet he knew inside that he had actually lost everything.


Excerpt..

Prologue



Justine stared at droplets of ruby blood, her mind disconnected from fact. It looks quite pretty, she thought as an irrational smile formed
on her split and swollen lips, like a cross shape! A Crucifix.

Her mind, as always, sought an avenue of escape as her body screamed for mercy and relief. Her spilled and dripping blood gave her
consciousness focus, a point of attention to distract from reality. The immediate reality of pain and abuse, of torture and humiliation; and
the long accepted reality of the forced servitude and depravity that had become her life.

The droplets began to blur as she lost focus, a fact that saddened her. Probably a concussion, the analytical portion of her brain kicked
in, feeding fact and realisation that she found unnecessary, given her now clear understanding that the end had arrived. It would have been
nicer to have left with the pretty cross in my mind, she thought, and closed her eyes, anticipating the final blow. Prayer had long since
departed from her existence, but the bloody crucifix had given her heavy heart some small comfort. A sinister chuckle broke her silent
acceptance, her ultimate serenity shattered. If he could have just done it without laughing, she thought as she squeezed her eyelids
tighter, the image of a sacred cross violently replaced by the sadistic smile of her abuser. She didn't need to open her eyes to understand
the look upon his face, the twisted and cruel smile, the cold and calculating blue eyes, sometimes soft and warm; now, intense, loaded with
hate and finality.

“You have had sufficient time to make your peace.” his chuckle returned, almost gentle now, yet loaded with menace.

“Goodbye, my love.” she whispered as a tear broke free to track through heavy mascara. “I'm sorry Adam.”

Stars burst flaring bright, searing through her closed eyelids. Her clenched jaw strained, her teeth grinding under the force of his blow.
Pain upon pain ricocheted through her tortured mind, sickness bloomed, nausea and despair engulfed. Darkness enveloped her mind, nothingness
robbing thought of entity. Her body sagged; and muscle control deserting she slumped forward, face down onto unyielding concrete. Justine
forced her eyes to open, the vision of a cross reappeared, but swiftly faded, now darkness reigned, her vision lost to the nihility of
death.



Chapter 1 – Adam #1

2001 - Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, United Kingdom.



Adam flicked through a copy of the Horse and Hound, gleaning information and making plans. The season approached and his blood began to
boil, just as it had done in previous years, since that fateful day that had marred an unexceptional childhood.

Unexceptional in so many ways, he laughed quietly at his own honest self assessment, he hadn't needed a string of teachers and frustrated
employers to point out his flaws and absence of focus. Those traits were clear in his carefree mind. “You lack drive, boy!” His old
headmasters voice drifted up from deep memory.

“You're dead right, Sir.” he had replied, the cockiness of youth clear in his tone. Let things work themselves out in their own time, that
had been his credo then, and a resolution that he had stuck to religiously. With one exception, and in this case he had proven to be far
from unexceptional.

“Call me the rural terrorist,” he chortled as he stroked a black balaclava mask flat under his hand. The dark mask, the insignia of his true
calling. Wearing it he became powerful, invincible, even feared - he hoped. Dark eyes staring from slits in the black wool. Thin lips drawn
tight into a daunting line, no hint of a smile, no vestige of mirth. “I will be the scourge of those blood-thirsty bastards for as long as I
can draw breath.” he whispered with an air of certainty, “I won't stop until their barbarity is finally outlawed.”

And if it is outlawed, banned... what then? The small voice inside that haunted him spoke softly into his ear; taunting. He wanted the sport
banned, but it had been his goal for so long that he understood that it had grown to define his existence. Without fox hunting, would his
life lose all definition?

“Then I will find another cause.” he declared with finality. It's a small world, I will find another crusade... “Bull-fighting,” he voiced
aloud, “That can be my next challenge, or whaling, or stopping baby seals from being clubbed to death on the ice. We live in a sick world,
there will always be a need for my special skills.”

He returned his gaze to the magazine, “But until then, I will remain a saboteur.”

What had sparked his calling? The memory still stalked his nightmares.

He remembered a fresh winters morning, frost nipped his young fingers, the tips poking through fingerless gloves, and his breath came like
smoke, “a chilly dragon,” he had laughed while blowing imaginary streams of flame, the white vapour hanging in the still air.

Searching for conkers, that is what had drawn him to the woodlands that bordered his village home, he had a reputation to defend. The
schools official conkers champion for three years running. The first frost promised a good haul as he carefully lifted the top strand of a
rusting barbed wire fence, the metal fangs edged with crisp white frost. Slowly and deliberately he eased himself underneath. Of course he
had snagged his coat, he always did, never bending quite low enough, so he paused for a moment before deciding to back away and try again.
“Strange,” he told himself as the sound of dogs broke the silence. To hear one barking in the distance he considered normal, not even
registering in his mind, yet to hear so many struck him as decidedly odd. “No one has that many around here,” he said as he pulled himself
free of the wire fence and made his second attempt, successful and snag free this time. Standing on the very edge of the forest he paused
and strained his hearing. “I'm not so keen on dogs,” he declared in a small nervous voice, the first tingling of concern entering his mind.
Having been bitten as a small child he had developed a healthy distrust of all things canine. Now, to hear so many, and clearly approaching
caused him to glance back toward the boundary fence and the open fields beyond. “I came for conkers,” he whispered, attempting to bolster
flagging courage, “And I won't leave here without them.”

A horn sounded, shrill and drawn out, yet distant. “At least there are people with the dogs,” he told himself, feeling a modicum of his
confidence return, “It's dogs on their own that scare me.” His open admission of fear came as a surprise, “They do scare me,” he stated, and
gave himself a small smile, “And you know what? I don't care who knows. I'm almost nine now, grown up, and grown-ups don't hide their fears,
they don't care what other people think of them.”

Admission and determination to face his fears shepherded his deserting courage, and swallowing hard he took a final glance over his shoulder
in the direction of home, before taking his first faltering steps into the cover of the trees. The canopy closed above his head, and dead
dry leaves fluttered down to land soundlessly onto a soft bed of their kin, the barking and yelping appeared to diminish as the woodland
engulfed him, insulating him. Deeper he ventured and again a horn split the growing quiet, “The dogs aren't so close now, but the horn
blower is,” again he paused and heard the sound of horses hooves. In the opposite distance voices sounded, urgent shouting and calling, a
barbaric sound loaded with aggression, He heard shouts of Tod and Charlie, distant hooves pounding, the horn blowing again behind him as
though the voices and horn spoke to each other across the breadth of the overgrown woods, the crack of a whip preceded a sharp yelp, and
more shouting, the sound growing. “Come away,” a call rang clearly from his edge of the forest, very close now, the horn returned from the
same location, and too his horror, the distant barking transformed to howls and excited baying, the frantic din growing in his ears.

“I'm not that brave,” Adam squealed, and turned to run, his mind filled with the safety of home, his imagination beginning to crowd with
images of wolves, packs of ravenous wolves, following his trail, hunting him down.

“So close now,” he gasped. He had wandered further than he remembered, his mind had been filled with adult bravery and images of shiny
chestnut conkers gleaming from within their splitting spiky protective cases. The sound of heavy animals crashing through the undergrowth
urged greater speed from his young legs, but he couldn't win the race. Baying filled his senses and he felt tears threatening. “There's the
fence,” he cried in relief as the strands of thin wire came into view, somehow the open fields that stretched out to the horizon promised
safety. Another horn blast cut through the frenzied barking, sound assaulted his young senses feeding panic and confusion. A small creature,
obviously as scared as himself scurried by, also heading for the safety of the open grasslands. In that instant Adam felt an affinity with
the terrified animal, so sleek and beautiful, glowing red fur, almost orange-russet, and such a magnificent bushy tail tipped in white
trailing behind. “A fox,” he gasped, the fence approaching quickly, “And he will be half way home before I get out of here.”

Suddenly shouting erupted as the lithe creature shot under the lowest strand of wire, it paused; uncertain yet alert. Horses hooves pounded
the ground, a whip cracked, the voices multiplied, louder now, more urgent. Adam froze as horses came into view, red clad riders atop, white
ties and black bowler hats, black boots topped with chestnut leather. The terrified fox turned and bolted back under the fence only to skid
to a halt as it spied Adam. For a moment he looked deep into its eyes, and wondered if the fear that he saw mirrored his own. That moment of
hesitation proved fatal for the fox, and served as a moment of guilt that Adam carried through life, his own culpability, an unintended yet
decisive moment that sealed the fate of another living, breathing creature.

His eyes wide, and mouth open in a silent scream he witnessed the baying hounds tear the animal that he had considered to be so beautiful to
pieces, its terrified squealing, cut short almost instantly. Yet almost twenty years later he still heard the agony in his frequent
nightmares, a sound that fed his hatred, a sound that had proved to be a pivotal moment in his life. That sound drove him to don his black
woollen balaclava, and along with a small group of hardcore activists... he waged a secret war.

***

“Did you have a good weekend?”

Adam turned toward the source of such banal conversation and smiled. If only you knew, he thought, but replied with a small shrug. “Same as
always, quiet, did some washing, went out for a pint on Saturday night, slept late on Sunday.”

“What an exciting life you lead,” his friend Duncan replied, “Don't you ever do anything different?”

Adam shrugged again, “Sure I do, in summer. But now winters back, so I prefer to stay at home. No point in going out just to freeze my nuts
off.”

“What about the footie, are you up to watching a match sometime?”

Adam smiled again but shook his head, “Not really my thing mate, cricket in the summer maybe, if the offer still stands!”

Duncan shuddered at the thought, “Doubtful,” he chuckled, “I can sit at home and watch paint dry, I like my sport with a little more
action.”

“What about bloodsports?” asked Adam, his interest quickening, a question that he had never posed his friend before.

“What? Like hare coursing or shooting?”

“Yeah, something like that, or maybe fox hunting?” responded Adam casually.

“Never really thought about it,” his friend replied, “I guess it's not really my thing, but I don't have anything against anyone who enjoys
it. Why? Is that what you're into?”

Adam shook his head and forced a smile. Your answer is only half way there mate. “Nah, not my cup of tea either.” he grinned. We may be
friends, and although you are not particularly in favour, apathy and acceptance make you also guilty to a point, you will never know what
really makes me tick, my friend, he decided, pity though, it would have been nice to have an ally at work.

He returned his attention to the computer screen, and endless columns of numbers. His job in accounts numbed his mind from nine until five,
but it paid the bills, and didn't tax his brain over-duly. Who cares what the figures are, he told himself as he attempted to apply a little
focus, all that matters is that they balance at the end. But the regional sales reports blurred as his concentration waned, his thoughts
were replaced by satisfying memories of a very successful weekend.

His Saturday had begun before dawn huddled within the smoky confines of his battered and rusting land-rover as a shared joint passed from
hand to hand. Steam rose in the dim glow of the interior light as a flask of coffee opened and plastic cups gathered in silence. “So we're
all clear on the plan today?” he whispered as he poured wake up caffeine into the waiting cups.

“Usual routine.” replied the girl with too many piercings.

She must drive the metal detectors crazy when she goes to the airport, Adam laughed inside, nose, ears, lips, eyebrows... this chick is a
walking pin cushion. He looked closer, and another thought entered his mind, I wonder where else she's pierced? Shaking his head he
dispelled the forming image and drew his gaze away from the shapeless and baggy jumper that she always wore, probably an attempt to hide any
pretence of femininity, he decided, and wondered if her carnal preferences truly lay where the rumours pointed.

“The public team will be here by mid morning,” she added, “Vocal but peaceful protest, try to disrupt the meet, confuse the hounds with
horns, let these toffs understand that we won't go away.”

Toffs... Adam debated their different motives. “Anna, right?” he whispered, drawing her attention away from the tongue bar that she
constantly rolled disconcertingly around her mouth.

“You know that this really isn't a class thing!”

“Speak for yourself,” she replied, a shortness in her tone.

Adam shook his head sadly, left wing extremists, he had met so many. He fought for animal rights, they struggled against those that they
collectively determined to be the privileged, the upper classes... the posh people!

“Just because they can afford to buy and keep a horse doesn't make them toffs,” he rebutted, “I know lots of them are working class just
like us.” Or maybe not like all of us, he wondered. Maybe the piercings and socialist posturing stemmed from rebellion. The daughter of
wealthy parents, slumming for a while, and sticking an index finger up to daddy. She fits the description, he decided, but swiftly returned
his focus back to the job in hand.

“Anyway, that's not our concern.” he said cutting her objection, and probably another dose from the manifesto, “I'm the local here, and I've
learned their habits over the last few years. This current Master lacks any imagination, always insisting that they draw the same coverts,
so ladies and gentlemen, our job this morning should be relatively simple. I will drop you all off at the most likely places... from there,”
he laughed softly, “Spray that aniseed around like it's going out of fashion, let those bloody hell hounds sniff their way through that.” />
Under cover of darkness they had a daunting task ahead, yet despite their divergent motives, he knew that every member would play their
part. Armed with cannisters of aniseed spray, and dragging scent soaked sacks they would criss-cross the land, covering as much terrain as
possible, laying down a heavy odour that would defy the nasal prowess of even the sharpest of the trained hounds. To catch the fox under
such conditions would mean that it had to be within line of sight. I'm sorry old Charlie Fox, he thought with a wry smile on his lips, but
if you are stupid enough to show yourself... well, there is bugger all that I can do to save you.

***

The morning had grown old as Adam stripped away his balaclava and climbed into the land-rover. Turning the key he stared down at the grass
below his vehicle through a rotting hole in the floor-pan, I guess one day I should get it patched, he thought absent-mindedly as the engine
roared instantly to life. His old credo pushed aside the thought, she still starts well, who cares if I get a breeze up my trouser legs. The
old car never let him down, old faithful, even if a little shabby and world weary in the chassis. Deftly he snicked the lever into gear and
pulled back onto a narrow country lane, the big diesel engine burbling. Through the open window he heard the unmistakable sound of steel
horseshoes on asphalt and pulled back onto the verge, seconds later the land-rover became an island amidst a sea of black, white and tan
hounds, floppy ears and lolling tongues, silent now and formed into a tight pack, shepherded efficiently by hunt servants, the whipper in's
to either side, keeping the pack organised with the occasional well aimed flick of a long leather whip, and the huntsman following close
behind, chastising stragglers with a sharp word, the hounds attention fixed on his voice, obvious love in their soft eyes. Adam smiled as
they passed, the huntsman nodding his thanks. Adam now played the role of supporter and countryman, and leaning out of the window called up
to the pale faced rider, “Any luck this morning boss?”

The huntsman shook his head and spat, “Not a bloody thing,” he lamented, “We drew a complete blank in Corbett’s Covert, now the Master has
decided to try over on Ted Johnsons land.”

“Oh well,” Adam replied supportively, how very predictable. “You can't win every time, I hope your luck changes.”

The huntsman nodded before rebuking an errant hound that had obviously scented a rabbit and decided to start its own hunt.

Adam buried his feelings of satisfaction as the hunt followers came into view, the field of riders held back at a respectable distance by
the Master. I have to agree with Miss Anna Pin Cushion when it comes to this arrogant bastard, he thought as he tugged his forelock, the
universal acknowledgement that one had met their better, and received no more greeting than a look of distaste and disdain from the mounted
leader. Now there is a fine example of everything that is wrong with a feudal system, that prick still hasn't realised that Master of
Foxhounds means sod all in the twenty first century. Staring into the rear view mirror he allowed his smile to surface. “No luck for you on
Ted's land,” he laughed, “I screwed that up for you well before dawn.” and shifting back into gear he set off to collect his troops.

“The rural terrorist strikes again,” he almost sung the words. “And if trespass makes me a criminal, well, I can live with that.” The main
reasoning behind the balaclava. He had been close to capture once or twice before. Terrier men had spotted him on one occasion, they had
been out early blocking fox holes, an effort to deny the quarry any escape. Adam had been out undoing their industry. He had grown
complacent and stumbled upon them before they had completed their task. He could look back and laugh at the event, but at the time he
couldn't be sure who had been the more surprised. He had found two wizened old men stuffing a hole with chicken wire. They had turned to
face what must have looked like a hardened bank robber or fanatical suicide bomber. A second of stunned silence descended before a shotgun
began to level unsteadily in his general direction. “We don't want no trouble here.” an elderly voice quavered. Adam hadn't needed a second
warning, and with an uncomfortable loosening sensation spreading to his bowels he had turned and fled. But the mask had protected his
identity, not that prosecution for trespass worried him, but to be revealed as a saboteur, that would seriously curtail his activities.
Hunters maintained a close knit and insular world, news of his unmasking would be disastrous, relegating him to passive protest. He prided
himself on action, to rob him of that would be the end of his world.

And he felt his world beginning to crumble as the Labour government pushed through a blanket Hunting Ban four years later.

Adam had won.

Yet he knew inside that he had actually lost everything.


Excerpt..

Prologue





Justine stared at droplets of ruby blood, her mind disconnected from fact. It looks quite pretty, she thought as an irrational smile formed

on her split and swollen lips, like a cross shape! A Crucifix.


Her mind, as always, sought an avenue of escape as her body screamed for mercy and relief. Her spilled and dripping blood gave her

consciousness focus, a point of attention to distract from reality. The immediate reality of pain and abuse, of torture and humiliation; and

the long accepted reality of the forced servitude and depravity that had become her life.


The droplets began to blur as she lost focus, a fact that saddened her. Probably a concussion, the analytical portion of her brain kicked

in, feeding fact and realisation that she found unnecessary, given her now clear understanding that the end had arrived. It would have been

nicer to have left with the pretty cross in my mind, she thought, and closed her eyes, anticipating the final blow. Prayer had long since

departed from her existence, but the bloody crucifix had given her heavy heart some small comfort. A sinister chuckle broke her silent

acceptance, her ultimate serenity shattered. If he could have just done it without laughing, she thought as she squeezed her eyelids

tighter, the image of a sacred cross violently replaced by the sadistic smile of her abuser. She didn't need to open her eyes to understand

the look upon his face, the twisted and cruel smile, the cold and calculating blue eyes, sometimes soft and warm; now, intense, loaded with

hate and finality.


“You have had sufficient time to make your peace.” his chuckle returned, almost gentle now, yet loaded with menace.


“Goodbye, my love.” she whispered as a tear broke free to track through heavy mascara. “I'm sorry Adam.”


Stars burst flaring bright, searing through her closed eyelids. Her clenched jaw strained, her teeth grinding under the force of his blow.

Pain upon pain ricocheted through her tortured mind, sickness bloomed, nausea and despair engulfed. Darkness enveloped her mind, nothingness

robbing thought of entity. Her body sagged; and muscle control deserting she slumped forward, face down onto unyielding concrete. Justine

forced her eyes to open, the vision of a cross reappeared, but swiftly faded, now darkness reigned, her vision lost to the nihility of

death.





Chapter 1 – Adam #1


2001 - Holmes Chapel, Cheshire, United Kingdom.





Adam flicked through a copy of the Horse and Hound, gleaning information and making plans. The season approached and his blood began to

boil, just as it had done in previous years, since that fateful day that had marred an unexceptional childhood.


Unexceptional in so many ways, he laughed quietly at his own honest self assessment, he hadn't needed a string of teachers and frustrated

employers to point out his flaws and absence of focus. Those traits were clear in his carefree mind. “You lack drive, boy!” His old

headmasters voice drifted up from deep memory.


“You're dead right, Sir.” he had replied, the cockiness of youth clear in his tone. Let things work themselves out in their own time, that

had been his credo then, and a resolution that he had stuck to religiously. With one exception, and in this case he had proven to be far

from unexceptional.


“Call me the rural terrorist,” he chortled as he stroked a black balaclava mask flat under his hand. The dark mask, the insignia of his true

calling. Wearing it he became powerful, invincible, even feared - he hoped. Dark eyes staring from slits in the black wool. Thin lips drawn

tight into a daunting line, no hint of a smile, no vestige of mirth. “I will be the scourge of those blood-thirsty bastards for as long as I

can draw breath.” he whispered with an air of certainty, “I won't stop until their barbarity is finally outlawed.”


And if it is outlawed, banned... what then? The small voice inside that haunted him spoke softly into his ear; taunting. He wanted the sport

banned, but it had been his goal for so long that he understood that it had grown to define his existence. Without fox hunting, would his

life lose all definition?


“Then I will find another cause.” he declared with finality. It's a small world, I will find another crusade... “Bull-fighting,” he voiced

aloud, “That can be my next challenge, or whaling, or stopping baby seals from being clubbed to death on the ice. We live in a sick world,

there will always be a need for my special skills.”


He returned his gaze to the magazine, “But until then, I will remain a saboteur.”


What had sparked his calling? The memory still stalked his nightmares.


He remembered a fresh winters morning, frost nipped his young fingers, the tips poking through fingerless gloves, and his breath came like

smoke, “a chilly dragon,” he had laughed while blowing imaginary streams of flame, the white vapour hanging in the still air.


Searching for conkers, that is what had drawn him to the woodlands that bordered his village home, he had a reputation to defend. The

schools official conkers champion for three years running. The first frost promised a good haul as he carefully lifted the top strand of a

rusting barbed wire fence, the metal fangs edged with crisp white frost. Slowly and deliberately he eased himself underneath. Of course he

had snagged his coat, he always did, never bending quite low enough, so he paused for a moment before deciding to back away and try again.

“Strange,” he told himself as the sound of dogs broke the silence. To hear one barking in the distance he considered normal, not even

registering in his mind, yet to hear so many struck him as decidedly odd. “No one has that many around here,” he said as he pulled himself

free of the wire fence and made his second attempt, successful and snag free this time. Standing on the very edge of the forest he paused

and strained his hearing. “I'm not so keen on dogs,” he declared in a small nervous voice, the first tingling of concern entering his mind.

Having been bitten as a small child he had developed a healthy distrust of all things canine. Now, to hear so many, and clearly approaching

caused him to glance back toward the boundary fence and the open fields beyond. “I came for conkers,” he whispered, attempting to bolster

flagging courage, “And I won't leave here without them.”


A horn sounded, shrill and drawn out, yet distant. “At least there are people with the dogs,” he told himself, feeling a modicum of his

confidence return, “It's dogs on their own that scare me.” His open admission of fear came as a surprise, “They do scare me,” he stated, and

gave himself a small smile, “And you know what? I don't care who knows. I'm almost nine now, grown up, and grown-ups don't hide their fears,

they don't care what other people think of them.”


Admission and determination to face his fears shepherded his deserting courage, and swallowing hard he took a final glance over his shoulder

in the direction of home, before taking his first faltering steps into the cover of the trees. The canopy closed above his head, and dead

dry leaves fluttered down to land soundlessly onto a soft bed of their kin, the barking and yelping appeared to diminish as the woodland

engulfed him, insulating him. Deeper he ventured and again a horn split the growing quiet, “The dogs aren't so close now, but the horn

blower is,” again he paused and heard the sound of horses hooves. In the opposite distance voices sounded, urgent shouting and calling, a

barbaric sound loaded with aggression, He heard shouts of Tod and Charlie, distant hooves pounding, the horn blowing again behind him as

though the voices and horn spoke to each other across the breadth of the overgrown woods, the crack of a whip preceded a sharp yelp, and

more shouting, the sound growing. “Come away,” a call rang clearly from his edge of the forest, very close now, the horn returned from the

same location, and too his horror, the distant barking transformed to howls and excited baying, the frantic din growing in his ears.


“I'm not that brave,” Adam squealed, and turned to run, his mind filled with the safety of home, his imagination beginning to crowd with

images of wolves, packs of ravenous wolves, following his trail, hunting him down.


“So close now,” he gasped. He had wandered further than he remembered, his mind had been filled with adult bravery and images of shiny

chestnut conkers gleaming from within their splitting spiky protective cases. The sound of heavy animals crashing through the undergrowth

urged greater speed from his young legs, but he couldn't win the race. Baying filled his senses and he felt tears threatening. “There's the

fence,” he cried in relief as the strands of thin wire came into view, somehow the open fields that stretched out to the horizon promised

safety. Another horn blast cut through the frenzied barking, sound assaulted his young senses feeding panic and confusion. A small creature,

obviously as scared as himself scurried by, also heading for the safety of the open grasslands. In that instant Adam felt an affinity with

the terrified animal, so sleek and beautiful, glowing red fur, almost orange-russet, and such a magnificent bushy tail tipped in white

trailing behind. “A fox,” he gasped, the fence approaching quickly, “And he will be half way home before I get out of here.”


Suddenly shouting erupted as the lithe creature shot under the lowest strand of wire, it paused; uncertain yet alert. Horses hooves pounded

the ground, a whip cracked, the voices multiplied, louder now, more urgent. Adam froze as horses came into view, red clad riders atop, white

ties and black bowler hats, black boots topped with chestnut leather. The terrified fox turned and bolted back under the fence only to skid

to a halt as it spied Adam. For a moment he looked deep into its eyes, and wondered if the fear that he saw mirrored his own. That moment of

hesitation proved fatal for the fox, and served as a moment of guilt that Adam carried through life, his own culpability, an unintended yet

decisive moment that sealed the fate of another living, breathing creature.


His eyes wide, and mouth open in a silent scream he witnessed the baying hounds tear the animal that he had considered to be so beautiful to

pieces, its terrified squealing, cut short almost instantly. Yet almost twenty years later he still heard the agony in his frequent

nightmares, a sound that fed his hatred, a sound that had proved to be a pivotal moment in his life. That sound drove him to don his black

woollen balaclava, and along with a small group of hardcore activists... he waged a secret war.


***


“Did you have a good weekend?”


Adam turned toward the source of such banal conversation and smiled. If only you knew, he thought, but replied with a small shrug. “Same as

always, quiet, did some washing, went out for a pint on Saturday night, slept late on Sunday.”


“What an exciting life you lead,” his friend Duncan replied, “Don't you ever do anything different?”


Adam shrugged again, “Sure I do, in summer. But now winters back, so I prefer to stay at home. No point in going out just to freeze my nuts

off.”


“What about the footie, are you up to watching a match sometime?”


Adam smiled again but shook his head, “Not really my thing mate, cricket in the summer maybe, if the offer still stands!”


Duncan shuddered at the thought, “Doubtful,” he chuckled, “I can sit at home and watch paint dry, I like my sport with a little more

action.”


“What about bloodsports?” asked Adam, his interest quickening, a question that he had never posed his friend before.


“What? Like hare coursing or shooting?”


“Yeah, something like that, or maybe fox hunting?” responded Adam casually.


“Never really thought about it,” his friend replied, “I guess it's not really my thing, but I don't have anything against anyone who enjoys

it. Why? Is that what you're into?”


Adam shook his head and forced a smile. Your answer is only half way there mate. “Nah, not my cup of tea either.” he grinned. We may be

friends, and although you are not particularly in favour, apathy and acceptance make you also guilty to a point, you will never know what

really makes me tick, my friend, he decided, pity though, it would have been nice to have an ally at work.


He returned his attention to the computer screen, and endless columns of numbers. His job in accounts numbed his mind from nine until five,

but it paid the bills, and didn't tax his brain over-duly. Who cares what the figures are, he told himself as he attempted to apply a little

focus, all that matters is that they balance at the end. But the regional sales reports blurred as his concentration waned, his thoughts

were replaced by satisfying memories of a very successful weekend.


His Saturday had begun before dawn huddled within the smoky confines of his battered and rusting land-rover as a shared joint passed from

hand to hand. Steam rose in the dim glow of the interior light as a flask of coffee opened and plastic cups gathered in silence. “So we're

all clear on the plan today?” he whispered as he poured wake up caffeine into the waiting cups.


“Usual routine.” replied the girl with too many piercings.


She must drive the metal detectors crazy when she goes to the airport, Adam laughed inside, nose, ears, lips, eyebrows... this chick is a

walking pin cushion. He looked closer, and another thought entered his mind, I wonder where else she's pierced? Shaking his head he

dispelled the forming image and drew his gaze away from the shapeless and baggy jumper that she always wore, probably an attempt to hide any

pretence of femininity, he decided, and wondered if her carnal preferences truly lay where the rumours pointed.


“The public team will be here by mid morning,” she added, “Vocal but peaceful protest, try to disrupt the meet, confuse the hounds with

horns, let these toffs understand that we won't go away.”


Toffs... Adam debated their different motives. “Anna, right?” he whispered, drawing her attention away from the tongue bar that she

constantly rolled disconcertingly around her mouth.


“You know that this really isn't a class thing!”


“Speak for yourself,” she replied, a shortness in her tone.


Adam shook his head sadly, left wing extremists, he had met so many. He fought for animal rights, they struggled against those that they

collectively determined to be the privileged, the upper classes... the posh people!


“Just because they can afford to buy and keep a horse doesn't make them toffs,” he rebutted, “I know lots of them are working class just

like us.” Or maybe not like all of us, he wondered. Maybe the piercings and socialist posturing stemmed from rebellion. The daughter of

wealthy parents, slumming for a while, and sticking an index finger up to daddy. She fits the description, he decided, but swiftly returned

his focus back to the job in hand.


“Anyway, that's not our concern.” he said cutting her objection, and probably another dose from the manifesto, “I'm the local here, and I've

learned their habits over the last few years. This current Master lacks any imagination, always insisting that they draw the same coverts,

so ladies and gentlemen, our job this morning should be relatively simple. I will drop you all off at the most likely places... from there,”

he laughed softly, “Spray that aniseed around like it's going out of fashion, let those bloody hell hounds sniff their way through that.”
/>

Under cover of darkness they had a daunting task ahead, yet despite their divergent motives, he knew that every member would play their

part. Armed with cannisters of aniseed spray, and dragging scent soaked sacks they would criss-cross the land, covering as much terrain as

possible, laying down a heavy odour that would defy the nasal prowess of even the sharpest of the trained hounds. To catch the fox under

such conditions would mean that it had to be within line of sight. I'm sorry old Charlie Fox, he thought with a wry smile on his lips, but

if you are stupid enough to show yourself... well, there is bugger all that I can do to save you.


***


The morning had grown old as Adam stripped away his balaclava and climbed into the land-rover. Turning the key he stared down at the grass

below his vehicle through a rotting hole in the floor-pan, I guess one day I should get it patched, he thought absent-mindedly as the engine

roared instantly to life. His old credo pushed aside the thought, she still starts well, who cares if I get a breeze up my trouser legs. The

old car never let him down, old faithful, even if a little shabby and world weary in the chassis. Deftly he snicked the lever into gear and

pulled back onto a narrow country lane, the big diesel engine burbling. Through the open window he heard the unmistakable sound of steel

horseshoes on asphalt and pulled back onto the verge, seconds later the land-rover became an island amidst a sea of black, white and tan

hounds, floppy ears and lolling tongues, silent now and formed into a tight pack, shepherded efficiently by hunt servants, the whipper in's

to either side, keeping the pack organised with the occasional well aimed flick of a long leather whip, and the huntsman following close

behind, chastising stragglers with a sharp word, the hounds attention fixed on his voice, obvious love in their soft eyes. Adam smiled as

they passed, the huntsman nodding his thanks. Adam now played the role of supporter and countryman, and leaning out of the window called up

to the pale faced rider, “Any luck this morning boss?”


The huntsman shook his head and spat, “Not a bloody thing,” he lamented, “We drew a complete blank in Corbett’s Covert, now the Master has

decided to try over on Ted Johnsons land.”


“Oh well,” Adam replied supportively, how very predictable. “You can't win every time, I hope your luck changes.”


The huntsman nodded before rebuking an errant hound that had obviously scented a rabbit and decided to start its own hunt.


Adam buried his feelings of satisfaction as the hunt followers came into view, the field of riders held back at a respectable distance by

the Master. I have to agree with Miss Anna Pin Cushion when it comes to this arrogant bastard, he thought as he tugged his forelock, the

universal acknowledgement that one had met their better, and received no more greeting than a look of distaste and disdain from the mounted

leader. Now there is a fine example of everything that is wrong with a feudal system, that prick still hasn't realised that Master of

Foxhounds means sod all in the twenty first century. Staring into the rear view mirror he allowed his smile to surface. “No luck for you on

Ted's land,” he laughed, “I screwed that up for you well before dawn.” and shifting back into gear he set off to collect his troops.


“The rural terrorist strikes again,” he almost sung the words. “And if trespass makes me a criminal, well, I can live with that.” The main

reasoning behind the balaclava. He had been close to capture once or twice before. Terrier men had spotted him on one occasion, they had

been out early blocking fox holes, an effort to deny the quarry any escape. Adam had been out undoing their industry. He had grown

complacent and stumbled upon them before they had completed their task. He could look back and laugh at the event, but at the time he

couldn't be sure who had been the more surprised. He had found two wizened old men stuffing a hole with chicken wire. They had turned to

face what must have looked like a hardened bank robber or fanatical suicide bomber. A second of stunned silence descended before a shotgun

began to level unsteadily in his general direction. “We don't want no trouble here.” an elderly voice quavered. Adam hadn't needed a second

warning, and with an uncomfortable loosening sensation spreading to his bowels he had turned and fled. But the mask had protected his

identity, not that prosecution for trespass worried him, but to be revealed as a saboteur, that would seriously curtail his activities.

Hunters maintained a close knit and insular world, news of his unmasking would be disastrous, relegating him to passive protest. He prided

himself on action, to rob him of that would be the end of his world.


And he felt his world beginning to crumble as the Labour government pushed through a blanket Hunting Ban four years later.


Adam had won.


Yet he knew inside that he had actually lost everything.


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Best Selling Books This Year By Andy Lang

Finding Justine

Finding Justine

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Finding Justine

Best Selling Books This Year By Andy Lang

Finding Justine

Finding Justine

Finding Justine

Finding Justine

Finding Justine


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