Free Wildfire by Chris Ryan

town.
    Victoria Shilton stood in the circle of emerald-green grass. Her eyes were on only one thing: the little dimpled ball in front of her feet, just metres away from the seventeenth hole. On the fairways, the grass of the golf course was parched to the colour of straw,but around the holes it had been watered to keep the surface perfect.
    A gust of wind tugged at Victoria’s hat, sending the brim flopping down over one eye. The wind had been getting more and more erratic since they’d set off from the clubhouse after lunch, but they were nearly at the end of the course and Victoria was determined to finish. She had noticed a scent of smoke and heard the distant wail of sirens, but she was a dedicated sports-woman and had learned to let nothing distract her. She pushed the hat back off her brow to concentrate better, and the wind snatched it right off her head.
    She didn’t see where it went; she would get it in a minute. Right now, she was in the zone, a state of perfect concentration. Just a gentle tap and the ball should roll into the hole. Victoria breathed in, ready to play the stroke.
    A voice suddenly ruined her concentration. ‘Strewth!’ It was her opponent, a Thai restaurateur who she knew only by the name Troy. Victoria whirled round, ready to give him some choice words for spoiling her shot.
    Troy was pointing at the rough – the woodlandaround the seventeenth hole. Flames were crackling through the trees, sending smoke rolling towards them.
    Victoria was so startled she dropped her club. ‘Oh my God.’
    They stood, stunned, as they watched the orange flames licking through the wood, catching anything they touched and sending it luminous with flame. In no more than thirty seconds the entire wood was on fire, all the way back down the edge of the fairway. The wind was whipping it up into an inferno.
    Troy slid his iron back into his trolley. ‘We’d better get the groundsman.’ He turned and set off down the green.
    Victoria grabbed her trolley and hurried after him.
    Then something very strange happened. The wind snatched up some burning branches, carried them over Victoria’s head and dashed them against the trees on the other side of the fairway, several metres away.
    Like a spark jumping a gap, the fire was leaping through the crowns of the trees.
    On both sides of them, the woods were on fire.
    Victoria and Troy forgot about their trolleys. They ran for their lives.
    * * *
    The golf course backed onto the racecourse. So far, two races had been run since the wind started to pick up, but things were getting worse.
    The wind was upsetting the horses, filling their sensitive ears with strange noises. They could hear everything that was going on in the adjoining streets – dustbins falling over, gates banging and trees creaking. To these highly strung creatures it sounded like a riot was coming their way.
    Another race was due to start but the jockeys couldn’t get their mounts into the starting gates. The wind was making them rattle. To the horses it sounded like the metal bars would collapse on top of them. It was too much for their taut nerves.
    When the jockeys tried to whip the horses in, they wheeled round and reared. The jockeys pulled them up, turned them back and urged them towards the gates again. The horses rebelled and tried to gallop away. Now they were all spinning in circles, dust kicking up from their hooves, looking at the gates with terrified eyes.
    The stand was next to the starting gates, filled, evenon a weekday, with a couple of hundred people. Most of them were racing professionals – trainers, owners, potential buyers, newspaper reporters and bookies. All of them watched anxiously as the young thoroughbreds spun round and round. Those graceful legs were so easily injured – and that might write off an expensive horse. But these seasoned racegoers had seen plenty of equine tantrums before. If the horses got into the starting gates they could run the adrenaline out of their