the shouts and then the gunfire from just a few feet away instilled an
almost primeval terror. It rendered her incapable of thought or movement,
unable even to draw a breath.
Someone had been shot. In the midst of the chaos Angela felt a
sickening impact, close enough to shake the ground beneath her.
The gunfire left her ears ringing, but as the sound of the blasts
echoed and died she was at last able to suck some air into her lungs.
The relief was so great that she opened her eyes, but she couldn’t see
a thing. She shut them again, feeling the sting of tears from the dust
and smoke. Someone’s head was brushing against hers: a tickle of hair
on her forehead.
And Joe was beside her. Thank God. Angela realised now that he
had saved her, pulling her below the path of the bullets before she
fully appreciated the danger.
With that came a far more profound realisation. For all her earlier
vows to the contrary, she found that she was desperate to survive. The
yearning was like a hopeless thirst, a dry hollow ache in her throat.
She wanted to live.
On the ground, Liam could hear the ragged breathing of the person
lying next to him. Someone else was moaning, and one of the female
prisoners was sobbing quietly. Above that noise, the men who’d burst
in were still shouting orders. He heard their feet pounding on the
concrete, coming closer, and waited for the bullet that would end it all.
But no bullet came. Instead rough hands grabbed his arms. There
was a clatter as his gun was snatched from his hand. Dazed and frightened,
he didn’t resist as they pulled him to his feet. The utility belt
dropped from his waist as if it had been cut, but he couldn’t tell. Even
inches away, his assailants were completely invisible.
His hands were wrenched behind his back, and then a deeper darkness
suddenly enveloped him. He heard muffled cries and guessed
that others were being subjected to the same process.
Were they being separated: the guilty from the innocent?
Until that moment he’d harboured the erroneous belief— not quite
a hope – that the authorities had caught up with them. Now, as he
contemplated what might lie in store, Liam found himself fervently
wishing that he’d been right.
Lying completely still, Angela concentrated on ignoring the flurry of
movement around her. The panic had abated enough for her to think
more clearly, and now her memory dredged up news footage from
the 1980s: the Iranian Embassy siege in London, which had ended
after a dramatic intervention by the SAS, in full view of the world’s
media.
Was this the same? Were the good guys coming to the rescue?
Her arms, trapped awkwardly beneath her, began to tingle as the
blood drained from them. She shifted a little, not daring to turn over.
When no one stopped her, she rose an inch or two from the ground
and flexed various muscles in turn, urging her circulation back to life.
As the seconds passed, her hearing returned to normal and she
judged that a measure of calm was descending. The men who’d taken
charge continued to bark their orders, but the volume had dropped.
There were other sounds: dragging and scraping, and the secretive
rustle of fabric. Cries and moans, questions or protests quickly muted.
Angela opened her eyes. There remained nothing to see, but she
had a sense of the pressure easing, a falling-away that led, quite inexplicably,
to a moment of silence.
Maybe this is a dream, she thought. A terrible dream.
The bang that followed was so loud that it nearly stopped her heart.
She collapsed back on the floor, convinced she’d been shot. While
she lay in a clammy panic, mentally probing her body for a wound,
the lights came back on.
She gasped, pressing her face against the floor. But she was
unharmed. The noise had been the inner door closing.
Tentatively, squinting as her eyes adjusted to the glare, Angela raised
her head again, bracing herself for all manner of carnage. Around
her, the other prisoners were doing the same: taking stock of the situation,
even while it sank in that they were still alive.
Not rescued, but still alive.
What she discovered made her gasp. There was only one fatality
evident, and it was the meek, nervous guard by the wall: Eldon.
He lay in a pool of blood, his body shot to pieces. The box file
he’d been searching was overturned at his side.
The brutish guard, Turner, was injured. He’d been placed in a
sitting position by the wall, his arms behind his back, presumably
bound with the same tape that secured his ankles. A wound on his
thigh was bleeding heavily. There was a man attending to him, wrapping
a bandage around his leg. The man was dressed in black combat
gear, with body armour and a helmet. There was no insignia that she
could see.
Priya was tied up alongside Turner. Both had their masks removed.
Both had been gagged with a strip of tape. They looked scared and
baffled by their abrupt reversal of fortune, and Angela thought they
had every reason to be.
She shivered. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.
But the greater shock was the number of people missing: spirited
out of the garage in a display of horrifying efficiency.
Liam, the gang’s leader, had been removed, as had Valentin Nasenko
and Oliver Felton.
And worst of all, Joe was gone. They had taken Joe.
Forty-Six
It was a short journey, memorable for all the wrong reasons. Joe was
bundled out of the house, his hands still tied behind his back. There
was a hood over his face, with a drawstring tight around his neck. The
hood’s material was thick and rough and impregnated with some sort
of chemical that made his head spin. He kept his breathing shallow
and slow. Determined not to vomit.
Blind and disorientated, he was forced to walk at a rapid pace.
His captors directed him with jabs from their rifles, but they said
nothing. If he tripped or faltered he earned a punch in the kidneys.
This was all part of the plan: they wanted him terrified, confused,
vulnerable.
But Joe felt oddly impassive. They could have killed him already,
back in the garage, but they hadn’t. Therefore they must have something
else in mind, something that entailed keeping him alive for at
least a while longer.
And that meant he still had a chance.
Out on the road, Joe didn’t hear any engines. He wasn’t surprised.
He had a feeling they wouldn’t be going far.
Sure enough, they walked a short distance, then turned right again.
Another driveway underfoot. Joe tried to savour the image of a world
beyond the choking claustrophobia of the hood. Balmy night air and
a sky thick with stars. The gentle slap of the sea against the deck’s
wooden pilings.
They led him indoors and ascended a flight of stairs. Someone
behind him slipped and cried out. Joe recognised the voice, and another
of his suspicions was confirmed.
T
hey hurried along a passageway, then came to a halt. Shuffling
and jostling, they were filed through a doorway and thrown to the
floor. Joe immediately tried to sit up, but was clubbed on the side of
the head.
Then the real beating began. A barrage of kicks that forced him to
draw his knees up to his chest and tuck his head down. The blows
were fierce, but not lethal. His assailants left his head alone, aiming
instead for the muscles and soft tissues of his legs and torso. Like
tenderising meat.
The same treatment was being doled out to at least two other
people. Joe could hear them gasping and groaning. Like him, they
were wriggling and rolling on the floor, trying to evade their attackers,
and sometimes they collided. But none of them spoke up. None of
them begged for mercy. The plea to desist came from another source
altogether, somewhere across the room.
'Can’t you make them stop?’ Oliver Felton cried.
'Just softening them up for interrogation,’ another voice replied.
'It’s sadistic.’
'They’re only getting what they deserve.’
You’re just as bad as they are.’
'Be quiet, boy.’
Oliver sounded distraught. At least go easy on Joe. He wasn’t part
of this.’
A laugh, cruel and contemptuous. 'Oh, I know exactly what Joe’s
part was. Crawling over my island like vermin. I’ve got special plans
for him.’
There was another muttered objection, which was silenced with a
snarl.
'If you’d gone to bloody Oxford the way you were supposed to . . .
You defied me by staying here without my knowledge. Now you can
live with the consequences.’
Nothing more was said, but Oliver’s intervention seemed to have
had some effect. The assault dwindled to a few lacklustre kicks, then
Joe felt hands moving at his neck, loosening the drawstring. The
hood was wrenched off, and Joe found himself staring at Robert
Felton.
They had been brought to a vast bedroom suite, decorated in a
minimalist style. Acres of pale carpet, subdued lighting with a blueish
tint, light wood panelling along one wall. There was a large open
safe set into the panelling. It was empty.
Robert Felton was sitting on the bed, which occupied a circular
platform in the centre of the room. His legs were crossed and one
arm was draped across his knee, a glass of champagne in his hand.
The picture of relaxation.
Joe was lying on the floor between the bed and a sitting area with
a couple of white leather sofas. Oliver Felton was on one of the sofas,
about ten feet away. His hood and restraints had been removed, but
he looked as helpless a captive as the others.
As Joe had guessed, two more men lay on the floor beside him.
Both remained hooded, but he could see that one was Liam and the
other – the one who’d tripped on the stairs – was Valentin.
Their three assailants were almost identical in size and demeanour:
wiry, compact men with watchful expressions. They wore black
uniforms with body-armour vests and combat assault helmets with
microphones and earpieces attached. Night-vision goggles hung from
their necks, and they carried Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine guns
with muzzle-flash suppressors.
Had to be ex-special forces, Joe thought. Well-trained, well
equipped and deadly calm. They made Liam’s men look like a bunch
of amateurs.
Not Liam’s men, he corrected himself.
Valentin’s.
At Felton’s command, one of the guards moved towards Liam and
began loosening his hood. That was when Joe saw there was another
person in the room with them.
Yuri. He was leaning back against the door, staring at Joe with
undisguised malice. Joe held his gaze for a moment, then turned away.
Liam’s hood was removed, along with his ski mask, and Joe saw that
he was indeed the driver of the Transit who had passed him this afternoon.
The
last to be uncovered was Valentin. He noticed Liam first, and
then, with a shudder so subtle that possibly only Joe detected it, he
forced himself to face Robert Felton.
For his part, Felton drew out the tension for a while longer. He
stood up, nodding gently to himself. He was as tall as Oliver, well
over six feet, but much broader. Not quite plump, but certainly well
fed: prosperity oozed from every pore. He was dressed in a navy blue
suit and a white shirt. He had the kind of thick brown hair that a
middle-aged man would take great pride in: immaculately styled, and
not a trace of grey. Full, slightly feminine lips, Hollywood teeth and
tan, and big blue eyes that sparkled with delight at the misfortune of
others.
He raised his glass in a mock toast. 'To a productive evening . . .’
He took a sip. 'I hear you found my little note?’
The question was directed at Valentin, who didn’t respond. It was
left to Liam to supply a grudging nod.
“I’m disappointed in you, Valentin. Greed, I can understand. I know
you’re on your uppers, and this must have seemed like the perfect
solution. But blowing Dreamscape to smithereens just because you
don’t care for my architecture? That’s plain vindictive.’
Oliver gaped at his father. 'What do you mean?’
'Hadn’t they told you? The sun-room is filled with propane cylinders.’
'We didn’t intend to ignite it with the prisoners inside,’ Liam said.
salt’
'It’s immaterial what they planned to do,’ Joe cut in. 'Call the police
and let them deal with this.’
'That won’t happen, Joe. And I suggest you keep your mouth shut.
You’ve caused me more than enough trouble already.’
'So they were your people in Brighton?’
Before Felton could respond, Liam said, You’d better do as he says.
He’s an undercover cop.’
Felton was momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered.
“I’m sure he was something of the sort. But judging by his exploits
today I doubt very much that he’s still a serving police officer.’
He looked to Joe, who knew at once that Felton would see through
any attempt to lie. Joe shook his head.
'Sorry, Liam,’ Felton said. 'I dare say it was worth a try, from your
point of view. But it changes nothing.’
Valentin seemed belatedly to pick up on Joe’s reference to Brighton,
remembering what he’d heard about the abduction attempt. But if he
was grateful to Joe for saving his family there was little sign of it.
He drew himself up, acquiring an imperious demeanour that sought
to convey to Felton that no one else in the room counted for anything.
Just the two alpha males, talking man to man.
'No police,’ Valentin said. 'This is business. We sit down together.
We make a deal.’
Felton looked amused, until his attention was drawn to Oliver. He
was rocking to and fro on the sofa, his fingers plucking rhythmically
at his knees as if plagued by insects.
'Oliver
! I think it’s best if you go to your room.’
After a second’s delay, Oliver’s movements ceased and his head
jerked up. 'I have every right to hear this.’
'No, you don’t. As Valentin says, we have business to discuss. Not
all of it will be pleasant, especially for someone with your “delicate”
constitution.’
Oliver ignored the taunt. You mean you don’t want any hostile
witnesses.’
With the manner of any long-suffering father, Felton motioned to
one of his troops. The man strode over to Oliver, who let out a strange
yelp: part laugh, part cry. He studied the sub-machine gun while
chewing thoughtfully on his lip.
'What will you do? Have them shoot me?’
His father didn’t crack a smile. 'There’s something you need to
know – and this applies to you all.’ Felton waved a languid hand
around the room. As far as the outside world is concerned, none of
this is happening. Unless I decide otherwise, these men aren’t here,
and nothing they do tonight will be attributed to them.’
And what about you?’ Oliver said as the guard pulled him to his
feet. Are you here?’
'Of course not. There’s no official record that I entered the country.’
Felton glanced at his watch. 'In fact, at this moment there are several
very reliable witnesses who will swear I’m partying the night away at
my favourite little bistro in Antibes.’
He looked at each of them as he spoke: Oliver, Joe, Liam, Valentin.
The message was unequivocal: I can do whatever I want.
At the door, Oliver looked back. 'He’s a cold-blooded killer,
remember that.’ His voice was quietly heartbroken, as if he was already
resigned to his fate. 'He murdered his own wife. My mother. He’ll
wipe out everyone on this island if he has to.’
Joe took careful note of Felton’s response. He gave a disappointed
sigh, but made no effort to deny his son’s accusation. Joe was well
aware of Felton’s reputation as a tough, uncompromising businessman,
but had never dreamt that his ruthlessness might extend to murder.
And yet the way their capture had been orchestrated gave Joe the
impression that nothing had been ruled out. Hitting the garage in
darkness, ensuring that the prisoners inside had no idea what was
happening, meant that Felton’s options were wide open. He could
commit mass murder, sneak back to France on whatever private
plane or yacht had brought him here, and no one would be any the