Her radiant smile told him all he needed to know.
“Want me to plan a route from Nice and book a hotel?”
“Nah,” he said, dropping his shoulders and releasing the tension that had been tightening his neck muscles. “There’ll be plenty of empty hotel rooms on offer. Let’s play it by ear. Make this an adventure.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” she said.
Lara threw her arms above her head and yawned long and hard. Strange how she managed to make a languid stretch sound so bloody inviting and look so damned sexy.
God, she was beautiful.
Ten minutes later, during another overtake, Kaine’s mobile rang out the intermittent dots and dashes that spelled out the Morse code for SOS.
No!
Someone had hit the “call to action” button on the Trust’s website.
“Damn it,” he said. “Why now?”
“Maybe it’s just another request for financial help,” she said, no doubt forcing the hope into her words.
The familiar twin-pronged attack of dread and excitement thumped through his system. A call to action meant work.
One of The 83 might be in danger.
“Maybe, you’re right,” he said, not believing it for a second.
He fished into his trouser pocket for his phone and handed it across.
As Lara read the message, a frown formed. The longer she read, the deeper the frown grew.
“Who’s it from?”
“Melanie Archer. She’s in trouble. Begging for our help.”
Melanie Archer? Why was that name so familiar? He raked through his memory banks. The newspaper headlines flooded back.
That Melanie Archer.
“Hell. Better change our flights.”
Lara nodded. “Already on it.”
So much for a leisurely drive along France’s Mediterranean coast.
The END.
We hope you enjoyed this story. If you’d like to join the Friends of Ryan Kaine, be the first to hear about future books in the series, enter exclusive contests, and have a chance to receive Advance Reader Copies of future novels, click here.
And, for a sneak preview of the next exciting Ryan Kaine adventure, read on.
Ryan Kaine: On the Wing
by
Kerry J Donovan
Chapter 1
Tuesday 11th April – Melanie Archer
HMP Falston Manor, Derbyshire, UK
White tiles, wet and harsh, raced up to smack her in the face. Another blow, this one a kick. Heavy shoes, the toecaps cracked bone. Her bones.
It hurt. Added to the pain.
Nothing but agony.
Head, eyes, jaw, ribs, stomach. Everything hurt. The ribs hurt more on the left side. Why?
Someone groaned. Close by, high-pitched and feeble. Melanie Archer felt it inside her head. Another groan, this one louder.
Her cries.
Her moans.
What happened?
She tried to open both eyes, but only the left lid reacted, letting in the searing agony of too bright a light. Too bright, too much to suffer. She squeezed her lid closed and the ache lessened.
Sunny? Was it sunny?
The sun gave off little heat. Her skin was cold. Sweaty cold. Clammy. Somewhere close by, water splashed. Dripped. The sound echoed off hard, reflective surfaces.
The shower block. Another kick, this one barely felt.
Darkness closed in. Restful darkness. Peace.
Relax, Mel. Let it end now.
Shouts. Raised voices. Female voices, but sharp and guttural.
An alarm bell rang, way off in the distance. Too far away to be of use. No safety there. No rescue.
Melanie lay on her side, curled into a foetal ball. That much, she could tell. The unforgiving surface she lay on—stiff, cold, gritty—it smelled of urine, caustic bleach, and … age.
Another blow, another to her head.
Blackness rushed up to swallow her and end the pain.
End it.
Thank you, God.
Thank …
#
Quiet peacefulness.
Softness.
Murmured voices in the distance, talking over the subdued, tinny music expelled from a radio. Mel didn’t recognise the song, but it was peaceful, relaxing. She smiled, or tried to. Her lips were swollen and split. Pain, the stinging pain of lemon juice on a cut shocked her awake.
Mel lay on her back, the rough grit of tile and grout beneath her had been exchanged for the firm, intermittent lumpiness of an old and well-worn mattress. The smell had changed, too. From urine and corrosive bleach, to lemons and something else. Starched sheets tucked in around her.
She tried to lift her head, but it was heavy, far too heavy, as though a concrete block pressed against her forehead.
Mouth dry.
She moved her tongue, trying to generate some spit, some moisture. The tip of her tongue found a hole. A gap where her upper front tooth used to be. No pain though. An old injury. The missing tooth, replaced by an implant. A perfect match for the original. Ceramic, colourised to hide the abuse. Hide it from a world that didn’t care to look or help.
In the gap, sharp metal—the implant’s thread protruding from her gum—cut the tip of her tongue. It bled. The blood seeped into her mouth, tasted of old copper pennies and iron. She swallowed. Gagged. Swallowed again. Coughed.
Pain flamed though her side. The jagged edge of a rib bit deep. She yelped. Warm wetness dripped down her chin.
The distant conversation stopped. Footsteps approached. Heels clicked on a hard tile floor. Metal rattled. Keys on a chain.
“Try not to move.”
“What?”
“You have three broken ribs and a suspected concussion,” the woman said. Her voice was cool and unemotional, but carried the rasp of a long-term smoker. Her breath stank of cigarettes. “Try not to move. Wouldn’t want those ribs to pierce a lung.”
“Where … Where am …”
“The infirmary.”
“Where?”
Hesitation. “You don’t know where you are? Can you tell me your name?”
“Sorry? What?”
“You took a serious blow to the head. What’s your name?”
Mel swallowed, blood mixed with saliva.
“Mel … Melanie Archer.”
“Good. Do you know where you are, in general terms?”
She tried to nod but, again, her head refused to move. Pain knifed behind her eyes, running between the temples, pulsing. Her neck seemed pinned in place, as though held in a vice. Something restricted her movement, stopped her from dipping her chin. A neck brace. She’d worn a few in her time.
“Falston,” she answered, “Falston Manor?” Her voice sounded as dry and cracked as the other woman’s, but Mel had never smoked a cigarette in her life.
“Yes, that’s right. Memory’s unimpaired. Good,” the woman said, but didn’t seem particularly relieved. “Means we won’t need to send you for a scan. Paperwork for a transfer on medical grounds is a nightmare.”
Mel tried opening her eyes again, but her lids wouldn’t move. The right was being held in place by something soft but unforgiving—bandages. The lids of her left eye were stuck, gummed together.
“I-I can’t see.” Despite herself, Mel’s voice rose in pitch and volume.
“Calm down. Far as I can tell, there’s nothing wrong with your vision. Heavy contusions and a deep laceration to the right side of your face needed bandages. I’ll clear the left in a second. Hold tight.”
Footsteps clicked again, these ones moved away.
In the near silence that followed, broken only by the ticking of a clock, the seconds stretched into minutes. Mel tried to stay calm, keep her breathing shallow and slow. Panic wouldn’t help. The decades of abuse had taught her that.
Think.
Plan.
Stay calm and subservient on the outside, cool and determined on the inside. The only way to survive.
&nb
sp; How much damage to her body? What could she move?
Head? No, the brace and bandages handled that.
Hands and arms? She could make a fist with her left hand, but when she tried moving the fingers of her right hand, a fireball of pain exploded. Broken. Probably at the wrist. Again, not for the first time.
Hips, knees, and ankles? All moved normally, and without discomfort.
Now for the important part, the one kept for last, the chest and stomach.
Mel moved slowly, testing each area gently.
Broken ribs were a given. She already knew, and the bones would heal. Doctors didn’t bandage broken ribs anymore. Not worth it. Pain would restrict movement well enough, and the patient needed to breathe. But what about her stomach?
Mel held her breath and tensed her abdominal wall. Sore, bruised, but not seriously. She’d suffered worse, much worse. The damage was superficial. Damage to the belly didn’t matter. No chance of her being made pregnant again. He’d seen to that seventeen, no, eighteen years ago.
Oh God. Little Bella.
Gone, and without having had a chance at any sort of a life.
If she lived, Bella would be doing her A levels this year. She’d would have been smart, like her mother, but more worldly wise. Better prepared. Mel would have seen to that. She’d have had none of the naïvety of her teenage mother, and absolutely none of her father’s cunning evil, his vileness.
Tears formed behind gummy eyes.
She would have protected Little Bella from his anger. Mel would have done anything to save her daughter from the …
So many years of guilt and suffering had led to … where? Her Majesty’s Prison, Falston Manor, Derbyshire. Was it any more than she deserved?
If she’d been a man, her status would be Category A, but for women, the Ministry of Justice called it Restricted Status. They considered her a “high risk to society”, and held her in what they called “closed conditions”.
Closed conditions.
Cells. Solitary. Strip searches.
Inmates.
A prison by any other name.
Why? What had she done?
Nothing. She was innocent. Although, the world didn’t see it that way.
Returning footsteps broke into Mel’s thoughts.
“By the way,” the woman with the gritty voice said, “I’m Dr Milliner, the Chief Medical Officer here. You might remember me from your orientation.”
Orientation?
Ritual humiliation, more like.
Blurred, fractured memories crawled through her head. A ride in a prison van with blacked out windows. Sitting handcuffed on a bench seat, safety belt around her lap. Two more hapless, pale-faced prisoners on the bench to her left. One, fat and brassy with bleached hair and a ring through her nose, kept leering at her, licking her lips and blowing kisses. The other, skinny and terrified. Hair cut in an angular bob and no more than a teenager, she cried throughout the journey.
Officially, remand patients were allowed to wear their own clothes, but the guards deemed Mel’s were too expensive, too eye-catching. They stripped her, gave her a faded green tracksuit three sizes too big, T-shirts, and plain underwear.
The so-called medical exam was cursory and performed by a wizen-faced, fifty-something woman with short grey hair, horn-rimmed glasses, pale brown eyes, and a sneer. Presumably, the owner of the raspy voice and the harsh bedside manner, Dr Milliner.
For the exam, Milliner asked a few general health questions, ticked the answers on a form attached to a clipboard, and made Mel sign it. No stethoscope, no blood pressure test, nothing “hands-on”.
Medical over, the real horror began.
How long ago was that? Two weeks? Three?
The days blurred, merged into one long, indeterminant routine, interspersed with threats and intimidation, leading to … here.
Metal scraped onto a hard surface close to Mel’s head. Plastic rustled and crumpled. A bag popped open. The lid of a plastic bottle clicked, its seal broken. Liquid poured into a container.
“This will feel cold,” Milliner said, her voice close, her breath still stinking. “Nothing but distilled water to clean your eye. Keep it closed for a sec.”
Cool liquid from a cotton wool swab soaked her lids. Water ran down the side of her face and pooled in her ear. The doctor’s touch was more gentle than expected. A dry swab dabbed the excess water and two firm swipes later, Milliner pulled away from the bed, taking the smell of stale cigarettes with her.
“Okay, try now.”
Mel opened her eye, closed it against the harsh white light, and took a shallow breath. She opened the lids again, and waited for the blurry image to sharpen. It took two more scrunched up blinks to partially clear the fuzzy pictures.
The hatchet-faced Dr Milliner pressed a firm hand to Mel’s bandaged forehead and held up a brown-stained index finger.
“Follow my finger.”
The blurry digit moved. Left and right, up and down. Mel followed it as best she could without moving her head. The migraine flared when she looked up and to the left. She winced but said nothing.
Dr Milliner pulled away.
“You’ll have a headache for a while. If it gets any worse I might be able to subscribe some ibuprofen. Paperwork to do. I’ll be back to check on you shortly, maybe remove that neck brace. Meanwhile, try to get some rest.”
The doctor spun on her low-heeled shoe and marched away, her footsteps clicking on the tiled floor once again, and the keychain attached to her belt jangling. She paused at one of two doors in the three-bed ward, selected a key from the chain, turned the lock, and left.
Mel sniffed.
“Paperwork? Yes. Fag break, more like,” she mumbled.
The clock ticked on and the room fell silent.
For the first time since entering Falston Manor, Melanie Archer felt safe. But how long would it last?
To read on, click here.
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Biography
#1 Amazon bestselling author with the US-based Lucky Shores thriller series and the Ryan Kaine action thrillers, and creator of the popular DCI Jones Casebook series of crime novels, Kerry J Donovan was born in Dublin.
A citizen of the world, he currently lives in a stone cottage in the heart of rural Brittany, which he took five years to renovate with his own gnarled and calloused hands. The cottage is a pet-free zone (apart from the field mice, moles, and a family of red squirrels).
He has three children and four grandchildren, all of whom live in England. An absentee granddad, Kerry is hugely thankful for the modern miracle of video calling.
As a mature student, Kerry earned a first-class honours degree in Human Biology and a PhD in Sport and Exercise Sciences. A former scientific advisor to The Office of the Deputy Prime Minister, he helped UK emergency first-responders prepare for chemical and biological attacks in the wake of the 9/11 atrocities. This background adds a keen scientific edge to his writing. In a previous life, Kerry was a furniture designer/maker, and he holds swimming and triathlon coaching qualifications.
As the owner of a pristine Honda NC750X, you’ll often find him touring the less well-known regions of Europe in search of interesting locations for his novels.
A life-long sports enthusiast and open-water swimmer, the moment Kerry catches a glimpse of the ocean, it’s off with the bike leathers and on with his trunks and goggles.
Kerry’s life experiences help him add an extra layer of realism to his stories and his characters. For example, you’ll find the water-borne adventures of his action hero, Ryan Kaine, a former member of the Royal Navy’s Special Boat Services, as authentic and exciting as a night-time dip in the Bay of Biscay.
Contact him:
Website: http://kerryjdonovan.com/
Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/KerryJDonovan
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KerryJDonovan
OTHER WORKS
ACTION THRILLERS
Ryan Kaine: On the Run
Ryan Kaine: On the Rocks
Ryan Kaine: On the Defensive
Ryan Kaine: On the Attack
Ryan Kaine: On the Money
Ryan Kaine: On the Edge
Ryan Kaine: On the Wing (due for publication March 2020)
Ryan Kaine: Box Set 1 (Books 1-3)
Ryan Kaine: The Assessment – First book in the Ryan Kaine’s Origins Series
CRIME THRILLERS
The DCI Jones Casebook: Sean Freeman
The DCI Jones Casebook: Albert Pope
The DCI Jones Casebook: Raymond Collins
The DCI Jones Casebook: Ellis Flynn
The DCI Jones Casebook: Cryer’s View
The DCI Jones Casebook: Melanie Archer (to be published 2020)
The DCI Jones Casebook: Box Set 1
ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
Finding Home: A Lucky Shores Novel
FANTASY THRILLER
The Transition of Johnny Swift
SHORT STORIES
The Collection
On the Edge Page 7
