by Amelia Price
“You'll get through this if you remain calm,” he said again.
“I'm going crazy.”
“Calm, Amelia, calm.”
“As you command, I obey.” As she whispered this, she felt her shivers lessen. She focused on hearing him tell her to calm in the same smooth tone he always used. It might not be real, but if it worked it was good enough for her.
Less than ten minutes later she felt the noose loosen for the first time since it had been put on her.
“Thank you, Myron,” she whispered. “Even when you're not here it seems you're useful.”
Over the next hour she managed to remain calm and keep still. Her body still felt cold, and she knew she was going to have dreadful pins and needles when they finally let her move, but for now she was surviving.
After what felt like another hour passed by, Amelia found herself getting emotional again. When they'd said it wouldn't be long she'd really thought they were almost there.
Not long after she thought this, the car slowed and turned a corner sharply enough to slide her slightly along the boot carpet. Immediately, the noose tightened to an uncomfortable amount. She whimpered.
A couple of seconds later the car hit a pothole or bump and jolted her. Again, the rope tightened. This time she didn't dare whimper. When it happened for the third time the rope started to dig painfully into her throat.
She tried not to panic and to breathe as best she could but the rope was too tight. For the next couple of minutes she gasped for air, but the car continued on, oblivious to her plight. Spots of dark brown and black were just beginning to spatter into her vision when the car pulled to a halt.
Knowing she needed help, Amelia tried to call out, but only a half strangled gurgle came out. She tried a second time, but it only made things worse.
Thankfully, the Russians either noticed she was in trouble or had decided enough was enough. Just as she was losing focus on the world around her, they opened the lid and reached in to untie her and get her on her feet.
“About time. Those potholes and bumps almost killed me,” she croaked as soon as she could breathe, acting far braver than she felt.
“It is your own fault, but we're here now. Our boss would like a little chat.”
“Wonderful. Can we do it the British way over a nice cup of tea?” She tried to look like she didn't care either way but was sure she didn't manage it. Either way, he yanked her up out of the boot and tried to get her to stand.
In front of her was a concrete structure that looked like a bunker from one of the world wars. The building had been patched, modified and turned into something a bit like a submarine, but half on land. It didn't look pretty. She gulped and someone laughed.
“Now we will show you our Russian hospitality.” Again, there was laughter, and Amelia had a feeling she wasn't going to enjoy whatever followed.
They grabbed the tops of her arms and half dragged her, half marched her towards the entrance of the building. As they got closer, she saw a young Russian smoking a cigarette come to attention. He looked cold but pulled open the cast iron door for them and nodded respectfully.
Seconds later she was inside, and she realised it didn't look much better. Water was leaking in through cracks and corroding the metal that had been added later. It even took two slams of the door behind her for it to shut in the warped metal frame.
The inside of the building was a little warmer than the outside, but it was still cold, and she was soon shivering while she looked around and tried to learn as much as possible.
The furnishings were sparse. A plain wooden table in one room with several wooden chairs. No comfortable seating of any kind. A clock sat on a small side table. It said it was almost three in the morning but Amelia wasn't sure if she believed it.
She was taken through one more room that looked like a giant cloak room with several large coats hanging on the walls. Most of those had seen better days, as well. Then they dragged her out into a corridor and walked her right to the far end. Once there, they opened another door to a flight of stairs that evidently led down into the ground. This one really didn't shut properly behind them.
As they plunged down, she noticed all the walls were damp and the air temperature dropped a few degrees. If she was lucky it wouldn't get any colder.
They opened yet another metal door, the first that looked like it might be kept in some kind of working order, and Amelia soon saw why. On the other side was what had once been an old shower room. With the addition of chains screwed into one wall and a single stool, it had become a prison.
She struggled as they pulled her towards the chains, but with three of them holding onto her there was little she could do. Even Tom's lessons couldn't give her enough strength to break out of their collective grasp.
Once she was chained up, they let go of her and walked away. She slid to the floor, trying not to wrinkle her face up at the smell of old vomit, urine and sweat.
“I don't think much of your hospitality so far,” she yelled, as they all walked away. They laughed and ignored her, shutting her in and locking the door.
“Right, what can I do now? I'm in chains,” she said, deciding she might as well talk out loud while she tried to get through this. It made sense to her to pretend she was talking to Myron, even if he probably couldn't hear her. It had helped in the car, so it might help now.
“I've got nothing to pick the lock with and can't reach it anyway. There's a stool, but,” Amelia got up and walked as far as she could. “I can't reach that either. I could try and pull the chains out of the wall, I suppose.”
After getting a good grip on each chain she used her whole body weight to pull backwards. They didn't budge.
“Or maybe not.”
She sat down and looked around the room. There really wasn't anything else she could do.
“Right, with no obvious way out, for now, I can't do an awful lot. I'm shattered and can barely think. I know you'd probably power through this, Myron, but I'm going to try and get some sleep. Maybe after some sleep my mind will work better and I'll be able to come up with a plan.”
Not knowing what else to do, Amelia curled up to preserve as much body heat as possible and wrapped her coat around herself. She wouldn't give up, but she might need to let the Russians make the next move.
Despite the light on in the room and the cold hard floor she had to lay on, she drifted off quickly. It had been almost two whole days since she had first been taken and she'd only had the odd nap here and there since. Her brain knew what it needed and shut everything else down.
***
The sound of the door slamming open woke her. She lifted her head and looked at a pair of big shiny boots as they came stomping towards her. Whoever this was, his clothing was in a better state than anyone else’s had been in so far.
“Well, well. So you're what the boys brought me. Even like this, I can see what he likes about you,” the tall black-haired man said with a slight Russian accent.
“Uhh, hi. Is this your house? It's a bit cold if so. Would you mind awfully turning up the heating?” She smiled while she sat up, trying not to look intimidated.
“Perhaps. But that depends on you.”
Amelia took her cue from the imaginary Myron in her head and rolled her eyes.
“Tell me, this Myron Holmes, he must like you a lot, yes?
“Who?”
He shook his head.
“That won't work. I know you are acquainted with him. My boys took you from the hotel room he left you in, did they not?”
She didn't respond, but decided to try and study him.
“And it is not the first time you have been seen with him. Twice now my men captured you and him at the same time, and only four days ago you were in Scotland together.”
Amelia sighed and tried to pick up on something about the man in front of her but he'd left little information for her to gather. He looked like he'd lost weight recently. There was a new, home-made belt-hole on his belt, but othe
r than that the man was well-attired, well-groomed and wearing glasses. From his accent, she'd guess that he regularly used English.
Before she could pull backwards, he leant forward and grabbed her chin to try and hold her head still where he could see it. She reached up and grabbed his hand, bending it back to force him to let her go.
Instead of letting go of her, he just smacked her with the other hand as hard as he could. Her head flew sideways and took her whole body with it.
While she lay on the floor in a daze he yelled something in Russian. Immediately, two men came into the room. She tried to back up and get to her feet before they reached her but they were too fast and she was soon grabbed and the chains hooked together in such a way that her hands were stuck behind her back.
After waiting for them to leave and close the door, he strode over to her. There was now little she could do about it as he grabbed hold of her chin again and crouched in front of her.
“There, now, we've bruised your pretty face. I doubt Mr Holmes will be too pleased about that, but he should have taken better care of you, shouldn't he?” the man said when he looked over her face.
“You're assuming he gives a rat's arse about me.”
“I think we both know you're at least a lover of his.”
Amelia laughed at the irony of it and he finally let her go and wandered back towards the metal stool.
“Have you ever met Myron Holmes?”
“Unfortunately I've not had that pleasure, no, but my boss has. What of it?” He didn't look at her as he spoke. Instead, he inspected the stool for dirt, wiped it with his hand anyway and sat down where he could see her.
“He doesn't take lovers.”
“Well then, you must be even more important, but I think we've discussed your status enough. I want you to tell me about him. You evidently think you know him.”
“I don't think you understand. I know absolutely nothing about the man except the few things his brother has told me. I'm an author, a crime writer, and his younger brother and he were answering some research questions of mine.”
“Come now, do we really have to do this the hard way?”
“I thought we were doing this the hard way. The easy way would have been afternoon tea in a café somewhere.”
He laughed and called for his men to come back. Not long after, he moved the stool closer to her. Again, she was helpless as they dragged her towards the stool and stretched her torso face-up over it. One held her arms down while another held her legs.
When they stretched a thin white towel over her face, she knew what was going to come next; she'd seen too many movies to not know water was coming. The first few seconds were fine, until the liquid soaked the fabric through and she was helpless to stop it dribbling into her nose. She involuntarily snorted and coughed, her body then tried to inhale, only making it worse.
It went on for what felt like forever, until the cloth was pulled away and she could cough and splutter everything back up. They did this three times in a row before anyone even said anything to her. By then she was drenched, her throat was in agony and her lungs felt like they were on fire.
“Now, tell me what you know of Mr Holmes.”
“I don't know anything.” She closed her eyes, knowing what would follow and wondering if it would be easier if she weren't lying. Although she'd still not convinced herself of the truth of her discovery about Myron really being someone called Mycroft.
Even if she did tell them what she thought she might know, she knew there would be no reprieve. They wouldn't believe her. And besides, she'd never betray Myron like that. Even if she lived, she'd ruin everything she'd spent the last five months building up. Her only way out of this was to keep whatever she knew about Myron to herself and try to escape.
As the day wore on, Amelia knew that wasn't going to be easy.
Chapter 10
Snow swirled in the gusting wind as Mycroft sat inside the new car and waited. Daniels was finding them some decent food, while Sherlock did one of the few things he did best, disguise himself and sneak into the required country.
As soon as they'd decided to stay Mycroft had phoned around the few agents in the area who might help despite the lack of approval from the top. One had felt obligated to him enough to at least provide them with his car and drive Mycroft's back towards the UK with a couple of friends. Mycroft had promised to reimburse them for the effort.
Before his younger brother had left, the pair of them had marked out on a map the few places Amelia could be held, given how far into Russia they'd travelled, the few pieces of information she fed them and what Mycroft and Sherlock already knew about the area.
So far, Mycroft had ruled out one possible location himself with a few questions put to an old agent. Sherlock needed to narrow it down the rest of the way.
Amelia had fallen asleep again, something probably wise given everything that was likely to happen over the next few days. Somehow, she would have to endure at least one day of whatever the Russians had in store for her, and he knew it wouldn't be much longer until the day arrived. The horizon in the east was lightening, and there was work to be done.
As the first few sun rays came up across the sky, turning everything a gentle orange, Daniels returned, a loaf of bread tucked under one arm and a paper bag under the other. He wasn't wearing his usual suit but had borrowed some of the scruffier clothes Mycroft sometimes used as a disguise.
“There doesn't seem to be much here,” Daniels said as he got back into the car. “But I found a couple of barns we could hole up in until we get Amelia back. And there's a good place to put the car behind one of them as well.”
“Good, we'll go there now. I'm sure my brother can find us when he returns.” Mycroft didn't want to be out in the daylight any longer than necessary. It was important that it looked like he was returning to England.
It took them almost no time at all to drive the car down the little country lanes that led to the disused barn, but getting this new car hidden behind it was another matter. Although it was as bullet proof as his own, it was designed to look more like a sports car and appear unobviously changed. As a result its suspension was far lower.
One side of the stone barn's roof had crumbled slightly and it covered the ground in half-concealed boulders. It took one of them driving and the other pushing the car over particularly awkward patches, or moving rocks out the way to get the car behind the barn.
With the snow coming down, Mycroft quickly worked out that the easiest way to hide the car from sight on the final side was simply to cover it in a tarpaulin and let the snow blend it into the surroundings. Thankfully, they had one in the boot. In his line of business you never knew when you wanted to hide something.
It wasn't quite large enough to stretch the full length of the car, but a bush grew near the other end, and in a few hours that would all be part of the snow, as well. Although it was cold, and would make it harder to get Amelia out, the snow at least had one or two advantages.
With that job done, Mycroft had a look inside the barn. Apart from the small section of roof that had crumbled, the inside was still dry and snow free.
For now they could use it as a dwelling. He didn't plan to be there more than a day or two at most, and neither he nor Sherlock could die of the cold. Of that, they were both well aware.
Mycroft was just thinking that his brother really ought to have been back, when Sherlock sauntered around a hedge and came into the barn.
As soon as they saw each other the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a grin. He was wearing the uniform of a Ukrainian Air Force officer.
“I have a feeling we've got everything we need right at our fingertips.”
“Did you find where they're holding her?” Daniels asked, but Mycroft knew the answer from one glance at his younger brother.
Sherlock fidgeted a little.
“I narrowed it down to one of three places, and they're all near to each other. We should be able to put together a pl
an and figure out which one along the way if we need to. There's a chance we'll get the information we need from Amelia anyway.”
Mycroft nodded. Even if he wanted to be angry at Sherlock, there was nothing that could be done now. They would have to work with what they had.
Before they could start doing anything else, the sound of a metal door closing came through the speaker on Mycroft's phone. He'd pulled up the feed from Amelia's bug on his phone while the laptops were kept in the car.
Not long afterwards they were trying not to listen to the sounds of Amelia being tortured, but one phrase was going to stick with Mycroft for some time. The Russian was right. He should have taken better care of her. They'd evidently been planning to take her for some time and he'd not noticed.
“We'll have her back in less than twenty-four hours,” Sherlock said. “And I can listen to the feed if it bothers you.”
“Why would it bother me?” Mycroft asked a little too hastily. As he said it he unclenched his fists and relaxed his jaw. His younger brother gave him a look to know he wasn't fooled but, thankfully, he didn't pursue it any further.
Over the next three hours, Sherlock told him everything he'd found, from the Ukrainian base just this side of the border to all the places to incarcerate Amelia he'd ruled out. It was a lot of information, but it sounded like they had or could acquire most of what they needed.
To see if he could identify the person interrogating her, Mycroft sent a snippet of the recording to his secretary and any of the agents he'd ever sent on Russian missions. It was a small enough task that it was unlikely to be prevented. One of them might recognise the voice or be able to match the recording to an old one somewhere. Whoever he was, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had ever met him.
“I'm going to need to come with you,” Mycroft said.
“I assumed you planned to all along.”
“I was considering it. But it's not ideal.”
“Take the helicopter,” Sherlock said, pointing to where he'd found it, in the Ukrainian base.
“I know how to fly one,” Daniels said, piping up for the first time in several hours. Immediately, Mycroft frowned; he had no intention of taking his chauffeur into any more danger with him if he didn't need to.
