Sweet Hostage

by Leslie Jones

  Floyd didn’t answer, which was answer enough for her.

  “You motherfucker!”

  Several of the anarchists laughed. Trevor glared death at the man.

  Nathan, covering the rest of the hostages with his semiautomatic rifle, barked impatiently. “The longer we wait, the more likely the coppers are to find a way in. Let’s move.”

  “Enough of this bullshit. Is the door locked?” Eric asked.

  Floyd nodded.

  “Give me the key.”

  Floyd made to slip a key from the ring he carried, but Eric snatched the entire thing from him. “Which one?”

  Floyd pointed to an all-­black key. “The deal was I go free once I showed you.”

  Crawley swaggered over to the curator, getting nose to nose with him. “That’s right, you arsehole.”

  Floyd’s face registered shock, then slackened. Slowly, he slid to the floor, clutching his gut, blooding spilling over his fingers. Shelby screamed, echoed by several other hostages. She’d never even seen the knife come out of the sheath.

  She ran to him, throwing herself to her knees and pressing her hands over the wound. Glaring up at Crawley, she said, “You didn’t have to stab him.”

  Crawley ran his tongue up the side of his knife. Floyd’s blood dripped onto his lips. He licked them clean and gave the peculiar cackle she’d come to hate in the past hour. “He’s free, right? I gave him what he wanted.”

  Trevor came to crouch on the other side of the body. He checked Floyd’s eyes by lifting his lids and pressed his fingers to the carotid artery. “He’s still alive. We need to call the London Ambulance Ser­vice.”

  “Why?” Crawley shrugged. “He’ll be dead soon enough.”

  Eric looked down at Trevor, rifle balanced against one shoulder. His face was pale, and he seemed to be having trouble swallowing. “Have the years thinned your blood, Trev?”

  Trevor stood abruptly, pinning the other man with a stone-­cold look that would have most men shitting their pants. Eric stepped back, a defensive look on his face.

  “There’s a difference between casualties of war when we were with the IRA, and this.” His hand swept out, encompassing all of them. “This was completely unnecessary. Cold-­blooded, just for the sheer pleasure of it. That’s not who we are. We’re anarchists, not killers.”

  Eric rubbed a shaking hand across his hair. “Crawley, keep that knife sheathed. Got me?”

  Crawley’s grin lacked even the smallest hint of regret. “Sure, boss. Whatever you say.”

  Shelby stood, hands shaking so badly she pressed them together to stop. “He needs a doctor.”

  Eric ignored her, gesturing to the rest of his crew. “Get everyone together. Into the tunnels we go.”

  “Are you joking? Leave them here,” Trevor said.

  Eric got a stubborn look on his face. “Until we’re clear, they go where we go. Now, move out.”

  He opened the access door and peered inside. “No lights.” Glancing from side to side, he found and flipped a lever. Small yellow emergency lights winked on, giving faint illumination.

  Eric grabbed Shelby’s upper arm, pushing her into the tunnel first. Trevor placed himself beside her. Nathan and Fay shouted and threatened, and soon the small access tunnel was crowded with sweating bodies. The scent of fear hung heavy in the small space. They moved slowly down the hall, past pipes and spigots and God knew what else. Visibility was poor.

  Shelby had a bad feeling about what would happen when they reached the end. If Crawley had stabbed Floyd with so little provocation, what would happen when the hostages were no longer needed? Would they all be gunned down? She didn’t dare look at Trevor. Did he have a plan?

  Placing a hand on the bare cement, she used it to help her maneuver in the dim light. She got too close to the wall, though, and her knee collided with something solid. The pain was excruciating. Crying out, she stopped, hands going to her knee.

  Jukes pushed her from behind. “Keep walking,” he said, trying to sound tough. But he wasn’t as hardened as the others, and it came out as more of a plea.

  She twisted her head to look at him. “I can’t. My knee.”

  He hesitated.

  “I’ll watch her,” Trevor said. “Bugger off.”

  Jukes sneered, but moved on.

  Shelby leaned against the wall, tears welling in her eyes as she waited for the pain to subside. It seemed to take forever. Trevor squatted on his haunches, hands circling her knee as he felt carefully. The other hostages and Bedlamites passed them one by one, until Fay pulled even with them.

  “What’s the problem?” she snarled. “Bitch don’t wanna get her pretty dress dirty?”

  “She cracked her knee pretty hard. I don’t think she can walk.”

  Fay swung the muzzle of her assault rifle toward Shelby, bringing it up to her shoulder. “Then she stays here. With a bullet in her brain.”

  Shelby straightened. The pain levels were slowly coming down. “No,” she said hastily. “I can walk.”

  She never saw Trevor move. One minute he crouched beside her. In the next, he had wrenched the rifle from Fay and clocked her in the temple with it. Fay stumbled, banged into the wall, and slumped to the concrete.

  Shelby gaped at the prone figure. Shaking, she bent and pressed two fingers to the tattooed woman’s neck. “She’s alive.”

  Trevor grunted. “Turn around and leg it back the way we came.”

  Shelby rose, eyes widening as fear coursed through her. “I can’t leave the others.”

  Trevor bit off a curse. “You can’t help them. Neither can I, any more. Run!”

  He gave her a hard push back the way they’d come. Still she hesitated. “What about you?” she whispered.

  His gaze softened. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  Chapter Seven

  AFTER ANOTHER AGONIZING moment, she nodded, turned, and sprinted back the way they’d come. After a few seconds, Trevor shouted.

  “She’s making a run for it. I’ll go get her.”

  Crawley pushed and shoved his way through the mass of bodies until he reached Trevor and Fay, lying on the ground.

  “What the fuck happened?”

  “She found a rock,” Trevor said. “Pretended to hurt her knee.”

  Crawley started back down the access tunnel. “She won’t get far. I’ll drag her back by her fucking cunt hair.”

  Trevor put a hand out, effectively stopping the other man. “No one goes but me.”

  Crawley let out a raucous laugh. “Thinking with your John Thomas again, Willoughby? Just make sure you catch back up. Hate to leave you behind for the coppers to snatch.”

  Without replying, Trevor turned and sprinted after Shelby. They reached the packing room at the same time.

  “Now what?” she gasped. She knelt next to Floyd, who rolled his head to look at her.

  “I don’t want to die,” he said.

  Trevor ran to the rolling door. “It’s padlocked.”

  “Wait!” Shelby called. “They’re out there. The police. Jukes said they were at the back door. What if . . . what if they shoot you?”

  Trevor gave her a grim look, but hesitated. “I’ll surrender.”

  Shelby gazed up at him, wide-­eyed. “That will blow your cover, won’t it. Your mission will be a bust.”

  Trevor sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll figure something out.”

  “No.” Shelby couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Use me as a hostage.”

  A surprised laugh burst from Trevor. “No.”

  “Then . . . then . . . isn’t there another way out of here?”

  Trevor looked down at her. “Don’t you know?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I’ve never been down here.”

  “I saw another door, just as we went into the ac
cess corridor,” Trevor said.

  “Where do you suppose it goes? Floyd, do you know?”

  “Get me out of here.”

  “Floyd,” she said. “Unless we find a way out of here, we can’t get a paramedic in here to save you. So do you know where that door leads, or not?”

  “Old . . . steam tunnels, I think. Don’t . . . leave me here to die.”

  She patted his shoulder. “Sooner I get out, sooner you get medical help. Just hold on, all right?”

  He shivered, going into shock.

  Trevor pulled a small leather packet out of his back pocket, and went to work on the lock, which gave way only grudgingly. It took some muscle to get the door to swing open. It creaked loudly.

  “We need to move. Fay’ll be awake and telling them I knocked her out.”

  “Oh, no! I didn’t think of that. Won’t that compromise your mission, too?”

  “Let’s worry about one problem at a time.” He felt around inside until he found a switch and flipped it. Eerie blue lights flickered on. “Let’s go.”

  Floyd groaned behind them, but Trevor spared only one look at him before pushing Shelby into the dimness. He pulled the door shut after them and turned the lock. “That’ll hold them for a while.” He moved swiftly down this new tunnel, ducking his head to keep from banging it against the ceiling, eyeing the pipes all around them. “Steam pipes. That’s how they used to warm buildings, back before central air. There’s going to be some sort of an exit.”

  They moved as fast as they could, given the poor lighting. Dust and cobwebs hung in the air, which was thin and musty smelling. In about a hundred yards, the tunnel curved around to the right. A few more yards down, and they both saw it at the same time.

  “Manhole,” Shelby whispered.

  Trevor reached up to the wheel, pulling hard to get the old mechanism to work. At last, it clicked, and he tugged it open.

  “No fresh air,” he said, disappointed. “I wonder where this goes, then.”

  He gripped the edges of the hole and lifted himself up, then reached down a hand for Shelby. She gripped his palm tightly, and he lifted her through. He couldn’t help a spark of pride flickering somewhere deep inside him. She was calm, strong, and capable.

  He would protect her, whatever the cost.

  Pulling a small penlight from his back pocket, he used it to chase back some of the shadows around them. This tunnel was even smaller than the last, and both ended up crouching as they made their way through. Unlike the others, this access path was littered with rubble. Rocks, chunks of wood, old pipe fittings. Footing was treacherous, and he kept a hand on Shelby’s elbow to help guide her.

  He stopped several times to let them rest. “You’re doing great,” he said.

  Shelby rubbed her knee. “So what are you really doing with that group of lunatics?”

  “An apt name,” he said. “They call themselves the Philosophy of Bedlam. They consider themselves to be a force for change to bring down a corrupt and ineffectual government.”

  “So, what? Their goal is to create chaos? Just that? No ideology, no philosophical mandates?”

  “That sums it up neatly. They purport to believe that undermining the foundation of our civilized exterior will allow our true chaotic selves to emerge. That if all humans were permitted to do exactly what they wanted to, with no societal restrictions, humanity would bloom into something greater than the sum of its parts.”

  Shelby sucked in a breath. “But that’s insane. There’d be anarchy.”

  Trevor dipped his head. “Quite so.”

  She massaged her knee again. It had begun to swell, but there was nothing he could do about it right now.

  “And your mission was to . . . disband them?” she guessed.

  “Not exactly. My mission was to discover the names of the members of the Bedlamites, but to find the brains behind the movement as well. Eric Koller is the cell leader, though truth be told I have nothing to support the idea that there’s more than one cell. Eric is the one with the scar, which he got in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. He’s smart, but the entire anarchist movement is being pushed from above him. I need to find out who and why.” He held out a hand, which she took. “We need to keep moving.”

  She followed him as he moved. “What did you find out? And what happened upstairs? Why were you in the museum in the first place?”

  Trevor sighed. “It’s too long a story to get into now. For the moment, our priority has to be getting you somewhere safe. I’ll check in with my superiors, and we’ll reassess at that time.”

  “Do you have a cell phone?”

  “A burner phone for this mission. Not a single bar, I’m afraid. We’re too far below ground and the walls are too thick.”

  The tunnel curved again. This time, as they turned the corner, they saw a ladder bolted to the wall on their right. Trevor inspected it, and the cover above them. They heard faint sounds of water dripping. Trevor tested the ladder, then put his weight on it.

  “Sturdy enough.” He pushed against the barrier, which lifted with difficulty, and poked his head through. “Another tunnel. This one’s a bit taller. We won’t be crouching, at least.”

  Shelby followed him up the ladder, and he closed the cover behind them. Water dripped down the walls and pooled on the floor. At least, he hoped it was only water they were walking through. The smell suggested otherwise.

  The light seemed brighter here as well, but that could just be because they’d gotten used to the dimness. As they walked, the gloom around them lightened. They reached another built-­in ladder. This one ended in a manhole cover. Light and shadow chased across it.

  “We’re under a street,” he said. He checked his phone. “Two bars.”

  “Call—­”

  “I am.” Trevor dialed nine-­nine-­nine. “A man’s been stabbed inside the August Museum and needs immediate medical aid. He’s in the basement packing room.”

  She heard the voice on the other end start to say something, but Trevor disconnected and pocketed the phone.

  “Let me go first and see where we are,” he said.

  He had to put some muscle into it to lift the heavy cover, shoving it back just far enough to risk a quick peek. Shelby radiated anxiety below him.

  “The main traffic is just west of us,” he reported. “I’ll tell you when to go. When you’re out, turn right immediately and go into the alley.”

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Or . . . or we could just stay here.”

  He understood. The tunnels gave a false sense of security. Soon they would have to face the reality that would come when they crawled out of their dark hole.

  He, at least, was a wanted fugitive. At best, the authorities would assume she was his hostage. At worst, they would brand her a terrorist, too.

  Trevor pushed the cover halfway open and climbed out. He immediately turned and offered her a hand. She climbed out next to him and took it, letting him steady her for the last few steps. He squeezed her hand reassuringly.

  “Go.”

  ONLY AS THE daylight hit them did Shelby notice that he still had the semiautomatic rifle slung over his shoulder, muzzle down.

  “Get rid of it,” she hissed.

  “Agreed.” He lowered it into the manhole and slung the strap over the edge of the ladder. Kneeling, he pushed at the cover, which barely moved. He shoved and strained until it covered most of the hole. “Damned thing must weight two hundred pounds. Staying here is riskier than leaving this thing ajar. We could be seen at any moment.”

  He took purposeful steps toward the alley, grabbing her hand and pulling them halfway down its fifty-­foot length before slowing and looking around. It was narrow, dank, and putrid with the stench of human waste. One man, dog on his chest, sat inside a cardboard box. The dog woofed halfheartedly. Several other bodies lay wrapped in blankets
or sleeping bags against the wall. The hopelessness and despair of these men and women—­one with a child—­was palpable.

  Shelby instinctively reached for her purse, only to stop, momentarily confused as her hand encountered nothing but air. Trevor slid his wallet free and placed a few bills in the mother’s hand.

  “Your ID,” Shelby said. “What if you’d been searched?”

  Trevor smiled briefly. “They’d’ve found a driving license for Trevor Willoughby and a ­couple hundred quid. I’ve done this before.”

  Her face reddened. “Of course. Sorry.”

  They kept pushing through. About two-­thirds of the way down, a figure, then two more, materialized from a doorway. In their late teens to early twenties, also homeless by the look of their clothes and the unpleasant aroma of body odor, these three were predators, pure and simple. Shelby made no protest when Trevor pushed her behind him.

  “I don’t know you.” The one in the middle, dead-­eyed and whip thin, spoke first. “I don’t like strangers in my alleyway.”

  “We’re just passing through, lads,” Trevor said, holding his hands open and away from his body. “We don’t want trouble.”

  “Too bad, mate. This place belongs to us. You can’t be going through our home spot without paying the toll.”

  Trevor glanced over his shoulder. Shelby half turned, and sure enough a fourth young man was taking the money from the woman’s hand. A fifth held a metal pipe.

  “You have two choices, mate,” the skinny one said. “There’s five of us and two of you. Hand over your cash, and we’re done. Or we take it, and you and your pretty bird here get hurt.”

  Trevor stiffened. “You only have one choice, mate. Leave now, and I’ll let you live.”

  The other two men laughed, but the leader’s eyes grew deadly. He drew a butterfly knife from his front pants pocket and flipped it open. To Shelby’s untrained eyes, he seemed alarmingly comfortable with the weapon.

  Don’t panic. She swiveled her head, trying to watch all of them at the same time.

  “Stay behind me.” Trevor didn’t stop walking. Shelby obeyed, heart racing. Why wasn’t he backing away? Shouldn’t they try to run?