by Chris Ewan
Later, looking back, he couldn’t say exactly what drew him all the way in. There was no creeping sensation in his spine. No spectral whisper at his ear. But he did feel a strange compulsion to set down his suitcase and move towards the living room. He did experience some kind of physical pull.
He edged into the darkness ahead, one foot in front of the other, his spread fingers dragging along the wall, and when he entered the lounge, one thing snagged his attention right away.
A blinking green light. A gaudy beacon. It was shining on the electronic equipment wired up to the phone on the kitchen counter.
Viktor flicked on the ceiling light. He glanced back along the hallway towards his suitcase. He walked forwards. He reached out. Then he withdrew his finger.
He knew it was an intrusion. He had no right to be here. No justification for listening. But for some reason he couldn’t begin to explain, he had the sensation that the message was intended for him. Perhaps it was from Trent. Perhaps he was in trouble and he’d somehow guessed that Viktor might come here.
He reached out once again and this time he hit PLAY. A speaker hissed. It crackled. Then a rushed, muffled voice came through:
‘M. Trent, it’s been a long time. You must be very worried. We know you miss your fiancée very badly. We have her. She is safe. The baby she carries, too. You will pay us two million euros. There is a package outside in the square, beneath the bench beside the fountain. Take the package, M. Trent. Follow our instructions exactly. Pay us the money and your fiancée will be returned to you. You have forty-eight hours. Pay us, or you will never see your fiancée again.’
* * *
Trent marvelled at the blackly spreading liquid that surrounded him. His fingers were clasped tight to his ruined thigh. Release them and the blood would come in a gush. The pain would be intense. But he couldn’t just stay there. Wouldn’t allow things to end that way.
He freed his gummed hands and bit down against the scorching agony and hunched forwards to reach for his drenched sock. He gripped the handle of the kitchen knife in his slickened fist. Rolled onto his side and pushed up from the chair and launched himself across the room. His bad leg gave out, wouldn’t hold him at all, and he clattered into the glass door.
Girard turned, gun swinging.
But he turned too slow.
Trent leapt at him and thrust the knife into the side of his neck. He sawed hard. Feverishly. Kept sawing even as Girard croaked and whirled and shot at him, the lead drilling hot and hard, deep into Trent’s lung.
Girard tumbled, clutching at his unstitched throat, his gun abandoned in the spurting horror.
Trent slumped beside him, then teetered onto his side. He was still breathing, wetly, determinedly, long after Girard had moved for the last time.
He lay sprawled on the moon-silvered grass, leaking away into the hard dirt, gazing up at the place where he’d been so sure that Aimée had been lost to him.
Aimée.
His thoughts were with her now. Seeking her out from that cherished space deep inside his mind. His favourite image. Her fine auburn hair fanned on stark white sheets. Fists curled loosely on either side of her head. And her eyes. The hazy smudged brown. The glimmering light deep within.
The light that told him she was waiting, somewhere.
Waiting for him.
Acknowledgements
Prior to writing Dead Line, I read many books and articles concerning the kidnap and ransom industry, but in particular, I would like to acknowledge James March’s terrific memoir, The Negotiator, for its fascinating insights into the methodology and mentality of a professional hostage negotiator.
* * *
Huge thanks, as ever, to my agent, Vivien Green, and my editor, Katherine Armstrong.
To the dedicated and talented teams at Sheil Land Associates and Faber and Faber, including Gaia Banks, Lucy Fawcett, Rachel Dench, Hannah Griffiths, Angus Cargill, Alex Holroyd, Alex Kirby, Miles Poynton, Neal Price, Dave Woodhouse, John Grindrod and Eleanor Rees.
To covert operative Katrina Hands.
To Mum and Dad, for a key trip to Marseilles, and to my sister Allie, for all her support.
To Maisie, for long walks and fresh ideas.
To my daughter, Jessica, for her impeccable timing.
And to my darling wife, Jo, for everything that makes any of this possible.
Also by Chris Ewan
Safe House
The Good Thief’s Guide to Berlin
The Good Thief’s Guide to Venice
The Good Thief’s Guide to Vegas
The Good Thief’s Guide to Paris
The Good Thief’s Guide to Amsterdam
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DEAD LINE. Copyright © 2013 by Chris Ewan. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
First published in Great Britain by Faber and Faber Limited
First U.S. Edition: August 2014
eISBN 9781466847446
First eBook edition: June 2014
