by Jack Probyn
‘Hey!’ Candice screamed after him. ‘Where are you going? Help me!’
The man fumbled for the handle, stopped, babbled incoherently and, within a few seconds, opened the door and sprinted out of the house. As the door swung closed, it left a large-enough gap for Candice to watch the man reach the end of the gravelled driveway and disappear up the road.
Just like that, he was gone.
Stunned that she’d been left in this situation alone, left to die, Candice searched the floor for the note. She grabbed it, and, using her arms to balance herself, struggled to her feet. The blood rushed to her head, and she swayed from side to side, teetering on the edge of collapse.
A few seconds later, she regained steadiness and controlled her breathing once more. With the taste of acid burning her mouth and throat, she read the letter. It was folded in four and had been handwritten, but the writing looked as though it had been stencilled over a printed version of the document. It was too neat and immaculate to be someone’s own handwriting.
TIME TO PLAY A LITTLE GAME. YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN AS THE STAR CONTESTANT. YOU HAVE NO OTHER CHOICE BUT TO COMPLY. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL RESULT IN DEATH. YOU HAVE A SPIKED COLLAR EXPLOSIVE STRAPPED AROUND YOUR NECK. INSIDE THE COLLAR ARE TEN SPIKES THAT, WHEN DETONATED, WILL KILL YOU. TO UNLOCK THE DEVICE, YOU NEED TO FIND FOUR KEYS. YOU HAVE AN ALLOTTED TIME OF JUST OVER SIX HOURS TO FIND THE KEYS AND SAVE WHAT’S LEFT OF YOUR LIFE.
HERE ARE THE RULES, BEFORE WE BEGIN.
THE DEVICE IS BOOBY-TRAPPED. SO IF YOU TRY TO REMOVE IT BY ANY MEANS OF FORCE, IT WILL DETONATE AND KILL YOU INSTANTLY. OR IF YOU TRY TO CUT ONE OF THE WIRES INSIDE THE DEVICE, YOU WILL MEET A SIMILAR FATE. DO NOT TAMPER WITH THE DEVICE. TO DISARM THE DEVICE, YOU MUST FIND THE KEYS.
THE KEYS MUST BE COLLECTED IN ORDER: 1, 2, 3, 4. THE FIRST KEY WILL LEAD YOU TO THE SECOND, THE SECOND WILL LEAD YOU TO THE THIRD AND THE THIRD WILL LEAD YOU TO THE LAST ONE. YOU CANNOT SKIP ANY OF THE ABOVE STEPS. YOU MAY SEEK HELP, BUT WHOEVER AGREES TO HELP YOU IS ALSO BOUND BY THESE RULES. THERE IS NO NEED TO CALL THE POLICE, AS THEY WILL FIND YOU SOON ENOUGH. ALTHOUGH, IF YOU DECIDE TO GO ALONE, THEN THEY MAY NEVER FIND YOU. YOUR LIFE IS IN BOTH YOUR HANDS AND THEIRS.
AND, SURREY’S FINEST, IF YOU’RE READING THIS NOW, GOOD LUCK. SHE’S GOING TO NEED IT.
I HOPE THESE INSTRUCTIONS HAVE BEEN CLEAR, AND I HOPE THAT YOU UNDERSTAND HOW SERIOUS WE ARE. IN LESS THAN SIX HOURS’ TIME, SHE IS GOING TO DIE.
THE GAME HAS BEGUN.
HERE’S YOUR FIRST CLUE.
THE FIRST KEY: WHERE CLOTHES ARE LEFT TO HANG AND DRY LIKE OLD FRIENDS.
Candice stopped reading. She had just over six hours to save herself. And in her current mental and physical state, she would never make it.
That thought made her nausea return. The world turned grey, and everything inside the house spun in a carousel of white and black. Her head felt light, and she vomited again, this time more violently.
As she wiped her mouth clean of stomach lining, a duvet of darkness descended over her, wrapping her gently around the body and pulling her into a void of sleep.
She was unconscious before her head hit the floor.
CHAPTER 12
RESCUE
Candice awoke drearily. For a moment she wondered where she was, but then as her surroundings gradually came into view, she realised. She was lying on the floor, her legs and arms sprawled in every direction. Her face had frozen to the solid marble that her husband had insisted on purchasing, and she groaned as she peeled her skin away. Her body felt weak. Her breathing. Her muscles. Her bones.
Her arms shook in an attempt to support her weight. And then she remembered why.
The spiked collar.
It was heavy, weighing her down, slowly beginning to suffocate her.
As soon as she realised what it was, panic set in again. The envelope of unconsciousness hadn’t afforded her an escape from reality. It hadn’t been a dream; it was indeed very, very real. In her head she heard the invisible sound of the countdown ticking down.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.
Seconds were passing her by rapidly, and she was doing nothing about it. She had no idea what time remained on the countdown. It could have been three hours. Two. One. Twenty minutes. Candice couldn’t afford to wait around for someone to come and save her. If she was going to get out of this situation, then she was going to need to get herself out of it. She had never been defeated by anything else thrown at her in life before, so why should she start now?
Candice looked around, her eyes taking in everything but focusing on nothing. She stared at the spot where the man had been – the same one who had left her in the middle of her house. The same one who had left her to die. Before she could unleash a torrent of abuse directed at him for abandoning her, the white letter on the floor flashed in her eyes.
The instructions.
Her instructions.
Candice reached over, grabbed the paper and inspected it. She needed to read it again – the panic had stripped the details from her mind – but her hands shook violently, and she struggled to decipher the dancing letters on the page. The document felt thin in her hands, as though the paper had been the cheapest they could buy. Like even the slightest movement would rip it in two and destroy any hope she held of finding the first key.
Eventually, she managed to hold it steady enough and read through what it said.
THE FIRST KEY: WHERE CLOTHES ARE LEFT TO HANG AND DRY LIKE OLD FRIENDS.
That was good. Very good, in fact. It was closer than she thought. She was sure she had seen one of her attackers disappearing off upstairs somewhere. Feeling a new lease of energy and adrenaline, Candice started up the stairs as fast as her legs would carry her. She held on to the banister for support, lest her knees buckle under the weight of the device and send her cascading down the steps.
At the top of the stairs, Candice tore into the master bedroom – the place where she’d spent every evening for four months mourning the loss of her husband. Every time she entered this room, it reminded her of him. The side of the bed that he used to sleep on. The family heirloom alarm clock that he’d owned for half a century and repaired more times than they’d had sex. The slippers that he’d placed on the floor, ready for him every morning after he’d swung his legs out of bed. She hadn’t had the heart, or the courage, to move any of it then, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now. Since his passing, Candice had slept in the only room that faced the driveway, which was also much smaller. Perhaps it was because she felt safer there, as if the close proximity of the walls could protect her. Or perhaps it was because she was frightened that, every time she went to sleep, there would be someone trying to break in. Not that she would admit it.
A king-sized four-poster bed rested in the centre of the master bedroom, with bedside tables either side of it. To her left, on the other side of a beige door that matched the painted walls, was her walk-in wardrobe.
Candice approached it rife with apprehension. More than three quarters of the stuff inside was her husband’s, and served as a constant reminder of their time together and the love they’d shared before he was taken from her too soon. Forcing thoughts and images of him from her mind, she began to tear at the clothes and shoes and jumpers and jackets and underwear inside the shelves and boxes and drawers. She overturned everything, searching each item of clothing first for the key before launching it to the ground. She poked her fingers into the nooks and crannies of the carpet and ran them over the skirting boards. After she’d overturned everything inside, she screamed. She’d found nothing.
Dejected, and becoming increasingly aware that time was running out on the invisible clock, she moved into the hallway to decide which room to inspect next. There were three more to choose from, including her own. In the end, she tried her room. It was the only logical location that had another wardrobe in use.
She stormed into the room, flung open the wardrobe doors and thoroughly searched inside. After dec
anting the contents onto the bed, she stopped. Panting. Her chest heaving. There was still no sign of the key.
‘Where the fuck are you?’ she yelled, gritting her teeth, small bits of spittle landing on the carpet. She sounded demonic, almost possessed. ‘This is ridiculous!’
Her heart raced, and she became more irate, more impatient with every passing second, and just as she was about to leave, the gravel in her driveway crunched. Candice clambered onto the dust-covered windowsill and stared ahead. In the distance, the gated entrance to the house had been left open. Four individuals – two dressed in police uniform, the other two in suits – stalked across the driveway, the sound of their feet moving on the gravel reaching her behind the window.
This was it! They were finally here! They had finally come to help her!
Candice charged downstairs, heedless of what effect it would have on the device; she was just glad to have someone there who could save her. She skipped down the steps and bounded to the door. Her foot slid on a small patch of vomit, and she bashed her shoulder into the door. It hurt – a lot – but now wasn’t the time to acknowledge the pain. She needed to let them in. All of them.
Candice fumbled for the handle, found it and then yanked the door. She breached into the open and stumbled over the front doorstep.
‘Please!’ she screamed, picking herself to her feet. ‘You have to help me! I’m going to die!’
CHAPTER 13
SITUATION
Candice Strachan’s Farnham mansion was a twenty-minute drive away, just over half that with the blue lights and a police escort leading the way. The mansion was situated in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rows of elm trees and swimming pools of green fields in the distance. The driveway to the mansion was shielded by a tall row of hedges. Entrance to the property was guarded by a metal gate. Lying open.
The police escort was first to arrive, parking outside the front gate, just a few feet shy of the row of Portuguese laurel hedges. Bridger pulled in behind them, leaving the stone driveway clear between them. The road was barely large enough for two-way traffic, and they hadn’t seen anyone coming against them on the way down, yet it was force of habit for Jake to check both ways when he disembarked the car. A dose of cool fresh air, heightened by the shade offered by the overhanging arms of the trees, graced his cheek and descended his throat.
Following Pemberton’s orders, Jake and Bridger had been sent to investigate the property and search for any signs of recent activity. And Jake wasn’t sure he was comfortable with the decision. There were better qualified people to be in attendance, yet he’d been chosen. Better, Bridger had chosen him.
‘Be a good little bit of experience for you,’ Bridger had said on the drive down. ‘I know you’ve got some history in this type of thing, so I thought it might be good to see what you’ve got.’
Experience was last on his mind. Instead he was focused on what lay round the corner, what they might find as soon as they set foot on the driveway. Nothing, he hoped selfishly.
The two uniformed police officers were first to make the step. The sound of crunching stones reminded Jake of Maisie, of breakfast time, the way her growing teeth chomped down on her cereal and her face illuminated as she experienced a new sensation.
Maisie. He missed her, worried about her, and the knot in his stomach returned as he briefly thought about her.
The front of the driveway was split in two by a shadow cast by the hedges. On one side, nearer to Jake, the stones had been tinged a shade of grey, and on the other, closer to the mansion, they glowed gold beneath the sun’s rays. Jake felt, as soon as he crossed the line and stepped into the sun, there was no going back.
Ahead of him, parked just outside the front of the house, was a black Ford Transit van. The front left wheel of the vehicle was tucked under the wheel arch from where it had been turned at the last minute, the back doors were open, and the passenger window rolled down. From his position, Jake could see the inside of the rear space. Empty.
But then everything changed.
A scream, the sound of a bird’s cry, pierced the still air. Jake gazed around him, searching for the source. He found it emerging from behind the Transit. Candice Strachan. Dressed in her uniform: a smart, light-grey pencil skirt, a blazer, a white shirt buttoned up to her chest. She was shoeless, and her blonde, slightly sun-kissed hair radiated warmth against the coldness of her face.
‘Help! You have to help me! Help!’ came the plea, but Jake paid her little attention. His eyes were too focused on the thick piece of metal wrapped around her neck that looked like a giant handcuff. Attached to the bottom was a small metallic box, resting atop her collarbone. At the bottom of the metal box, on the underside, was what looked like a countdown timer and four holes.
All four officers froze.
‘Please!’ Candice yelled from across the driveway. ‘They said it’s a spike b-bomb. They said it was going to k-kill me. But I don’t know when it’s going to g-go off.’
The words raced around Jake’s head. Spike. Bomb. Kill. Spike. Bomb. Kill. Until they became nothing but white noise. Soon, all other sounds around him were drowned out by the furious thumping of his heart against his ribcage, of his ballistic blood raging through his body. And then it started. It had been so long since the last one that he’d forced the memory to the back of his mind, but now it was coming back – and it was coming back with a vengeance.
Jake stumbled backward, vaguely aware that his mouth was opening, muttering something illegible. He retreated back to Bridger’s car and bent double over the bonnet. He didn’t dare close his eyes, because he knew what would happen if he did: his entire body would be transported back to that day – the day they began.
Hands planted firmly on the blistering bonnet, ignoring the pain, Jake panted heavily in a vain attempt to regulate his breathing. It was useless, as usual. A great pressure forced itself down on his head, crushing him, crippling him to the floor. A second later, he was sitting on the grass, legs propped against his chest, back resting against the grill and number plate. With every frantic breath, the pressure in his head spread to the rest of his body. The sensation of being trapped washed over him almost as quickly as the blanket of white across his vision. This time his eyes didn’t need to close for that to happen. He was really in the throes of it now. Surrounded by white, his skin turned to goose flesh and he was transported back to that day.
It had been sunny, just like it was now, except the temperature had been a few below and the altitude of several thousand feet meant it had little impact. There were five of them, absorbing themselves in the adrenaline of racing down the side of a mountain tucked deep into the heart of the Alps. One wrong carve in the snow had picked his board up and, within seconds, he was trapped, upside down, sentenced to death in a tomb of snow.
He felt a hand on his shoulder – strong, firm, yet slightly tender and gentle, like it was usually reserved for a woman or a lover. It roused Jake back to reality. As he opened his eyes, the white melted into blue and green and gold and the image of Bridger crouching in front of him appeared.
‘Jake,’ he said. ‘Are you OK? What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
Embarrassment jabbed at him from every angle, mocking him. Three years, three years since his last panic attack, and he thought he’d finally started to get control of them.
‘Nothing,’ he lied, climbing to his feet with Bridger’s assistance. ‘Just in a bit of… shock. That’s all.’
He was just grateful there was no firework display of vomit on the front of Bridger’s car or the driveway.
‘I think you need to sit.’
Jake brushed himself down, inhaled deeply, regained himself. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’ He peered behind Bridger and saw Candice and the uniformed officers in the driveway, left in the same positions they were in before it had happened. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s worse than we thought,’ Bridger replied, looking over his shoulder at her. ‘She says that thing around he
r neck contains metal spikes and, as soon as the detonator goes off, so will those spikes.’
‘In her neck?’
Bridger turned back to face Jake and nodded.
Jake blinked away another wall of white. ‘What happens now?’ He hoped he wasn’t the only one who was feeling well out of his depth.
Bridger reached into his pocket and waved his phone. ‘Time to make a call.’ He dialled a number and held the device to his ear. A few seconds later: ‘Pemberton, it’s me. I think you need to get down here – we’ve got a bit of a situation.’
CHAPTER 14
MUSIC
Candice Strachan’s Mercedes GLC was unable to tame the never-ending, winding country roads of the Surrey Hills. Luke’s grip tightened around the leather upholstery and he closed his eyes, willing the nausea in his gut to evaporate. Before leaving, they had stolen the keys from her, changed the number plates using a set they’d already prepared in the back of their van and hijacked the vehicle. For the next part of their operation they needed to be in something more inconspicuous, something that wasn’t wanted by the police. Right now, with all the technology and knowledge that the police had available to them, the GLC was rapidly becoming a very expensive beacon pointing towards them from every direction. For now, however, it would suffice.
In all of their previous heists, The Crimsons had had an elaborate getaway plan, something they’d spent weeks, months preparing meticulously. It had been drilled into them very early on, the importance of escape. It was all well and good being able to rob a bank or a jewellery store in the first place, but if you couldn’t get away with it, then what was the point? And so they arranged a series of stolen vehicles strategically parked on the sides of the road, acting as a long trail of breadcrumbs for the police to follow. Inevitably, the trail would become too long and confusing, and at the point when they thought it was clear, they would then trickle back into civilisation as decent serving members of the population.
