Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
“Come on!” I say to no one, taking a left and then an immediate right, coming to a stop at a zebra crossing when the road floods with schoolchildren, marching across the concrete like ants, all laughing, holding hands in pairs. Their little backs are covered with high-visibility waistcoats, making them unmissable to everyone around them. What age are they? Four, maybe? Charlotte’s age.
She’s mine. That little girl is mine. Shirking that sense of knowing was easy. Running away from my miseries was easy. Telling myself she wasn’t mine was easier than taking care of her. I didn’t even know her. She didn’t know me. I couldn’t be a dad. Didn’t know how to be. Abbie could take care of her, bring her up and nurture her into a fine young lady without my toxic blackness affecting her life. That was best for her. For everyone.
My eyes follow the children across the road until they’re disappearing down the park path, their teachers spread down the line evenly, keeping them safe. Making sure no one can take them.
Beep!
I jump in my seat, being brought back to my fading existence by a car honking impatiently behind me. “Fuck,” I mutter, grasping my bearings before pulling off, having to round a parked car and put myself on the wrong side of the road.
It’s then I see it.
A van.
A white van.
I just catch the back of it as it disappears around a corner, maybe three hundred yards up ahead. My heart shoots up to top speed and my foot slams the pedal to the floor. I fly up the high street at a dangerous speed, keeping one eye on the pedestrians, any of which could step into the road, and my other eye trained on the turn the van just took.
“Come on.” I will my Range Rover to go faster and take the turn, wincing when the tires screech with the strain I’m putting them under.
Don’t draw attention to yourself. Keep a safe distance.
Scott’s been watching Cami. He’ll know my car. He’ll know me. I follow a few cars behind, hyper-alert. A roundabout appears on the horizon, and though the road splits into two lanes, I keep myself where I am, concealed behind the line of cars behind him. When the van pulls onto the roundabout, I get my opportunity. I reach for my glove compartment and grab my binoculars, zooming in on the plate’s numbers. The rush of air that deflates my lungs could fog the screen.
It’s him.
I dial Lucinda, never taking my eyes off the van, seeing it take the third exit onto the City Road. “I have him,” I say when she answers. “Have there been any e-mails? Ransom requests?”
“Nothing. I’m watching,” she informs me. “Jake, be careful.”
I nod and hang up, unable to ease her concerns. Then I take the wheel with both hands and center my attention forward. It’s the longest journey of my life.
He makes two stops on the way. One at a service station, picking up some water and a crummy sandwich, and then a few miles down the road at an industrial park, where he picks up a scrawny, scruffy man with long greasy hair and a hooked chin.
“Take me to my girl,” I whisper, edging out slowly and following them. Countless turns, stops, and too many skips of my heart later, they rumble up a deserted road toward an abandoned ruin of a factory.
I pull over to the side of the broken-up lane, positioning my car amid some sad-looking evergreens, its branches dead and woody but still perfectly dense. I run the rest of the way, half-bent, keeping myself low, seeing the van circle around the back of the unit. I reach the crumbling masonry of the building’s face and take a few moments to gather some air, keeping my breathing steady as I pull my phone free and turn it to silent, not leaving anything to chance. Then I replace it in my pocket and fill my hand with my Heckler, pulling back the slide.
To this point, I’ve had to rein myself in, hold myself back when all I wanted to do was ram Scott off the road and torture him for her whereabouts. Telling myself not to jump the gun, that she might not even be here, has been a fight like no other I’ve had. I walk in calm, measured steps, treading carefully, keeping my shoulder close to the flaking brickwork of the derelict factory building. My ears are hyper-sensitive. I hear the closing of the van doors, I hear one of the scumbags laugh, and I hear the scuff of their boots on the ground.
The echo of metal hitting metal invades the air, and I round the corner carefully, spotting a huge iron door. I reach up to my brow and wipe away the beads of sweat, blinking rapidly to keep my vision straight and focused.