by Georgia Rose
Looking back over at the doors that led to the tunnel, I couldn’t help but think for a moment about Cavendish’s ancestors and wonder if they could have had anything to do with the smuggling. Grace interrupted my thoughts.
“I had heard they were a colourful bunch.” She smiled over at me. Great minds think alike. I grinned back.
I stared up at the moonlit window as I muttered, “What should we do?”
I was out of answers, my brain not functioning as it should, and I wanted all the help I could get. I wanted the cavalry to put in an appearance; I wanted knights in shining armour to come crashing through the door.
“I think we should leave here. I think we should try to get to the house while we have the darkness on our side,” Grace whispered. “We can get across the garden in the shadows, creep through one of the rear doors, hide out somewhere until we can work out what’s gone on...” She tailed off.
I hated to dampen her enthusiasm but I thought we might be better off staying where we were. I thought we were well hidden, and by the morning we might be able to tell if it was safe to come out or not, and if it wasn’t we were less likely to be found here than in the house. I thought the fact that we couldn’t get hold of anyone spoke volumes. However, I could understand Grace’s desire to get back to her home. She probably couldn’t think of it in any way other than being her safe, comfortable home, not believing for a moment that anything bad could happen there.
Suddenly a thought clicked into place. I should have thought of it before, of course, but I could at least put it down to the stressful situation, exhaustion, fear, dehydration and the biscuit diet that was messing with my insides. I should call Sharpe. She was likely to be in the office, with a good phone signal, in charge of logistics and the hub of all things. She would know...
As I reached for my phone, Reuben grabbed my arm and shook it as he pointed to the front window, his finger jabbing the air to get my attention. “A shadow...” he whispered. Then we heard the bolt being tried on the door, the door moving ever so slightly at the pressure being put on it as the bolt, stiff with age, refused to budge easily as if putting up a last line of defence for us.
Someone had heard the noise we’d made escaping from the tunnel, and that someone had come to get us. I didn’t think for one moment this was the cavalry or a knight in shining armour. Their entrance would have been upfront, heroic and, I’d like to have thought, gilded with a touch of flamboyance.
This approach was stealthy, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Grace and I pushed the children behind us, Sophia whimpering in fear, as we faced the door. The bolt suddenly shot free and hit home. Then the handle started to turn, oh...so...slowly. Grace grabbed my arm and whispered, “What shall we do?” I shrugged, raising my hands, palms uppermost, to show her I was out of ideas. Giving ourselves up had to be the only option.
Chapter 8
The door creaked open but no one appeared. I feared the sound of my heart beating might drown out any words, so loudly was my blood pulsing through my ears. The silence stretched out, building the tension like the interminable wait when a winner’s name is about to be revealed in a competition, everyone straining for the result.
When it came, the voice was male, heavily accented, the words spoken softly, but with an edge to them that couldn’t be ignored. “Come out.”
No “with your hands in the air” or any extraneous words. It was as if he didn’t anticipate us coming at him brandishing weapons. Either that or he was very confident. From the sound of it he knew who he was dealing with, and although his voice was surprisingly gentle he made me believe he was a man who was not going to brook any nonsense. I gulped, suddenly finding it hard to swallow.
“Do not make me come in and get you.”
No second request, just a threat spoken in the same calm tone as if he expected obedience without the need to raise his voice.
I thought quickly. We had no choices left open. We needed to keep alive until the others could reach us. They would eventually pick up our messages and know where we were, though I could’ve kicked myself that I hadn’t thought about Sharpe until it was too late. I’d messed up again.
I nodded at Grace and we walked hesitantly towards the door. I went first, putting my hand out to push it open still further. As I stepped outside I felt a blade at my throat. I involuntarily stretched my chin up, and though a natural reaction it was a bad one as it bared by neck more openly to his knife. A hand whipped across my mouth, stifling any sound I might be tempted to make. He snatched my body to his, holding me tight against him. A rank sour smell of body odour wafted up at me. His or mine? I didn’t know. His skin was dry and rough on my face, with a burnt metallic tang laced with a background of grease. As he positioned me between him and the Manor I thought for one moment of those on duty on the roof, wondering if they were still there. He must have thought so to position me like this. My captor forced me forward, his knees banging into the back of mine, and I realised a second man had slipped out of the shadows and moved in behind us.
A harsh whisper close to my ear. “If you will stay silent I’ll remove my hand.”
I nodded quickly, glad to get rid of his filthy hand, my eyes searching for my first sight of him.
“Keep your head still.”
I did. His hand moved down on to my right shoulder, his arm across my chest holding me closer than ever, the other keeping the knife at my throat. I thought through my self-defence moves, working out which to use, then realised it was futile to try anything while the others could be at risk. Best to keep my powder dry.
I heard Grace give a small yelp behind me, then the door closed. The man who was holding me said, “Sophia and Reuben, you are to come with us. Do nothing to raise the alarm or we will hurt your mother – very badly.”
Silence. I imagined their frightened little faces staring back at him, nodding their capitulation. Interesting that he knew their names. It stood to reason he also already knew which one of us was Grace. He forced me back into the shadow of the wall as we made our way towards the Manor.
I hadn’t been in the vegetable garden before, but knew it was a little way behind the Manor near the kitchen door. I tried to get my bearings. Glancing up I scoured the roofline for any sign of life, finding none as we passed behind the Manor, and I knew we would soon come out into the courtyard. My back ached because of the angle I was being made to walk at, and I wondered about their plan. They couldn’t have known where we were. If they had known that we’d disappeared into the tunnel, either because they’d been the ones following us or because someone else had reported back, they wouldn’t have known any more than we did about where it was going to come out. So they must have come upon us purely by chance. No doubt the sound of the door falling had alerted them. They’d been lucky so far, but would that continue? Did they have a vehicle nearby for their escape? Were they the only ones left, or were there others that even now were coming to join them? I didn’t fancy our chances at getting away from the two of them, let alone any more. Although from the way we were moving, quietly and keeping to the shadows, it didn’t seem as if they were in control of the estate, which was a good sign.
Pausing at the courtyard entrance, I was turned and kept in the shadows as we made our way round until we stopped in front of a door. I’d never been through it, but knew we were at the Forsters’ cottage. The arm disappeared from around me as my captor pulled my hands behind my back, and I felt him wrap something round my wrists before they were tightly brought together by a narrow strip with sharp edges which bit into my skin immediately. It’d happened so quickly I was taken by surprise and inhaled sharply at the discomfort. I gathered Grace was getting the same treatment behind me because I heard the voice say, “Do not run or I will catch you, and you will regret it.” And he didn’t have to expand on how unpleasant that would be.
He moved in front of me and I saw him, the back of him, for the first time. A little taller than me, his hair dark and closely cropped,
shoulders broad under black well-fitted clothes. I could tell his body was like Trent’s: ready for combat. One blow with his shoulder and the door burst inwards. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging in, and I was hauled through it, the others following.
As I glanced back I saw the door pushed to by the other man, who dragged a small but heavy-looking chest across the hall, jamming it up against the door to keep it closed. The first man went through a doorway, and I followed him into a sitting room where he had drawn the curtains before putting on a side light. Worryingly, he didn’t seem concerned about drawing attention to the fact that someone was here, and we had all followed him into the room before he turned to face us.
If it is true that we get the face we deserve as we age then he had already been a very bad man. His features in themselves were fine, with well-structured high cheekbones, his eyes narrow and very dark, almost black. His aquiline nose added arrogance to his gaze as he stared at me. I would have considered him good-looking, but everything about this face spoke of cruelty. The coldness in his eyes made them appear dead, like a shark’s; his thin lips were twisted in a constant sneer, and as he turned his head in the light to look at Grace I saw the scar. It ran from high on his cheekbone down to the corner of his mouth where it puckered the skin, giving his lips that cruel twist.
I knew who this was, and a shiver of dread ran through me. This was Orlov, and I knew who he was because Trent had told us all at a briefing, and I knew about the scar because Trent was the one responsible for it, and Orlov did not look to me to be a forgiving sort.
He jerked his chin towards me, and asked, “Who are you?”
Grace swayed forward a little as she blurted out, “Sarah, her name is Sarah. She’s no one, she’s our groom. You could let her go.”
I appreciated her bravery, but I wasn’t going anywhere without the others. It seemed as if Orlov shared my view as he stared at me, unconvinced. Without replying, he indicated with his head for the other man to join him and they stood close, murmuring to each other in an unknown language, glancing over at us occasionally. I took the opportunity to check on the others. Like me, Grace had her hands bound behind her back with a cable tie, but I was pleased to see the children didn’t. Not completely heartless then, I thought.
The other man was ugly, there was no kinder way to put it. The way his jaw jutted out suggested an underbite. His nose, broken many times by the look of it, was knobbly and crooked, his piggy eyes too close together and his sticking-out ears were comically large. It was an unfortunate face, and I had no idea who he was. What was clear, however, was which of the two was in charge.
They’d finished talking and Orlov nodded at Ugly, who withdrew a handgun from under his arm, moved towards Grace and, with the merest inclination of his head, drew her and the children a little away from me. I could see the children’s scared little faces now and willed them to stay strong. I hoped, as much for me as for them, that they weren’t about to be subjected to some unpleasant viewing.
I lifted my chin as I met Orlov’s eyes, trying to hold back the look of defiance I wanted to throw at him. Keen to make myself feel strong while appearing meek was, I thought, the way to go. I hoped he would lose interest. As he moved closer I felt pinpricks of sweat break out on my skin at the menace that emanated from him. I forced myself to look down subserviently as he stopped in front of me.
“I don’t think your name is Sarah...is it?”
I assumed it to be a rhetorical question and remained silent as he continued, “Let’s find out who you are...shall we?” Reaching into my jacket he retrieved my phone, his hand brushing my breast quite deliberately. It made my skin crawl. Do not react, do not react, I repeated silently to myself, keeping my gaze downcast.
“Let’s see. Who shall we call? Ah, Trent I think.” His tongue rolled on the ‘r’ as he said the name. There was no change, no response from Trent’s phone at all. Orlov looked at me steadily as if he knew this already. “Oh dear,” he said, but it didn’t sound like he was sorry, not one little bit. Do not react, do not react, I repeated as I wondered if he was responsible for what had happened to Trent, but he was immediately calling another number, and on loudspeaker we could all hear the ringing tone. I prayed it would go to voicemail.
“Grayson” came the urgent, cultured tone of Cavendish, and I heard Grace’s relief in her exhaled breath and Sophia’s quiet sob. “Just picked up your message, and was about to call. Grayson? Are you there?”
“Yes, she is here, Cavendish...with me, in a charming little house at the Manor,” Orlov replied. “As are your wife and children. All perfectly safe...for the moment.”
I could hear the strain in Cavendish’s voice as he said, “I want to speak to my family.”
Orlov shrugged, then held the phone out towards the group. Sophia was sobbing too hard now to get any words out, but Reuben’s small voice said, “Daddy, come and get us.”
“It’s okay, Reuben, I’m coming. Look after your sister and Mum.” Cavendish made his voice sound strong and comforting. “Grace?”
“I’m here, Henry, we’re fine...really,” Grace said shakily.
“Do not hurt them.” His words carried their own threat.
“That will depend on you,” Orlov said. ‘Are you alone?”
“No.”
“Put him on.”
“Orlov.” It was Trent’s voice. Relief flooded through me; bubbles of joy burst deep within. Do not react, do not react, but I could feel renewed determination and resolve rising up in me on hearing his voice. I’d not let them get away with this. I’d not let them kidnap Grace and the children, if that was their plan.
“Who is Grayson, Trent?”
“She’s the groom, of no consequence, you might as well let her go,” Trent replied, sounding dismissive and, I thought, naively optimistic. Bizarrely, given the trying circumstances we were in, I felt slightly hurt at being of “no consequence”.
Orlov’s arm lashed out. His knife-blade sliced through my clothes and into the flesh of my upper arm. My scream of pain brought a hiss of fury from Trent which told Orlov all he needed to know. Ignoring Trent’s further shouts he moved closer and slowly ran the point of his blade along my jaw line as he spoke softly, intimately, to me.
“So, you are Trent’s woman. Now that is very...appealing.”
I glared back at him silently. My arm stung. Blood soaked through my shirt, my jacket. I could see the dark stain spreading and willed it to stop.
Gloating now, Orlov spoke to Trent. “Fiery, isn’t she? I can see it in her eyes, her desire to kill me.”
“Emma, do nothing to antagonise him,” Trent ordered harshly, and I could tell from his voice he was on the move. I remembered Orlov had told them where we were, and was surprised. Why would Orlov want to draw them to him? Surely it’d be easier for them to escape in a vehicle if there were as few people here as possible? It didn’t make sense.
“Emma,” Orlov repeated softly, managing to make it sound threatening. His face was too close to mine, and as I fought my nausea and fear he continued, this time all business. “It sounds as if you’re on your way here, Trent. Put Cavendish on.”
Cavendish did not wait to hear what Orlov wanted, but told him firmly, “I want to make an exchange, Orlov. Me in place of my family. I’m on my way to the Manor now.”
“We will agree to that,” Orlov replied. He swopped knowing looks with Ugly, and my heart sank. It was clear there would be no exchange. They wanted to kidnap the full set.
Grace saw the exchange too, and she yelled, “It’s a trap, Henry, they will never let...” She was brutally silenced by the butt of Ugly’s gun. The speed and violence of the blow was startling and she dropped to the floor, unconscious. The children screamed as they saw their mother fall and moved closer to me, clutching at my clothes, seeking reassurance. I tried to hold myself together from the shock of the violent attack on Grace and comforted them. As I did I felt Sophia’s cold little hand prise my fingers open and push a hard object
into my palm.
Orlov did not react to Ugly’s attack on Grace. Without responding to the shouts coming from Cavendish, he ended the call and slipped my phone into his pocket. Then he made another call, using his own phone. I knelt, trying to see if Grace was okay, but with my hands tied behind my back there was little I could do other than reassure the children and look for any signs that she was waking up. Blood trickled from her temple, staining her hair, and I hoped she was merely unconscious.
Orlov and Ugly were becoming more animated now in their conversation. They checked their watches and appeared to be getting ready to leave.
Looking up from where I knelt on the ground, I interrupted their mutterings. “They’ll be here any minute, and you’ll never get away. Any vehicle you take will be stopped and you are outnumbered.”
Orlov smiled the confident smile of one who knows something you don’t, and sounded almost dismissive as he spoke. “We will be gone before they even get back.”
It was then that I heard it, coming from above: a droning engine. A plane? Surely not. There wasn’t the space for one to land here. A helicopter then? My stomach plummeted. This was actually happening; we really were going to be taken, and no one was going to be able to do anything about it. The children looked over at me, and I tried to reassure them that it would be all right as the droning grew louder and louder, and within moments passed directly overhead, sounding closer and closer like it was coming lower, like it was coming in to land.
Orlov and Ugly moved quickly. Ugly picked up Grace’s body and almost effortlessly flung her over his shoulder. Her head lolled down his back, her arms swinging awkwardly because of being tied. He jerked his gun to tell the children to stand and come close to him. Then they all moved towards the front door.
Orlov took up his position behind me, holding me unpleasantly close, his arm around my waist this time as he pressed himself against me. My hands were tied and positioned at a place where I could have caused him maximum pain, but with the others at risk I couldn’t take the chance. I’d seen he carried a gun: it was tucked in the back of his trousers, but he seemed to prefer the knife. I felt its sharp edge against the skin of my neck. My phone rang and he took the knife away as he reached to answer it, his other arm tightening on my waist as if warning me not to take advantage of the situation. He must have put the knife away somewhere to answer – I thought perhaps now was the moment, but I’d seen how quick he was with it. My arm throbbed as a reminder, and even if I did manage to overcome him, a big if, there was also Ugly to deal with, and the fact that my hands were still tied.