Chapter Five
20 December, 9.30 p.m.
The air in the hotel conference room hummed with excited anticipation.
The audience had filed in just over two hours ago, to find a tote bag bulging with goodies on each seat – including, Drew noted wryly, a new novella from Brandon Phipps. Signed, of course. Aveline from Geri’s office had been around earlier, checking that each bag contained one, but she’d disappeared as soon as they’d opened the doors.
The arts journalist who was hosting the event had made a short speech, explaining the change in the running order and the added entertainment for the evening, pointing out the TV screens and cameras, which had already attracted some nudging and whispering from a few of the audience, and offering anyone who did not wish to take part the chance to leave, with a full refund.
And they got to keep the goodie bag.
No one had taken up the offer.
Drew had signed a shedload of books – mostly, it seemed, to be given as Christmas presents – being careful to add the date. Maybe in years to come they’d be classed as collector’s items. They’d done an edited version of the question and answer session, in amongst watching celebrity kidnappings going down to order on the big screens. Philmore had scored a coup to kick things off – five members of a boy band who’d topped the charts for six weeks in the summer with the theme tune to a blockbuster thriller. He’d scooped them up at a ‘secret’ gig in a room behind a pub somewhere in Islington. A well choreographed chase had ended in all five being rounded up and dragged away from screaming, sobbing ‘fans’. The American actor had been grabbed leaving the theatre after a ‘special’ technical rehearsal. They’d set up a creepy Dickensian looking scene, in a narrow passage-way beside the stage door, with dark-cloaked figures materialising out of the shadows. They’d even managed to create an atmospheric fog, swirling at ankle level. The footballer had been intercepted by three men in a fast car when he arrived for a ‘Christmas party’ at his club’s home ground.
Drew checked his watch. Any minute now three heavies would burst in, and after some token resistance would hustle him out to the limo parked in the alley behind the hotel. Then it would be across London for champagne in the green room that had been set up at another very new, very up-market hotel. The bidding war would take place in front of a live audience in the hotel ballroom. Drew shifted in his seat. Everyone who’d lined up to have books signed had promised to bid for him, but that boy band was going to take some beating.
Wow! Afraid you’re going to come bottom of the list after all, Mr Best-Selling Author?
The questions from the audience had dwindled to expectant silence, the atmosphere tense with anticipation. Everyone was waiting, just as he was. He glanced around the room. Collection buckets for his chosen charity had been strategically placed in the aisle between the rows of seats, and were gratifyingly full. He heaved a sigh, maybe …
A shot of a building flashed up on the big screen on the side wall. The building they were in. Inside the room the cameras were rolling. Drew took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d like to thank you for coming here this evening and for your generous—’
Even though he was expecting it, he still jumped as the door smashed open and three black-clad, hooded figures tumbled into the room, waving realistic looking guns and threatening reprisals to anyone who moved. From his vantage point on the dais Drew could see staff from the hotel crowding the corridor, craning to get a look.
A tall guy at the front of the audience jumped up. Clearly a big fan, he was wearing a well-washed Stren Rules T-shirt that had to be five or six years old – the last book that had featured tortured superhero Stren in more than a walk-on part was at least that long ago. Making a play to get in on the action, he was promptly invited to resume his seat with a threatening wave of the nearest gun. Drew caught a glimpse of the images on the TV screen at the end of the room, which was showing a live feed, out of sight of the cameras.
And how surreal is that, watching yourself getting kidnapped on TV?
Drew jerked himself back into the moment. He had a part to act in this. The images on the screen were looking good.
So there’s no way you are screwing it up.
Two of the men had stationed themselves on opposite sides of the room, covering the audience. The third was advancing towards him. Drew slid into his role, looking frantically round for a way out, spotting the fire exit and heading for it. Absurdly, his heart was beating fast and his mouth had gone dry. It’s only an act.
As he dived for the exit he saw himself again on the monitor, diving for the exit.
You and how many thousand TV viewers?
He was less than a foot away from the door when the third guy reached him. They scuffled, as per the script. Two women in the front row squealed and fluttered and Drew’s breath hissed out as a misplaced boot caught him on the shin. Several people were filming on their phones.
Well, hey, at least that’s gonna look real.
Shifting his weight, Drew got his balance, feinting to the right and trying to figure out if he knew the guy under the hood. Had they hung out together in a tree, somewhere in the Welsh mountains, during a survival course? He couldn’t tell.
Feinting, and feinting again, he took off to the left, aiming for the door. The assailant barrelled forward. Drew went down, hard, back against the wall.
Shit, and that. Tomorrow there will be bruises on your ass.
He was still struggling to regain his breath as his captor hauled him unceremoniously to his feet. His mate sprinted forward to grab Drew’s other arm, and together they dragged him through the fire exit and into the bleak concrete walled corridor beyond. The door banged behind them, cutting off a babble of excited voices, as the third man brought up the rear.
Drew ducked, trying to regain a stable footing. They were half dragging him along. ‘Hey, fellas—’
‘Don’t talk, just keep moving.’
Drew swivelled his head to check the walls. Were there cameras still operating here? The grip on his arms wasn’t lessening. The guy on the right matched him in height, with massive shoulders and a thick neck. The eyes behind the swathe of fabric, on a level with his, were cold and flat. Drew’s heart unexpectedly ratcheted up a notch.
The third man had dodged past them and already had the outer door to the back alley open. A non-descript white van stood waiting, motor idling, sending a plume of white exhaust fumes into the chilly night. The back doors were hooked open.
A shock of confusion laced with alarm speared through Drew’s system. This isn’t right. It’s supposed to be a car, not a van. He turned towards the man who had spoken. ‘Hey, guys, can we just hold on a minute here—’
The sudden blow to his abdomen from a bunched fist doubled him over, gasping for breath. Shit, shit, shit.
There was a brief stinging pain in his neck. Insect bite? In December?
His feet scrabbled ineffectually on the tiles of the alley as the three men hoisted him into the van. The doors slammed shut. Drew’s head swirled as the engine revved.
Not an insect bite. A needle.
This is for real.
The world swung drunkenly as he struggled to his knees. Reaching for the door handle he caught it, wrenching it down. Nothing happened. His grip fell away.
They were nosing forward, out of the alley and into the late evening traffic, when everything finally went dark.