A Chance Encounter by Rae Shaw (e manga reader TXT) 📗

fell out of a moving vehicle into oncoming traffic. She’s in shock. Given her account, this man who took them is in all likelihood part of Zustaller’s gang.’

‘Retribution for Dublin?’ He remembered the bloodied body on the floor and the unconscionable rage in Julianna’s face as she pummelled the man with her fists. To date, Julianna hadn't explained why she had reacted so violently.

‘Julianna beat him up badly. It seems personal. Very personal. Sophia doesn’t recall Ellen’s name being mentioned. Yours was. However, she's concussed and somewhat confused. If they’re still trying to find you, Mark, it means they might not have shifted Julianna out of our reach. Don’t go anywhere without an escort. Understood?’

He faced the nearest wall. ‘I’m very grateful, for all this. I can’t bear to think—’

‘Then don’t. You’re right. Find something to do. We’ll get her back, Mark.’

Mark put the phone down. One question above all others puzzled him. Who knew the two women went for a walk on a Friday and the route they took? If he was Jackson, he would be looking for somebody in his own circle to blame.

The afternoon became evening and still no progress. Mark bore the frustration badly: pacing, peering over shoulders, hankering for the cigarettes he had never smoked but had inhaled for years as a child. He provided a list of people who might know Julianna’s habits. A short list; Julianna liked her privacy. Everything was taking too long. Julianna’s colleagues were determined, but the array of futile activities wasn’t achieving much.

Food appeared from takeaways but Mark only managed to sip on water. Chris Moran arrived to work out a rota for the night, ensuring the team had adequate rest periods. Mark wasn't included.

Chris perched on the edge of a desk, his beefy arms folded over his chest and brought Gary up to speed in his gruff business-like voice. ‘There’s an undercover operation ongoing in South London involving Kent and Sussex forces. A gang of traffickers are operating out of a farmhouse. Attempts are being made to contact the undercover officer working with the gang. It’s dangerous and could expose him.’

Gary chewed on a piece of pizza. ‘This police operation has been ongoing for some time though. Julianna mentioned it in one of those intelligence reports Jackson had her write. Maybe she uncovered too much sensitive information and it led back to her?’

‘It may be how they found her. I doubt it, as she’s too crafty to put her name to anything. She uses aliases and indirect contacts.’ Chris glanced at Mark. ‘I’m pretty sure this is personal.’

‘Her tracker?’ Mark asked again.

‘Sorry, nothing. And we believe her mobile has been disabled too.’

Mark rubbed his tired eyes. It was close to midnight. His optimism had never been strong, now it was in a rapid downward spiral.

With a snort, Chris jabbed his finger at Mark. ‘You should eat.’ He scooped up a cardboard pizza box under his arm and headed to the top floor where Jackson sought to maximise his influence with the relevant authorities.

The room fell quiet. Calls dried up and leads failed to materialise. The electronic tracker was still not active. The telephone next to Mark sang loudly and he jerked. It was Jackson’s number. Tentatively, he picked up the handset. ‘Yes?’

‘Come up here and join me.’ Jackson hung up before Mark could ask why.

  39

Julianna

Pay attention to the details. Note each and every one because they save lives. The advice was old, probably from her days as a police cadet, and invaluable. The movement of the car – the constant accelerations and occasional hard braking – transmitted itself through her body. The crippling state of semi-consciousness kept her on the edge of oblivion. Her eyelids seemed glued shut – a blindfold. Searing pain shot across her forehead, its roots were where he had struck her.

The rumble of the wheels on the tarmac intensified, as did the cornering; they had left the city and were out in the countryside. She slid across the leather upholstery and with her fingertips, she clawed and hung on. How many miles and in what direction?

The car halted and the engine cut out. Doors opened. A rush of muggy humidity collided with acrid smoke in the cabin; the men had smoked incessantly the whole time. They dragged her out by her ankles, and she hit the hard ground, jarring her elbow and shoulder. The warmth of the sun beat down on her head; it wasn’t the evening yet. She filed away the detail. An hour, maybe two on the road?

Without warning the tape covering her eyes was torn away. She screamed noiselessly into her gag, and, protesting at the harshness, she kicked out with her bound legs, hitting something. The small rebellion cost her another bruising blow and her head throbbed in a new location.

Breathe. She inhaled clean air through her nose and sneezed. Slowly, she blinked and opened her eyes. The sunlight blinded and she sneezed again, painfully, as she couldn't open her mouth to expel the air. Somebody, possibly the baseball hat man, hooked his hands under her armpits and yanked her up onto her feet. The man with the ponytail, Stazki, sliced the tape away from her ankles. She staggered to one side, nearly toppling over. Both men frog-marched her towards a bleary building.

Details. The devil is in the details. She forced her eyes to focus, horribly aware how her breathlessness mimicked her snapshot thoughts, both were rapid and short lived. The view, coming together from fragments, wasn’t encouraging: lots of crumbling red bricks; rotten window frames boarded up with plywood; grey slatted roof tiles with several missing in places; untamed ivy clung to the walls while nettles, hollyhocks and other weeds strangled any other life. There was no garden, no fencing or footpath leading up to the doorway. On the horizon