Poseidon's Ransom

Chapter Three

The view from the front of the old Welsh farmhouse looked down the valley and out to the Irish Sea. The building had been abandoned for almost a year, but was still in good condition, weatherproof and, more importantly for Rick Washington, remote. The evening wind was chill, and he pulled the collar of his coat up around his neck. He watched the small van as it wound its way up the side of the hill, the road winding back and forth to accommodate the incline.

He hunched his shoulders against the wind, Fucking England was cold enough, but Wales! And this was supposed to be summer, he thought. Washington had spent the last year in the Philippines and his bones were definitely not used to this Welsh climate.

The reconstructive surgery he’d undergone in Manilla had totally changed his appearance, and he doubted his own mother would recognise him now. The implanted full head of thick black hair played to his vanity and the absence of the painful limp was a blessing.

For a second his thoughts flashed to the small ranch in Panama. The old goatherd who’d saved Greg Stoneham from the helicopter crash, and the beautiful girl who’d tended his injuries. She’d fixed him up pretty good, but the leg had not been set well. Consuela Sanchez, he thought, you saved my life honey. But you wouldn’t know me now. You wouldn’t know Rick Washington.

The van was still struggling up the side of the hill as the evening rain began to fall. A voice from behind pulled his thoughts back from Panama. ‘They here yet, boss?’

Washington didn’t turn around. ‘A few minutes. You ready for them?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Then get-the-fuck back in there.’

A few minutes later the van pulled into the ramshackle farmyard. Washington waved to the two men as they stepped out of the cab. ‘How’d it go?’ he said.

The men walked over and nodded. ‘No problems, boss. All good.’

‘Okay, let’s get ‘em inside. This summer weather is freezing my balls off.’

They walked over to the van and, before opening the rear doors, the three pulled on full-face balaclavas.

The old man and woman were roughly pulled from the rear of the van. ‘Take it easy,’ snarled Washington to his men, ‘no need for that.’ He stood in front of the couple and said, ‘Mr and Mrs Pike, I know you are scared, but you’ll have nothing to fear if you do as you are told. You will not be harmed. You see we are wearing masks. If we intended to kill you, we would not worry about you seeing our faces. But do not doubt us. If you do not comply with every instruction you will be killed.’

The woman began to sob and the man put his arms around her pulling her close.

‘Okay, get inside,’ snapped one of the henchmen, then, after seeing the scathing look from Washington, continued, ‘Please.’

The inside of the farmhouse was basic, but after Washington’s men had cleaned-up the place and got the portable generator running, would be comfortable enough for the next few days.

A small hallway opened into a large central lounge. The Pikes were ushered through the big room and up the stairs. Several doors ran off the landing, one of which stood open. The three masked men accompanied them to the room. The one with the American voice said, ‘Please make yourselves comfortable.’ He walked over to a thin rope next to the door. ‘If you need the bathroom, or if you’re ill, please pull this and one of my men will come. I believe you have your medication, Mrs Pike, and I understand that will be sufficient for the next few days. We don’t expect to be here longer than three or four at the most. There will be hot food in about an hour. Now if you will excuse me.’

‘Why are you doing this, sir?’ said Mr Pike.

‘I’m afraid I cannot answer any questions. Please just stay calm and try and relax. This will all be over in a few days.’

The American and the two men left the room. The door was closed, followed by the sound of the lock being turned.

Joan Pike had stopped sobbing and looked around the room. There were two inflatable beds with a pile of new sheets and duvets, still in the wrappings, on each. On the table in the corner was a case of water, teabags, coffee and biscuits, some cartons of milk and a kettle.

George Pike looked at his wife. ‘Looks like we have three-star accommodation, dear.’ He went to the single window and found it to be screwed shut and the panes covered with white paint. He turned to see Joan, who now sat in one of the shabby armchairs. ‘How’re you feeling, old girl?’

She looked at her husband and took in a deep breath. ‘Confused, angry and afraid.’

‘Well, in that case there’s only one thing to do, my dear.’

‘Oh… And what might that be, George?’

‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

In the adjacent bedroom, Kathy Dowling and her two sons had similar accommodation to the Pikes. In the third room, Lady Olivia Grainger and her daughter Caroline stood in silence, their ears pressed hard to the old oak door, and listened to the goings-on across the landing.