Wish You Were Dead

21

Jack Alexander lay on the cold stone floor, in the darkness. The inside of his head felt like it was being burned by a blowtorch. Thinking, muzzily, about Kaitlynn. What the hell was happening to her? Was she captured, too? In terror?

Somehow, he had to get out of here and find her.

Had to.

Perhaps the two old people he’d seen moments before he’d been struck on the head might know something. He urgently needed to get the tape off their mouths and talk to them.

The one thing he held on to, keeping him sane in this nightmare, was the confidence he had in his abilities. He knew he was smart. And sure as hell — whatever vicious thugs had captured him and were holding him prisoner — he was pretty sure he was smarter than they were.

So prove it, Detective Sergeant Alexander, the voice inside his head had been saying over and over.

In his work with the Surrey and Sussex Major Crime team, he was well aware that surprise was often the key element. Surprising villains when they were least expecting it, catching them off-guard. Like dawn raids on drug dealers. Or producing digital evidence from their phones and computers that they were totally not expecting. Or finding a witness they’d not thought about. Out-thinking them was the key.

And he was going to out-think whoever that bastard was who had come in here with the torch and slugged him.

Suddenly, he heard a clank.

The sound of a key in the door lock.

Shit.

Clank.

The bastard was coming back. He tried to stand up, but with his hands still bound together he stumbled and fell flat on his face.

Clank.

It sounded like the key had turned.

The door was opening.

With every ounce of his strength, he managed to stand up, giddy with fury. He saw the chink of light and raced to the side of the door, flattening himself against the wall. Then he raised the heavy iron hoop high above his head.

Ready.

Ready for you, you bastard.