Trust Me (Trust Me, Find Me 1)

No one was around.

Perfect.

By the door to the gents, he bent down, as if tying his laces, to retrieve the blade strapped to his shin.

Whack.

A bottle crashed hard into the back of his head as three men burst from the bar and jumped him from behind.

His mark had set a trap.

Pinned to the wall by a mountain of muscle, Sion stood helpless as the pockets of his leather coat and his jeans were ransacked, and his flick knife and phone confiscated.

“S’that all he’s got? Where’s his wallet?”

But Sion had nothing else on him. And, no ID. Everything was safely stored in the boot of his car, parked up on a side-street.

The mark swaggered out of the toilet and snorted loudly as he took in Sion with his hands bound behind his back with a plastic tie.

“Fancied yer chances whacking me did ya?”

He drove a hard punch into Sion’s stomach, winding him.

Sion gasped for breath, then bent and coughed.

“You’ve got it wrong, mate. I’m a dealer, like you. All I wanna do is make us rich.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

Grabbing hold of his collar, he smashed Sion’s sore head hard, cracking the glass-framed picture hanging on the wall behind him.

“Aargh!”

“Yer lyin’ prick.”

The mark nodded to the men.

One grabbed Sion by his tied up arms and shoved him roughly through a door next to the toilets, signed as ‘private.’ It was the old pub kitchen, disused and filthy. Three men and the mark walked behind him, pushing him on, out of the back door into a concreted courtyard.

Amid a row of beer barrels and an industrial bin filled to the brim with empty bottles, a black BMW saloon was parked up. Sion took in as much as he could. It was dealership new. Top-of-the-range with blackened windows. This was a professional outfit.

“Where you taking me?”

“Irish wants a word in your ear,” one of the goons said in a thick Liverpool accent, making the others snigger.

The mark rammed Sion forward, causing him to stumble into the car.

“Oi! Gerroff the car, tosser.”

Another pile-driving punch. This time to the kidneys, sending him staggering sideways.

“Aaahh! I don’t know any guy called Irish. You’ve got the wrong man. What does he want me for?”

“Don’t lie. You screwed us over, you grass.”

Sion looked at him, confused.

A kick to the shins.

Sion stumbled to the ground, unable to put out his arms to save himself.

“Pathetic piece of piss.”

On the ground, one of the men kicked him in the ribs.

“Lucky for you, you don’t wear specs.”

“Where he’s headin’, he’s better off with swimming goggles.”

His mind was whirring as he staggered back up off the concrete and stood up.

He’d been set up. They knew he was an informer. He was being hauled in by the Scousers, he surmised grimly.

To be killed.

The mark took his watch off. That wasn’t good. It meant that he was about to get smacked again. This time properly.

He needed to think. Fast. How was he going to get out of this? Convince them that they’d made a mistake? That he wasn’t a player.

“Shit!”

A heavily ringed fist crashed into his cheek sending him reeling back onto the BMW like a boxer on the rope-a-dope.

“Watch the car, I told ya, dickhead!”

The fist smacked into him again, this time slamming into his shoulder.

“I... I don’t understand.”

“Tosser.”

Another blow. This time, a sharp stinging pain made Sion flinch, and he cried out dramatically as a hard kick was delivered into his shin giving him a dead leg.

Two of the henchmen grabbed his shoulders and held him firm.

“Ya done?”

The mark sniffed.

Not yet. Another heavy blow into the solar plexus made Sion moan out in pain again. This time for real.

“Yeah, I’m done.”

The mark rubbed his knuckles and put his watch back on.

The third man, who Sion presumed to be the driver, popped open the boot from his key fob. The two who were holding Sion, pushed him towards it.

“Easy way or hard way, buddy?”

He groaned as he moved to stand straight.

“Easy way... Please…. Easy.”

“Get in the boot, then. Go on, ya piece of shit. Gerrin.”

With his hands bound behind his back, Sion falteringly leaned his body forward and tipped himself shoulders first into the boot of the BMW. Rolling and squirming to find enough room for his legs, he formed a foetal position on his side.

The men gathered around the boot, staring in.

“I’m not a grass. I just sell charlie. Please…You’ve got the wrong man.”

The mark spat on him.

Unable to wipe it, Sion felt the phlegm trickling stickily down the side of his cheek.

“Where are you taking me? I’m not good in small spaces, I get really claustrophobic.”

One of the men raised an eyebrow at that, making the others chuckle.

“Best have a little snooze, then, dear.”

Sion cried out and one of the heavies slammed the boot down, causing another one, who Sion presumed was the driver, to shout again.

In the darkness, Sion heard them still bickering around him.

“It’s not your motor. What d’you care?”

“Irish’ll fuckin’ care.”

“You sure we got the right one?”

It sounded like the mark speaking.

“This muppet’s a right limp lettuce.”

It had worked.

He’d live with the loss of his street cred if they were underestimating him. And, he still had his blade strapped to his leg.

The guys hadn’t noticed either the full features of their new top-of-the-range BMW. German engineering, the best. There, glowing a fluorescent green in the blackness, was the safety pull tab. An emergency lever to get out.

His next car would be a BMW, he vowed.

Things were grim but could have been a whole lot worse. The thugs in the front didn’t realise it, but his chance to live depended on what they did next.

CHAPTER 21

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Sion summoned all his will and skill to keep calm and not panic. He was a professional soldier; he could get out of this. He needed, above all, to keep his head clear, and push away the terrifying thoughts that kept seeping in uninvited. They were taking him to Irish. And they were planning to drown him.

He’d been in some scrapes in his time, but this was about the worst. And this time, Jase wasn’t waiting in the chopper for air evac, and Jac wasn’t covering his back with rounds of fire.

He had to get out of the boot before he was delivered to Irish, that was for sure. Once they took him out of the car he had limited options.

Judging by their speed and the straight direction of travel, he was fairly sure that they were on motorways. That meant they were probably headed towards Liverpool or Manchester.

The tightly bound ties cut into his wrist and his arms were aching from them being stretched back behind him. But from the foetal position he lay in, his fingers could still reach his ankle and up the side of his shin. And when he wriggled his feet upwards, he could easily touch the sheath and remove the blade with his fingers. Plus, he was certain he could hold the dagger fast with one hand and rub his other against it to break the ties.

He could escape.

He glanced up at the fluorescent lever. His lifesaver. He couldn’t pop the boot while they were driving, the car was going too fast. And if he did it when they slowed, they’d be after him straight away.

He couldn’t risk a straight chase with them, either. He’d be too easily outrun, and these guys weren’t muck

ing about. They were sure to be carrying handguns.

Sion ruled out a surprise attack when they opened the boot, for that reason too.

It went against his instinct, but rational evaluation told him grimly that his best option was to stay tied up for a little while longer.

He hoped the gamble would pay off.

The darkness of the boot and the rhythm of the tyres pounding against the tarmac beneath him drew him deeper into his blackest thoughts.

What if these were his last hours?

He would never grow old.

The tyres drummed out a hypnotic rhythm.

What if… he’d never become a father? Would never be with Claire?