Scared (17 page)

He cast his gaze around the room, making sure it was as he had left it the previous morning. There had been no need for anyone to come in here since then, what with everyone out and about doing various jobs. Unease crept up his spine, a prickling sensation that brought on an involuntary shiver.

Someone had been in here without his permission.

Tilting his head, he studied the room some more. Something was off, but he couldn't place it. He walked toward the nearest desk, nodding as though to confirm the suspicions swirling through his mind. He would find out what was wrong, no question. It would just take a minute, that was all.

Frost booted up the computer, pleased with his foresight in having them all linked. If anyone used one, he would know. To the outsider, one who didn't know he was able to access a programme that showed every time someone logged on and what they did, the computer appeared as it should.

Frost knew better. An icon on the lower toolbar shouted the fact one of the computers had been used since his check yesterday morning. It appeared an innocuous thing, just like a little red-and-yellow football, much like those that indicated firewalls or some downloaded programme or other.

It only came on when someone used the computer after Frost set the alarm if he knew the office wouldn't be needed.

Interesting.

He hoped to find that someone had just browsed the Internet during some downtime, or that they'd fancied a game of solitaire before bed.

However, his gut told him otherwise.

Clicking the football icon, he waited for the window to open and reveal the secrets it harboured.

Frost stared at the information, incensed beyond measure. Anger boiled inside him at the audacity of whoever had breached the punters’ files. Year's worth of information, going right back to Parker's days.

A fucking mole in my house. Who the hell is it

Croft immediately came to mind, him being the newest employee.

No, these files were accessed in the daytime when Croft wasn't here. When only Gerry and Dave were here minding Stephen.

A blinding pain speared Frost's head.

Stephen?

Surely not. He was just an average young man. And what about Gerry and Dave's report? Stephen had slept most of the day, only rising to make them some food, going back to his room just as the other employees started arriving home.

Either Gerry or Dave, then, had printed out thousands of pages, using every damn computer in the room.

Fucking wankers. Fucking bastard wankers!

Seeing that one of them—or even both, working together—had tried to erase their history angered him further. A spiral of fear wended through him, weakening his knees and making him feel like throwing up.

What had they done with the information? Was it now in the hands of the police? Shit, he'd have to warn the punters, get rid of the damn kids. So much to do in so little time.

Closing the window, Frost opened Internet Explorer and then his email account. Attaching the files, he sent them to James Klein, the man who ran the Spanish end of his business. He sighed. Everything would still be on the hard drive, but the information would be useless to anyone who tried to read it by the time he'd finished. He clicked the encrypt icon and imagined all those names and addresses changing into symbols. If the police got hold of these files now, it would take a fucking genius to work out what they held. Thankfully, whoever had used the computer hadn't sent any files via email.

He erased his history, shut the computer down, and reached into the desk drawer for a set of keys. He'd never had to lock the office before, but now it seemed he had to. Until the culprit was caught, that door would keep everyone out.

His face burned, the heat of rage creating the need for him to scratch. Frost left the room, locking the door with a jerky flick of his wrist, and stormed down the corridor to the other landing. Once there, he took in a steadying breath and lunged toward Gerry's bedroom door. The room was empty. He tried Dave's room and found it the same way, so sped down the stairs, searching out his two employees with murder on his mind.

They sat with the others at the breakfast bar, plates of bacon and eggs in front of them. The steam of tea or coffee spiralled from their cups, and Frost resisted the urge to pick them up and dash the hot liquid in their faces.

"Which one of you two went into my office yesterday?” he demanded, chest tightening, his heart thrumming an alarmingly unstable beat.

Gerry and Dave turned in their seats to look at him, faces a picture of confusion. They glanced at one another, some unspoken query bristling between them, then Gerry nodded.

Dave spoke up. “Neither of us. We were playing cards in the living room for most of the day—sorry, boss, know that's not allowed. Like we said, Stephen was asleep.” He frowned slightly, head cocking a bit. “Come to think of it, there
was
a noise up there at one point. You remember that, Gerry?” He stared at his friend.

Gerry palmed his chin. “Fuck me, yeah. Like someone squealed. I went up there to check it out, but no one was there. Stephen was still asleep."

Frost's mind worked overtime. Either they were lying, or someone else had been in the house. Fucked off that the two men hadn't been manning the doors as he'd instructed, he said, “So someone got in. If you had been doing your fucking
jobs
...!” He spun away from them, clenching his fists and gritting his teeth. “Christ! You have no fucking idea what I just found. What could happen to
all
of us if...
Shit
."

Frost left the kitchen, feeling the shocked stares of his men on his back. His feet skidded on the tile, and he stormed upstairs, hand gripping the banister rail to aid his haste. Rounding the newel post, he lumbered toward Stephen's door, smashing it open so the handle bashed into the wall. A dull tinkle of broken plaster showered the wooden floor.

Stephen sprang up in bed, his hair mussed, eyes wide. The rosy hue of sleep drained from his cheeks, leaving him white, purple bags under his eyes standing out starkly. Even his lips paled above a quivering chin.

Frost stared at him, not wanting to believe this beautiful man had deceived him, but Stephen's expression said it all. The man clearly wasn't used to lying, hiding his emotions, and they played out now, eyes flicking left to right, fingers whittling the quilt.

Why did it have to be you? I wanted... I had such good plans for us.

He put a stop to the musings of his heart. His mind had to take control now. Gerry and Dave had been relaxed,
normal
—no way could it have been them. Frost had an inbuilt bullshit detector, one that had stood him in good stead over the years, and he smelled the stink of manure clear and strong.

And if it wasn't Stephen, then I need to find out who the fuck broke in and retrieved the information without Gerry and Dave knowing
.

It wasn't possible, he knew that deep down, but his heart wanted another scenario. God, how his heart wanted that.

Focus. The heart can be broken and mended. And it's not doing that in a prison cell.

"What the fuck were you doing in my office yesterday?” Frost's temples throbbed with the pressure of his shout.

Stephen's mouth opened and closed several times, no sound emerging, and Frost's anger grew to a higher level. No matter how much he'd wanted to share his life with this man, he wasn't about to let the little shit ruin everything he'd worked for. If Frost's fast-beating heart was anything to go by, he'd have a fucking heart attack in a minute, and he wasn't having
that
either.

"Well?” he roared. “Cat got your bastard tongue?"

Stephen betrayed himself with a quick glance at the chest of drawers. Frost pounced toward them, yanking open each drawer to reveal only piles of clothes. The last one proved heavy to open, and he bent at the waist, ripping the clothes out and tossing them over his shoulders.

Stacks of paper filled the wooden space.

Murder filled Frost's mind.

"Get out of the fucking bed!” he shouted, eyes wide, a headache forming at the back of his skull.

Stephen sat in shock.

Frost saw red. “Disobey me, you little shit, and you'll know all about it.
Get out!
"

He grabbed Stephen's arm and dragged him from the bed. Marched him naked to the stairs, breaths coming out of him in harsh bursts. Stephen started crying, his attempts to pull away thwarted by Frost gripping him harder. Giving Stephen a shake at the top of the stairs, Frost held back the urge to throw the man down them. Instead, he guided him to the foyer, fighting every step of the way to keep Stephen from unbalancing him. In the kitchen, Frost propelled Stephen toward Jonathan, who had turned in his seat at the breakfast bar to see what the commotion was.

"Something wrong, boss?” Jonathan asked, genuine concern on his face. He lowered his cup to the bar and balled his fists in his lap.

"Too fucking right there's something wrong.” Frost snorted out a breath through his nostrils.

"Please,” Stephen sobbed, staring around at all the men, who eyed him like he was shit on their shoes. “Please, I didn't mean... I just wanted... I thought—"

Frost sucked in a deep breath and said through clenched teeth, “Shut the fuck
up
, you little
cunt!
” He dug his fingers deeper into his flesh, hoping he caused as much pain as he was feeling right now.

Stephen cried out, bringing his free hand up to prise Frost's fingers from his arm. Frost dug deeper and stared into Stephen's eyes. The man closed his mouth, snot dribbling from his nose, and barked out a harsh sob.

Why did you do it, eh? Now look what you've made me do.

"What needs doing, boss?” Jonathan stood from his seat and brushed toast crumbs from his suit.

"You'll need to get changed,” Frost said, eyeing Jonathan up and down. He turned to Kevin. “And you. This one needs taking to the forest."

[Back to Table of Contents]

Stephen was shunted along the white corridor by one of Frost's men, his feet scuffing on the carpet. His mind whirled. How had Frost found out? Stephen had covered his tracks, he was certain of it. Everything he'd done on those computers had been erased. As he was dragged toward the mahogany door at the end, he tried to think if he'd left anything out of place in the office. Maybe the computers hadn't been what alerted Frost to him being there yesterday.

He thought of the tissue he'd used to wipe his fingerprints away but remembered he'd used it to clean the office door handle as he'd left. That tissue was now in the sewers—he'd flushed it down the toilet when he'd used the bathroom.

Maybe he'd mumbled in his sleep? He recalled, after Frost had used him last night, falling asleep with that awful man holding him in a bear's embrace. Tight and unforgiving, a hug of ownership. Despite trying to stay awake until Frost left the bed, Stephen had given up the fight and welcomed oblivion. What if he'd been so tired he
had
mumbled about what he'd done?

No, Frost would have woken him, surely. From the anger the man had displayed just now, there was no way he'd be able to hold that kind of rage in if he knew what Stephen had done before today.

Unless Redhead and Stocky
did
know what he'd been doing and told Frost this morning. He didn't believe that. They'd have reported back to Frost before bed last night, wouldn't they?

So how had Frost found out?

It didn't matter now, did it? He was being taken down to the basement before Jonathan and Kevin marched him into the forest. And what they would do to him there didn't bear thinking about. If they needed to get changed, it meant they might get dirty...

Frost's man unlocked the basement door, and a chill sped through Stephen at the thought of going back down there. Would he be given more lemonade? Was this man going to force it down Stephen's throat in order to get the truth from him? There would be no point in that. It was obvious Stephen was the culprit. Why did Frost need it confirmed?

His bladder throbbed with the need to use the bathroom. He clenched his teeth to ward off the pain and allowed the man to guide him down the dark steps. At the bottom, a light flicked on, the one above the metal central ceiling beam.

Oh, God. Are those chains there?

His bladder shrieked.

"Come on,” the man said.

Shuffles came from a far corner, and Stephen tensed.

Are there rats down here? Oh, God, please don't let there be rats.

The man pushed him toward the hanging chains, stooping to pick one end up. He secured a manacle around Stephen's wrist, doing the same with the other, then stepped back. He looked mean as hell, glaring at Stephen with black eyes filled with hate. His brown hair, slicked back in a low ponytail, emphasised his receding hairline. A pointed nose and eyes that were too close together reminded Stephen of a ferret.

"You should have just been his bitch,” the man said, shaking his head. “No good comes from crossing Frost. Ah, well, you're fucked now all right."

He retreated back to the stairs, and Stephen lost sight of him in the darkness. A clank sounded, and the chains tautened, lifting Stephen up and off the floor. With his arms stretched above his head, he winced as the manacles dug into his wrists.

"You won't be hanging there long, I dare say,” the man said, voice disembodied. “Won't be a minute before the other two are changed, and they'll come back down for you. Still, best to make sure you can't escape, eh?” He laughed, a low chuckle that set Stephen's nerves further on edge. “I won't be seeing you again. Let's just hope it's quick and painless, eh?"

The light went off, and the man's footsteps echoed up the stairs.

They're going to kill me. Oh, shit, they're going to kill me. What about Mum? Aww, God, this is going to break her. Please, God, please don't let them kill me. Let me go home.

The door to the corridor closed, and a key twisted in the lock. Stephen relaxed his muscles, feeling instinctually that if he bunched them he'd bring himself more pain. He shook from head to foot, great racking jolts that jangled the chains, and he lost control of his bladder.