Scared (6 page)

Wrapping the towel around himself, Stephen bit back the urge to tell Frost to fuck off out of the room and leave him be. He'd given him what he wanted. Wasn't that enough?

"I have something I need to do, Stephen. I have some guests I need to talk to when they arrive later on. It might take some time. You may go to your own room, to the living room, and to the kitchen. Oh, and you may use the downstairs toilet. Other than those rooms, you don't go anywhere else. Do you understand?"

Frost stared at him with eyes that gave Stephen the damn creeps. They were hooded, black like that darkness when he'd first got here, and a livid pink scar marched down his cheek, thick and long. Why was it all mean people had scars? Why did every goddamn bad guy in movies or books have them?

Stephen nodded.

Frost walked toward the door. He turned, placing one hand on the oak jamb, the other on the edge of the matching door. He stared at Stephen again. “Oh, and if you think you can just walk out of here... Jonathan keeps guard by the front door. Kevin at the back. They're both armed. All the windows are locked and can't be smashed. And even if you
did
manage to get out, there are dogs on the grounds. Big ones. With big teeth. Think of your mum, Stephen, hmm?"

Stephen nodded again, steeling himself not to cry in front of this sadistic fucker. He'd tried not to earlier in the bedroom, but hadn't been able to hold it back. His emotions had spilled, Frost's touch unleashing them.

"Good. I won't bother you again tonight. Don't want to ruin your arse with too much fucking too soon."

Frost strode out, and Stephen sagged against the side of the shower stall with relief. At least he'd have some measure of comfort for a little while. But then again, not knowing when Frost would fuck him next would keep Stephen's nerves right on edge.

Shit.

He dried off, scrubbing hard at his skin until it reddened and grew sore.

Frost was still on it.

Stephen gritted his teeth and walked into the bedroom, half expecting Frost to still be there, even though he'd said he'd be elsewhere. The bed had been made, the quilt smooth, the pillows undented. Stephen's clothes spilled out of the dirty laundry hamper, and a fresh set, complete with shop labels, sat in a pile on the chair in the corner. He dressed absently, placing the tags in the small bin beside the bed. The socks were soft on his feet, but the boxer shorts chafed his arse.

Wincing, he walked downstairs, resisting the temptation to go into the other bedrooms. And there were several—ten closed doors along the landing he stood on and ten opposite. People might still be asleep behind them.

In the foyer, with its harlequin-tiled floor, the space as big as their living room at home, he glanced toward the front door. The guy named Jonathan, the one who had approached him on the street, stood with his legs apart, hands folded over his chest. A fucking mountain of a bloke, one Stephen wouldn't tackle if he was paid to do it. Near-white eyebrows rested in a straight line above eyes so blue Stephen wondered if the guy wore coloured contacts.

Jonathan lifted his chin by way of greeting. Stephen lowered his eyes and headed toward the kitchen. He was hungry, had been since he left home last night, what with popping to the shop just before Mum dished the dinner up. But could he eat now? He hadn't managed to last night.

In the kitchen, he glanced around, still surprised at the opulence even though he'd seen this room already. Fuck, how much did Frost earn? And what did he
do
for a living? The house was massive, and everything in it must have cost a pretty penny.

Stephen went over to the double-wide fridge and pulled open both doors. It was filled with everything a person could want, a vast difference from theirs at home, which held what they needed for each week and nothing more. He'd peeked in the freezer this morning, and that had been the same. Packed to fucking bursting.

Surprisingly, Stephen had the taste for pizza, despite the early hour. Someone must have had take-out last night, because a Domino's box rested on one of the fridge shelves. He lifted the lid and looked inside. Meat feast.

Stomach griping, the sound loud in the cavernous kitchen, Stephen pulled the box out and placed it on a centre island topped with black marble. He searched the cupboards underneath until he found a plate then laid three large slices on it. He put the box back in the fridge.

While waiting for the pizza to heat in the microwave, he browsed the room, taking in the stark white cupboards and the black tiled floor. Everything was so neat and tidy. So clean. Nothing homely about it, all pristine and perfect like some fucking show house. He puffed out a laugh. Mum had been right. If you were rich, you could have anything. Do anything.

Including abducting people and fucking their arse whenever you damn well please.

The microwave dinged. Stephen took his plate out and settled gingerly on a cafe stool at the breakfast bar that spanned the far end of the room furthest from the door. He glanced to his left out one of the windows, through the black slatted blinds, seeing nothing but a great expanse of grass and a small forest at the bottom. He shuddered at the thought of people like Jonathan and Kevin standing guard down there in the shadows. Guns at the ready.

He saw no dogs.

A faint sun struggled to shine in the murky grey-blue. Would be ages before it changed places with the moon. A long day ahead.

Stephen sighed and returned his attention to his plate. He picked up a slice of pizza and bit into it, waiting for his stomach to clench, rebel. When it didn't, he chewed slowly then swallowed. Waited a few moments in case the pizza wanted back out. It didn't.

Stephen ate the whole slice before a yell came from behind a door to his right. Why hadn't he noticed that there before? He stared at it, noted a keyhole beneath the brass handle, but no key. Was that where the “guests” were? Behind there?

Getting off the stool, he approached the door and dared to try the handle. He lowered it slowly, but the door didn't budge. Like it would have been unlocked. Frost wasn't stupid enough to do that knowing Stephen had the run of the house. Another yell came, and, like the last, wasn't one of pain but of anger. Like someone was frustrated as hell and needed to shout to release some tension.

What was going on?

The yells had been muffled. As though far away.

Curious, yet scared shitless in case Jonathan or Kevin came into the kitchen any minute, Stephen lowered to his haunches, ignoring the burn of his arsehole. He peered through the keyhole.

A long corridor, lit by spotlights recessed in the ceiling.

Several plain white doors on either side, spaced out like each room was maybe eleven by eleven.

One door at the end, different from the rest, mahogany, studded with carved squares.

Someone yelled again. Angry. Violent.

Another voice came, plaintive, heart-wrenching. “Mum! I want me mum!"

"Oh, fuck,” Stephen whispered.

They have someone else in there? They abducted someone else?

He stood and went back to his seat. Sat there and stared at the cooling pizza, unable to eat another bite. What the hell kind of place had he been brought to? Bile zipped up into his mouth, burned his tongue. He swallowed, desperate for a glass of water. Almost running to the centre island, he opened doors, trying to remember where he'd seen the glasses. Finding them, he took a crystal tumbler from one shelf and staggered over to the sink, praying he wouldn't be sick. He filled the glass, gulping down the cool liquid, standing stock-still, waiting for it to come back up.

It did, in a torrent, splashing up the sides of the white sink.

Frantic, petrified he'd be caught making a mess, he ran the tap and cleaned up, thankful the pizza had stayed down. Another yell came, this time one of pain, chilling Stephen to the bone. What were they
doing
to whoever had cried out like that? Who was doing it? Frost? One of his men?

Shutting out the questions, Stephen retrieved his plate and dumped the pizza in the bin. He found the dishwasher masked as a cupboard and stacked his plate and glass inside. Unable to stand being in the kitchen with yet more sounds coming through that door, he rushed out into the foyer. Jonathan's smile freaked him the fuck out, and he ran up the stairs and into his room, slamming the door and pressing his back against it.

He'd been brought into a nightmare, one he didn't think he'd ever get out of.

"Mum. I want me mum."

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Russell winced at the pain biting into the top of his arm. He struggled to break free of the man's hold, but the bastard wouldn't let go.

"Who the fuck are you?” he asked, knowing the damn answer but needing to hear it for himself.

"Would have thought that was obvious,” the man said, gripping tighter. “You can't run forever. Not from Frost.” He glanced sideways at Russell, sheeting rain wetting his cheeks. The slugs drew together at the top of his nose, and his lips disappeared inside that thick beard.

Russell shuddered, a few droplets of rain finding their way down his coat collar. “Frost? Who the hell is that?” He racked his brain to try and recall whether Toby or the police had mentioned him at some point. Did Toby even know the name of the guy who had drugged him? Was it even the same guy or just one of his cronies? Nothing came to mind; the only thing swirling there was questions and the stark fact he was being dragged down an alley out of the cemetery.

A large black transit van with tinted windows sat parked on the curb at the end of the alley. It reminded Russell of the one used by the A-Team. If this was any other time, and any other situation, he'd have pissed himself laughing.

Oh, Christ. Shit!

"Where are you taking me?” he demanded, trying to sound hard and failing. He just came off as a squeaky-voiced wimp. “What does this Frost want with me?"

"Russell?” The man stared at him again and dug his fingers harder.

"Yeah?” Russell clamped his jaw and glared at him, jogging to keep up with his fast walk.

"Shut the
fuck up
, all right?"

They reached the end of the alley. The man glanced left and right. Russell did the same. The street was empty of people. Typical. What he wouldn't give for some housewife to come out of her house now, on her way to getting her shopping. Or for someone to be cleaning their damn windows. Mind you, this wasn't the kind of estate where anyone cleaned their windows, and if Russell was seen being bundled into a van by a fuck-off burly bloke, the residents were more than likely to keep their mouths shut.

Criminals looked after their own.

"Come on,” the man said, dragging him to the van.

He flung the back doors open and shoved Russell forward. Refusing to get in, Russell tried to make his feet grip onto the road, but the bloody things wouldn't hold on the wet surface. The man pushed him in the back, and Russell went sprawling forward, the edge of the van floor jabbing just below his knees. His hands met with a square of rough blue carpet, the fibres chafing his palms.

"Look, I'm not getting in until you tell me what—"

Russell was hauled up by the back of his jacket and unceremoniously dumped inside. He cracked the side of his head on one of the two metal bench seats down either side of the interior and curled himself into a ball. Hand over the injury, he scrunched his eyes closed and focused his mind away from the spearing pain. “Jesus
Christ!
"

The man climbed inside and bent at the waist, fists bunched and ready. The scent of rain came off him. He shoved Russell onto his side and planted a heavy boot on his stomach. “Now, do as you're fucking told, or things will get worse for you, yeah? Frost wants you brought back. Wants some questions answered. I'm just the collection boy, know what I'm saying? Like, don't shoot the messenger. Get up.” He took his foot away and straightened up. He stared down at Russell, the whites of his eyes creepy in the semi-darkness.

Russell scrabbled onto his knees, head throbbing, and pushed the bench top with his hands to help him stand. Out of breath from the anger that surged through him, he stared at the man, his heart thumping hard, his jaw muscles aching from him clenching his teeth. “I don't know anything. All I did was get someone out of that grave. Yeah, I was told to keep my mouth shut, but shit! How could I when I saw them put a body in that hole? I could have lost my job if I'd left him there. I could have gone to
prison
if I hadn't reported it."

He cursed himself for babbling, but hell, he'd try all he could to get out of this situation. Going back to London? Meeting this Frost? Fuck, no.

"Oh, you're going to a worse place than prison now, mate, and believe me, the surroundings might be nicer, but the torture is something else. Sit.” The man reached inside his jacket and brought out a bright yellow cable tie.

Oh shit.

"Drop your bag and hold your wrists out."

Russell obeyed, eyeing the way to freedom behind the man, quickly working out whether, if he nutted the guy in the guts, he'd make it out and back to the cemetery in time to get help. As though it had been planned this way, no one occupied the street. No cars, nothing.

"Don't bother.” The man began tying Russell's wrists. “No one will come out to help you. Quiet here this time of day. People at work and whatnot.” He slid the end of the tie through the small square that would keep him bound. “And no cars. Funny that, eh?"

"Who the hell
are
you lot?” Russell drew in a sharp breath as the cable tightened and dug into his skin.

"People with a lot of clout.” He took hold of Russell's backpack handle. “You won't be needing this.” He poked about inside. “Baguette. Ain't you thoughtful. I didn't have breakfast this morning. Don't like doing my business on a full stomach. This'll do nicely, thanks."

The man climbed out, Russell's backpack bumping the side of his leg. The doors slammed, leaving Russell stunned and still trying to work out if this had actually happened.

He'd been taken from his digger, shoved in a van, and would be going back to London. Surreal wasn't the word. Shitting himself wasn't the word.