Michael Robotham - Lost

“Where are you now?”

“Ah, um, I'm getting close to the roundabout. It's just ahead of me.”

“Circle the roundabout three times and then go back the way you came.”

“Where to?”

“Prince Albert Road Roundabout near Regent's Park.”

Roundabouts are open and hard to police. They're making her circle so they can check that she's not being followed. Hopefully, Aleksei will realize and hang back.

We're returning toward the West End now. From my hiding place, below the level of the windshield, I can only see the upper floors of buildings and the globes of streetlights. Ahead of us, above the Post Office Tower a blinking red light moves across the sky; a helicopter perhaps or a plane.

The phone line is still open. I raise my hand and make a talking motion. Rachel taps once on the steering wheel.

“Is Mickey OK?” she asks tentatively.

“For now.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“No.”

“Why did you wait so long?”

He doesn't answer. Then, “Where are you now?”

“Just passing the London Mosque.”

“Turn right onto Prince Albert Road. Follow it around Regent's Park.”

There is something about the voice. Even with the distortion I detect a slight accent, possibly South London or farther east. Beads of perspiration shine on Rachel's top lip. She licks them away and keeps her eyes fixed on the road.

“Get to Chalk Farm Road. Follow it north.”

Through the windows I see the faintest wisps of clouds, engraved against the night sky by a half-moon. We must be climbing Haverstock Hill toward Hampstead Heath.

The caller begins naming crossroads and counting them down. “Belsize Avenue . . . Ornan Road . . . Wedderburn Road . . .” And then suddenly, “Turn left now. Now!”

My knees bang against the gear stick. Fifty yards farther, he yells, “STOP! Get out of the car. Bring the pizza.”

“But where—?” pleads Rachel.

“Walk along the street and find the car that isn't locked. The keys are in the ignition. Leave the phone. There's another waiting for you.”

“No. I can't—”

“DO AS YOU'RE TOLD OR SHE DIES!”

The phone goes dead. Rachel seems to be frozen in place, both hands still locked on the wheel.

“You OK?”

She taps the steering wheel once.

“You see anyone?”

She taps it twice.

“What about behind us?”

Two taps.

I ease myself upward, fighting the cramp in my legs. We're on a tree-lined street, with major intersections at each end. Branches shield the parked cars from above.

Rachel reaches for the door handle.

“Wait!”

“I have to go. You heard him.”

He knew the crossroads. He was rattling off the distances. Either he's nearby or everything has been planned in advance. Can I take the risk of going with her?

“OK, I want you to take the ransom and walk along the street. When you find the car unlock the trunk.”

She reaches into the backseat and retrieves the pizza box. The door opens. The interior light has been disconnected. Using a handheld periscope with a zoom lens, I watch her walk away from me, at the same time scanning the street for any movement. I punch the button on the two-way.

“Oscar Sierra this is Ruiz. Rachel is on foot. The target vehicle is changing. Be vigilant.”

Rachel tries each car door and then moves on. She's getting farther and farther away from me. Far off I see the interior of a car light up. Rachel slips inside and picks up another cell phone. The door closes and the brake lights flare. It's now or never.

I'm out of the car. Running. My legs are stiff and wracked with cramps, making it hard to stay on my feet. Meanwhile the pavement is uneven and broken by tree roots.

A Vauxhall Vectra is pulling out ahead of me. Rachel spies me at the last minute in her rear mirror and slows down. I open the trunk and tumble heavily inside, pulling the lid closed until it jams hard on my fingers but doesn't lock shut.

We're moving again. I'm curled up in a ball, with my cheek pressed against the nylon floor mat and my heart pounding. The wheel arches amplify the sound of the tires on the road and I can hear nothing else.

I feel for the earpiece. It's fallen out and is dangling down on my chest. Putting it back into my ear, I hear Aleksei yelling in Russian. They don't know which car to follow. There are two vehicles leaving the street—a BMW turning south down Fitzjohn's Avenue and the Vectra turning north.

They're trying to contact me. The walkie-talkie is digging into my chest. I lever myself upward and pull it free. There's no response when I depress the talk button. I must have broken the two-way when I rolled into the car.

Aleksei won't know which vehicle to follow until the cars are far enough apart for the transmitter to identify which one is carrying the ransom. By then he risks losing us completely.

I can't help. Instead I concentrate on creating a mental map of north London in my head, trying to calculate which turns we make and the direction we're heading. The minutes and miles tick by.

The weight of the trunk is keeping it closed until we hit a pothole, when it tries to jump open. I raise my head and try to peer through the narrow gap. The only thing visible is the light gray tarmac and occasional flashes of headlights.

Through the earpiece I can monitor Aleksei and the Russian. The BMW has been discounted. Now they're heading toward Kilburn, relying solely on the signal from the diamonds.

Rolling onto my back, I keep one hand on the lid of the trunk and feel along the inside walls until I locate the internal light. The bulb feels smooth in my fingertips and I twist it free from the socket.

Several times the car stops and does a U-turn. Either Rachel is lost or they're still making her jump through hoops. She's driving faster now. The streets are emptier.

The car crosses a speed hump and suddenly stops. Is this it? I slide my gun from its holster and cradle it on my chest.

“Hey, Lady, you want to slow down. I almost took you for a joyrider.” It is a man's voice. He might be a security guard with too much time on his hands. “Are you lost?”

“No. I'm looking for a . . . for a friend's house.”

“I wouldn't recommend you hang around here, Lady. Best you head back the way you came.”

“You don't understand. I have to keep going.”

I can almost hear him chewing this over as if he wants to phone a friend before making a decision. “Maybe I didn't make myself clear,” he drawls.

“But I have to—”

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” he says. He's walking around the car, kicking at the tires.

“Please, let me go.”

“And what's the big hurry? You in some sort of trouble?”

A wind has come up. Corrugated iron flaps on the ground and I can hear a dog barking. When the man reaches the rear of the car he notices the trunk is popped off its latch. His fingers hook under the lid.

As it opens, I slide my gun through the opening and press it into his groin. His jaw drops open and helps him take a deep breath.

“You are jeopardizing a police undercover operation,” I hiss. “Back away from the car and let the lady go.”

He blinks several times and nods, before slowly lowering the trunk. As the car pulls away I see his hand raised as if holding a salute.

Moving quickly again, we appear to be circling an industrial estate. Rachel is looking for something. She pulls off the road onto rough ground and stops, killing the engine.

In the sudden silence I can hear her voice but only one side of the conversation. “I can't see any traffic cone,” she says. “No, I can't see it.” She's growing desperate. “It's just a vacant lot . . . Wait! I see it now.”

The door opens. I feel the car gently rock. I don't want her leaving. She has to stay close to me. There is no time to weigh my options. Hopefully, Aleksei and the Russian will have caught up with us and are holding their position.