Andrew Grant - Even

He came over and stood next to me.

“You struck me as a smart guy when we talked before,” he said. “So I’ll level with you. I’m looking for a little bonus. Some information.”

“Information only I have?”

“No. Several people have it. But you could save me the trouble.”

“I could save you some trouble. My lifelong ambition. And if I give you this information, I go free?”

“No. You die. In this room. In around thirty minutes’ time.”

“Well, then, it may just be me, but I’m not really seeing much of an incentive.”

Taylor went back into his room and reappeared ten seconds later carrying an old-fashioned doctor’s case. The brown leather was worn into holes where it folded and the metal clasp at the top clearly didn’t work anymore. Taylor laid it down on the dressing table and levered it open. He took out a glass vial full of a clear, colorless liquid and placed it next to the bag. Then he pulled out a brass syringe. It was huge. He curled two fingers around the curved flanges on the side of its wide body, slipped his thumb into the loop at the end of the plunger, and held it out at arm’s length.

“Trying to compensate for something?” I said.

“Bigger than average, I know,” he said. “It’s European. An antique. It came from some old veterinarian, over there. Holds eighty milliliters. More than you really need for humans. But when I go to work with this baby, you don’t need to worry about air bubbles. Because you know what I’ll be injecting.”

He tapped the needle against the top of the vial.

“Is that the stuff you implanted in your patients?”

Taylor nodded.

“Then you can’t use it on me,” I said.

“Oh?” he said. “Why not?”

“You’d end up with 321 victims. One too many. Ruin the symbolism. Everyone would laugh at you.”

Taylor smiled.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “My guys will sit you in the bath, first. Your blood will just trickle away down the drain like watered-down cranberry juice. No one will know. Except you, obviously. If you force us down that road.”

I didn’t reply.

“We don’t have to go that way,” he said. “You could be sensible.”

I took a moment to glance up at Taylor. I could feel the time slipping away from me. I wanted to move on him. Find out what he knew. But I could see it was too soon. He wasn’t ready for the close. I only had one chance. I couldn’t afford to blow it. And I still needed a way to free myself from the chair.

“I never really did well with sensible,” I said.

“Maybe I can change you mind.”

“You can try. But I have to warn you. It wouldn’t be the first time. And it’s never worked before.”

Taylor put the syringe down on the dressing table. Then he stretched across, picked up my gun, checked it was loaded, and placed it carefully on the other side of the vial.

“There,” he said. “Have a look at your choices.”

He reached down to my left wrist and unfastened my watch.

“He can’t escape?” he said.

“No,” the rabbit guy said.

“The ties. They’re tight enough?”

“They are.”

“The chair. He can’t break it?”

“No.”

Taylor added the watch to the collection of items in front of me, laying it down so that one of the straps was touching the syringe and the other was nestling against the barrel of the gun.

“We’re going next door, now,” he said, picking up his bag. “There’s something we need to do. It’ll take us ten minutes. That’ll give you time, on your own. To think. Then you can tell me how you’d like your life to end.”

One thing really annoyed me about our training regime, at first.

It was to do with the instructors. They never gave us accurate information. If they told us to run twenty miles, they’d change it to twenty-five. And then thirty. If they sent us to steal five people’s credit card numbers, they’d really want ten. Or probably fifteen. For a while I thought they were just disorganized. That, or plain sadistic. But then it dawned on me. There was a message hidden in the chaos.

Don’t count on anything being over. Ever.

No matter how good or bad it’s looking.

The rabbit guy was right about two things. The cable ties were tight enough. And the chair was too strong to break. But when it came to me not escaping, there was another factor he’d completely overlooked.

The length of my legs.

As soon as the connecting door slammed shut behind Taylor I tipped the chair back and held it balanced on the toes of my right foot. I shifted my left leg to the side until my thigh was clear of the cushion, pushed down hard, and wriggled the cable tie over the tip of the shiny metal leg. The same thing worked for my right ankle. Then I levered myself to my feet, suspending the chair behind me like some kind of cumbersome backpack.

I folded my arms up until my wrists were level with my shoulder blades and leaned forward to transfer some of the chair’s weight onto my back. I held tight with my right hand and slid my left about nine inches down the leg. Then I shifted my grip to my left hand and brought my right down until it was roughly level. I heaved the chair back up as high as I could and took hold with my right hand again. This time I straightened my left arm out all the way. I felt the cable tie slide smoothly down the metal. It reached the very end of the leg. Then it snagged on something. A kind of rubber foot, presumably designed to stop the chair from slipping on the floor. I snapped my wrist around in a sharp circle once, twice, three times until finally the tie worked itself clear. The chair spun around to the side, suddenly supported in only a single place, but I grabbed hold again before it hit the floor. Then I wrestled my right hand free and silently lowered it down.

I checked my watch. Two minutes twenty had ticked away. I picked up the gun, removed the magazine and emptied it onto the bed. I ejected the final round from the chamber, slotted the parts back together, and returned it to the exact same spot on the dressing table. Then I scooped up the bullets, dropped them inside one of the pillowcases at the head of the bed, smoothed out the duvet, and came back for the syringe.

The needle was broad. It was a tight fit, but I managed to force it into the catch on the cable tie around my left wrist. I kept pushing until the little plastic tongue was bent back, safely out of the way. I did the same for the ties on my right wrist and both ankles. Then I replaced the syringe and got ready for the hard part. Reversing the process I’d just gone through. I had to reattach myself to the chair before anyone caught me.

Taylor came back a minute early and found me sitting with my chin on my chest, snoring gently.

“Wake up,” he said. “It’s decision time.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Well, I was thinking we should do it in the Caribbean. On a beach. With a cold beer in my hand. Something like that.”

“Not ready to be sensible?”

“No.”

“I thought you might say that. So. I’ve got something new to put on the table. The chance to see your friend, one last time.”

“Tanya?”

“You have other friends who’ve been kidnapped recently?”

“Is she here?”

“No. But if you cooperate, I’ll take you to her.”

“I want to see her first. Then we’ll talk.”

“No. Something here needs my attention. You tell me what I want to know. I’ll finish my work. Then we’ll go.”

“How do I know she’s still alive?”

“You know who’s holding her?”

“Lesley.”

“Correct. And what are the odds, would you say, of Lesley missing the chance to kill you while your friend watches? As long as you’re breathing, nothing will happen to her. Nothing terminal, anyway.”