The Ben Hope Collection: 6 BOOK SET. Scott Mariani

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ at her. She squeezed harder on the trigger, but it was stuck or something–the gun wouldn’t work. Three more guards filed through the doorway, all pointing similar weapons at her.

      And they’d all remembered to cock theirs.

      Bozza snatched the gun away from her. He caught the fist she swung at him, and twisted her arm up tight behind her back. A stab of pain. Another quarter inch and he’d break it. He marched her back to her cell and flung her into it. The barred door clanged shut behind her.

      Bozza was filled with desire to cut this woman up, slowly and deliberately. He took out his knife and scraped the blade down the steel bars. ‘When your friend Hope gives himself up to us,’ he whispered in that hoarse, strangled voice, ‘we are all going to have some fun.’

      She spat in his face, and he wiped it away with a harsh laugh.

      Then she watched as Bozza slit the scrawny guard’s throat and bled him squealing like a pig into the drain in the middle of the cellar.

51

      France’s long hot summers, easy pace of life, good food and wine were qualities that attracted a great many retired British folks to leave behind the decaying island empire and resettle in mainland Europe. But not all of the ex-pats who settled there were the usual former solicitors, academics or businesspeople. It had been years since Ben’s old forces friend Jack had left the rain-drenched city of Blackpool and found himself a nice beach house near Marseille. Jack was semi-retired now, but he still had a few clients. His business was electronic surveillance…and a few related things on the side.

      The Triumph Daytona blasted down the French coastal road like a missile. It was a two-hour drive to Marseille. Ben aimed to do it in one.

      Five hours later he was riding back the other way with a large black hold-all strapped to the pillion.

      The broad paved driveway cut between lush lawns to the sparkling glass and white stone façade of the modern building nestling in the trees. On one of the tall stone pillars at the gateway was a shining brass plaque with a cross and the inscription CENTRE FOR CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. Parked outside the building were rows of cars. From where Ben was standing at the gateway he could make out the discreet security cameras that swivelled and scanned the grounds from the foliage. The wrought-iron gates were shut. There was another camera on the wall, with a buzzer for visitors.

      The kid would have climbed the wall to get in, which meant that his moped should be outside the grounds somewhere. Ben parked the Triumph a few metres down the road, and walked up and down peering under the bushes and trees. Where the rough grassy bank met the tarmac on the opposite side of the road, he found a light tyre-track in the dirt. The bank led gently up to a clump of thorny bushes and the trees beyond. He followed the flattened grass and found part of a footprint in the earth. Through the greenery he made out something bright yellow. He lifted a leafy branch and found the tail-end of the 50cc Yamaha protruding from the bushes. The registration number bolted to the rear mudguard was the same one Natalie Dubois had given him.

      Ben walked quietly back to the Daytona. He’d already figured out his plan. He unstrapped the black hold-all from the pillion seat and laid it gently on the grass. He opened the side panniers of the motorcycle and reached inside for the blue overall and electrical equipment.

      The receptionist was just about to take her coffee break when the electrician walked into the plush lobby of the Centre for Christian Education and came up to her desk. He was wearing work overalls and a cap, carrying a hold-all and a small toolbox.

      ‘I thought all the rewiring work was finished,’ she said. She noticed that he had nice blue eyes.

      ‘I’m just here to inspect it all, mademoiselle,’ the electrician replied. ‘Won’t take long. I just need to check a few things, take a few notes. Health and safety, all that red tape–building regs, you know how it is.’ He flashed her a laminated card, which she supposed was OK although he didn’t quite give her time to read it.

      ‘What’s in there?’ she asked, nodding at the holdall.

      ‘Oh, just rolls of wire and stuff. Electrical meter, bits and bobs, tools of the trade. Want to have a look?’ He dumped the bag on the desk and partly unzipped it to show coloured wires poking out from inside.

      She smiled. ‘No, that’s OK, I’ll take your word for it. See you later.’

52

      Place du Peyrou, Montpellier

      The unmarked van pulled up in the square at one minute to eleven. As arranged, Ben was waiting for it by the Louis XIV statue. The rear doors burst open and four large men spilled out. He raised his arms in surrender as they encircled him. A pistol was shoved in his back and he was frisked. He was unarmed. They bundled him roughly into the van, and made him sit between two of his captors on a hard bench. The rear windows were painted over, and a wooden partition sealed the cab off from the back and hid any view of the outside world. The van lurched away and the clattering diesel engine reverberated in the metal shell. ‘I don’t suppose anyone would care to tell me where we’re going?’ he asked, wedging his feet on the wheel-arch opposite him to keep from sliding across the bench. He wasn’t expecting a reply. As they sat in silence, four cold pairs of eyes, a Glock 9mm, a Kel-Tech .40 calibre and two Skorpion machine pistols were all trained steadily on him.

      The bumping, rattling journey lasted about half an hour. Judging by the way the van was bouncing around, they must have left main roads behind and headed out into the country. That was what he’d expected. Eventually the van slowed to a crawl, turned sharply to the right, and crunched over gravel. Then onto concrete. A lurch, and down a steep ramp. Then it stopped and the rear doors opened.

      More armed men. A torch shone in Ben’s face. Harsh orders were spoken and he was dragged out of the van and landed heavily on his feet. They were in an underground car-park.

      With gun barrels in his back, he was prodded and pushed up a short flight of stone steps. They walked into the darkened building, through dim corridors. Torchlight darted from behind him. At the end of a narrow corridor was a low doorway. One of the guards, the bearded one with the Skorpion, rattled keys and unfastened padlocks. The heavy door swung open and in the flashing light he saw it was iron, riveted, armoured.

      A flight of stone steps led down to a cellar. The echoing voices of his guards told him that it was a big space. Torchlight reflected off stone pillars. And something else, a glint of steel bars. At the far end of the room he thought he saw a face peering blinking at the bright lights.

      It was Roberta.

      Before he could call to her, he was shoved towards another doorway. An iron bolt ground open. A door creaked and he was pushed into the cell. The door slammed shut behind him and the bolt ground home.

      In the darkness he explored his surroundings. He was alone in the cell. The walls were solid, probably double-bricked. No windows. He sat on a hard bed and waited. The only light was the dim green glow of his watch.

      After some twenty minutes, around midnight, they came for him, and he was led at gunpoint back through the cavernous cellar.

      ‘Ben?’ It was Roberta’s voice, edged with fear, calling him from far away. She was silenced by a harsh word from a guard standing near her cage.

      Up СКАЧАТЬ