Authors: Sarah Masters
Frost nodded. “Good point there, mate. Anyway, back to the Bethnal Green lad. From what you've told me about him, I'd say he's been nicked. Fucking gang members have no clue how to evade the law, though they'd protest different. Still, there's always tomorrow. Catching one of
those
little fuckers would make for an interesting study, don't you think?"
Jonathan nodded. “Yeah. There's something about watching their outer shell crack and seeing the soft shit inside."
"I agree. Very rewarding part of the job. So, where did the feisty one come from?” Frost asked.
"Harrow Wield."
"Fuck me. A little way off our patch, isn't it?"
Jonathan shrugged. “What does it matter where they fucking come from?"
"True, true. Kevin getting him ready for me?"
Jonathan nodded. “Yeah. Reckon he'll have got him to drink the lemonade by now."
"Good, good.” Frost downed the rest of his drink, wincing at the burn, slid his feet in his slippers, and made his way to the basement.
The boy sat on a wooden chair in the middle of the room, anger subdued. Two spots of high colour stood out on his cheeks, and he'd lost his baseball cap since coming down here. Frost would have to make sure it was found. Burned.
"Hello,” Frost said, standing about a metre in front of him.
Some kids, despite the lemonade, struck out. Frost didn't fancy a bruised shin.
"Fuck you,” the kid slurred.
"Now, now. No need to be nasty."
"You're
so
fucking dead,” he said, eyeing Frost with hate.
"Oh, really? I rather think it could be the other way around if you don't shut the fuck up and tell me what I want to know."
Frost's tone had unsettled the boy, and he glanced down at the floor until another bout of defiance gripped him. “Even if you kill me, you're still dead."
"How so?” Frost asked, curiosity piqued at the certainty in the boy's voice.
"My dad's a copper.” He sneered.
"And that helps you how?”
Cocky little shit.
"He'll find me. Find you. Lock you up."
"Ah, but it's not as easy as that, is it? Consider this: What if no one saw you taken? What if no one saw the van?"
"Someone will have, you'll see."
Frost smiled at the fact the lemonade appeared to be doing its job. No need for an injection with this boy. “Right. If you say so."
"I do."
"So tell me.” Frost eyed the blond hair, the undefined jaw, the angry blue eyes. “What's your father's name?"
"Mike Darrow."
Frost had sampled the boy, proclaimed him suitable, and left him in Croft's care. He'd gone to his office and Googled Darrow, finding out the man was at the top of his class and well respected within the community. Not that it mattered. Every caring parent crumbled when their child went missing, no matter how hardened they thought they were to the harsh realities of life. It was one thing to deal with this kind of thing as your job, but when it invaded your personal life...
Deciding Darrow wasn't a threat, Frost had continued life as normal, although he kept a closer eye on the news. The boy's disappearance had made the top slot on the local TV network, and a grim-faced Darrow had spoken directly to Frost through the camera: “Be under no illusion. I
will
find you."
Whatever...
Frost stared at the boy now, smug in the knowledge the detective's son would be going on to a life without his father in it. Except in his dreams and memories, that was. Six months hadn't changed the kid. He still had the same fighting spirit he'd arrived with, and Hawthorn, who jabbed the keypad several more times, was possibly the only man Frost knew who could tame him.
Frost lifted the walkie-talkie. “Turn around and face the back wall."
The boy stared at the mirror, defiance bleeding out of him. If he didn't turn within thirty seconds, Frost would go in there and make sure he fucking did. A surge of anger burned in his belly. If the kid fucked up this viewing... He glanced at Hawthorn to check the man's reaction. The boy still hadn't turned, and a lecherous grin spread over the punter's face. Anger doused by Hawthorn's expression, Frost turned back to the boy and repeated his request.
Darrow's son remained in place.
Jerking the door handle down, Frost entered the corridor and shoved his man guarding the door to the viewing room out of the way. He took a deep breath to compose himself then went inside. Shielded from the punters by the door, Frost growled, “Fucking turn around or your father'll find himself minus a damn life."
The boy blinked several times, and he appeared to be weighing the truth in Frost's statement. Whether Frost's tone brooked no argument or the lad thought it best to just do as he'd been asked, he turned and faced the back wall.
"Good,” Frost said. “And when I ask you to turn and face this door, fucking do it.” Barging out, Frost stepped back into the viewing room. “Sorry about that, gentlemen. It seems our little guest doesn't know how to behave."
Hawthorn's eyes gleamed, and he rubbed his cock faster. Bouncing out of his chair, he approached the window, eyeing the boy with wide eyes. Frost studied the other punters, those with seats beside Hawthorn appearing disgruntled that he blocked their view.
"If you could retake your seat, sir,” Frost said, taking a step forward.
Hawthorn ignored him.
"Please, sir. The other customers can't see.” Frost stretched out a hand to place it on Hawthorn's arm.
Hawthorn threw it off. “This one's mine."
Frost gave an unsteady laugh. “It doesn't quite work like that, sir. You read the bidding rules. They apply to everyone."
"Get him out of the fucking way,” another man said. “And if he can't abide by the rules, get him the hell out!"
Unused to such behaviour—Hawthorn
was
new, and shit, Frost wished he'd vetted him better now—Frost had to think on his feet. “Sir. Mr Hawthorn, sir. Please return to your seat, otherwise my men will have to escort you off the property.” When Hawthorn ignored him, he added, “And they are armed."
While Hawthorn had been at the mirror, Frost had noted from his peripheral vision the other men bidding fast and furiously. By the time Hawthorn returned to his chair, he'd find the price for the boy had enlarged dramatically.
Hawthorn reluctantly ripped his gaze from the boy and stared at Frost. Lips wet and slack, he dashed his tongue out to lick them. “Like I said, that one's mine.” He stomped back to his seat, flopping down and leaning toward his keypad. His eyes bulged at the amount on the screen.
Frost peeked at his little machine.
The boy currently cost half a million pounds.
"This is fucking rigged!” Hawthorn shouted, leaping out of his chair. “When I went up to that window, that kid cost a hundred grand!"
Anticipating trouble—real trouble—Frost gave Mike the nod.
"Sir,” Frost said, waving a placating hand. “If you'd just like to bid yourself..."
Hawthorn bunched his fists, standing in the middle of the room. Mike strode toward him, and Frost caught a glimpse of Russell and Toby as they watched, their faces showing shock and more than a little concern.
Mike took hold of Hawthorn's arm. “Are you going to sit down, sir?"
Hawthorn attempted to shake Mike off but failed.
"I repeat, for the last time I might add, are you going to sit down, sir?"
Frost had a bad feeling about this.
Hawthorn raised his other arm, and everything happened in slow motion. The punter's fist connected with Mike's jaw, sending the man sprawling backward. The other customers rose as one, converging on Hawthorn to diffuse the situation. Somehow, Hawthorn broke free of the scrum and headed directly for Frost. Quickly opening the door and barking an order at his man to secure the boys, Frost slammed the door again and pressed his back against it.
Hawthorn reached Frost in a second, and just before the punter obscured his view of the rest of the room, Frost saw Jonathan filling the doorway.
Hawthorn raised his hands, clamping them around Frost's throat.
And then all hell broke loose.
Croft heard the commotion going on in the viewing room and quickly moved to the living room doorway. He stared across the foyer, just making out a boy standing in the spotlight, his back to the room. None of the punters sat in their chairs, and strangled groans filtered to him along with muffled shouts and curses.
What the fuck?
Russell and Toby appeared in the doorway, Toby looking left and right for somewhere to run, no doubt.
What the hell was going on? Had something gone wrong?
As Croft marched across the foyer, he felt in his jacket for his mobile phone in order to text Darrow. It wasn't there.
Fuck!
He patted himself, panic taking over his limbs, his heartbeat accelerating and his pulse thudding in his ears. It would mean he'd have to alert Darrow face to face, and if Frost saw him...
Toby gripped Russell's wrist and dragged him across the foyer toward the door. Running to intercept them, Croft chanced a peek inside the viewing room. The punters surrounded Frost, apparently trying to pull a man off him, whose hands held tight around Frost's neck.
Go on, kill the son of a bitch.
Jonathan reached the melee at the same time as a staggering Mike, and Croft knew guns would be drawn any second.
While the people in the viewing room were distracted, he made a snap decision. Yanking open the front door, he glanced about for Darrow, who spun from his position at the bottom of the steps, his stance showing he was ready for action. Toby and Russell barged past Croft and out into the night, halting on the top step as another police officer pulled out a gun and aimed it at them. Darrow also drew his gun.
"Wait!” Croft said, breaths coming hard and fast. “These two are all right—Russell and Toby. You need to get in here now, Darrow. Fuck knows what's going on in there, and I don't know who's minding the bloody kids!"
Croft's stomach churned at the thought of Fraser left unguarded. He hadn't been able to see if the men who usually stood guard in the corridor were among those in the jostling crowd.
If anything happens to Fraser...
Darrow gave a shrill whistle through his teeth. It pierced the air, sharp and loud, and several coppers ran from the darkness toward the house. Croft went back inside, thankful the heavy footsteps of the police sounded behind him.
"In there!” he shouted, pointing at the viewing room door.
Frost would think he had alerted security, and for now that suited Croft. Torn between helping in the viewing room and finding Fraser, brotherly love won out. Croft dashed through the front doorway, rushing down the steps and spotting Russell and Toby running full pelt toward the side of the house where the car park was.
"Wait! Where are you fucking going?” Croft yelled, chasing after them.
"The kids,” Russell shouted. “We've got to save the kids!"
"Fuck!” Speeding up, Croft came abreast of them. “They should be guarded, and the police will get to them in time. We're meant to stick to the fucking plan!"
"Yeah.” Toby panted. “But what if they're not guarded? What if the police don't get to them? D'you want your brother getting hurt?"
They streaked across the car park until they reached a side door. Croft peered through the glass, relieved to see one of Frost's men outside the mirror-room door and one outside the holding room.
"They're all right,” Croft gasped out. “What the fuck happened in there?"
Russell eyed the corridor then looked at Croft. “Some punter got funny. Reckoned the kid being shown was his, so he stood close to the glass for a better look. The others didn't like it, and Frost asked the bloke to sit down. He wouldn't. Fuck, they're so sick. I almost lost it in there."
"Tough, isn't it?” Croft said, compassion for Russell and Toby having to witness the nasty side of life making his mouth downturn.
Croft looked back through the glass, mentally working out why the police hadn't come through the bottom door yet. There were enough of them, and he had no doubt some of them who'd be guarding the back of the house would have gone round to the front by now. Some would stay behind to make sure no one ran, and others still would enter the house and search out the rest of Frost's men, but tonight there was only a skeleton crew, seeing as the viewings always ran so smoothly. Frost had been proud to relate that fact.
That information had shocked Croft this afternoon. He'd wanted all of Frost's men caught, but they wouldn't be back until morning, and unless Frost had alerted them via his speed dial warning, the police could lay in wait for their return.
The door at the end of the corridor suddenly burst open, and the police poured through. Frost's two men put up a good fight but were knocked to the ground in short order, handcuffed and dragged into the viewing room.
Half of the police officers poured into the holding room.
On instinct, Croft tried the door handle. It turned.
"Jesus! They left the fucking door
unlocked!
” He dashed inside, heading for the commotion at the other end. “Guard the fucking door!” he shouted to Russell and Toby over his shoulder.
Despite the high police presence, Croft managed to infiltrate the crowd, following Darrow inside the mirror room. He'd guessed, by the amount of time that had passed, that Fraser would be in there by now. He had to make sure his brother was all right, to see him one last time before being arrested and carted off.
Croft stopped dead in the doorway. A kid, the one who had refused to tell Croft his name despite his best efforts, stared at Darrow, a broad grin across his face.
"I
knew
you'd come!” he said. “I knew it!"
The lad flung himself at Darrow, who wrapped his arms around that slender back and held on tight.
"Jesus fucking Christ,” Darrow said, his voice hoarse. “I had no fucking idea, son. No fucking idea you were here."
Son?
Darrow drew back, holding the boy by the arms. “Let me look at you. Oh, Jesus. It's so good to see you.” He hugged him again, the boy's face pressed to his chest, Darrow's hand holding the lad's head steady.