Snatched (8 page)

So far, so good.

He knew full well how boring a gig like the one his guard had been given was. He’d done it himself often enough. Sitting for hours in a van, keeping surveillance on a suspect who might or might not emerge. Sitting for hours in a van waiting for the signal to launch a raid, a signal that might never come. Sitting for hours by a bed waiting for a witness with vital information to awake from a medically induced coma. It was mind-numbing work.

A half hour later, Mac opened his eyes and looked at his guard. ‘Don’t mind me. If you want to surf the net on your phone or read the papers, be my guest. I’m in the game myself; I know what a job like this is like.’

The cop nodded but didn’t take him up on his suggestion. But ten minutes later, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. Ten minutes after that, they began chatting. Then they were laughing and swapping surveillance stories. Mac was careful to keep his voice soft and weak and to occasionally cough. By the time, a nurse appeared, the two men were well on their way to becoming colleagues rather than prisoner and jailer. The nurse gave Mac some more pills and watched while he took them. His request for more pain killers and sedatives was declined but when Mac began to seem on the verge of blubbing, she gave him another couple while making a careful note of what she’d done. On the way out, the nurse asked the guard whether he would like a cup of tea and biscuit. He said yes. A few minutes later, she was back with tea, biscuits and a sandwich.

Mac wasn’t sure whether he should wait until the next time the nurse paid them a visit.

No. If he was going to make his move it had to be now.

Twelve

Mac groaned with pain, hands tightly holding his stomach. The cop looked up in alarm from the sandwich he’d just begun. He jumped up and stood over the bed, unsure what to do next.

‘Get me a nurse . . . please . . . I’m on fire.’ When his new friend began hunting for the red button to summon help, Mac cried louder. ‘Jeee-suus. Get a doctor, I’m dying . . .’

In a panic, the cop ran to the door, unlocked it with his key and dashed down the ward shouting for a nurse.

Mac moved quickly. Under his tongue were all the pills he’d been given and he’d used his teeth to break them into piece. He reached across for his guard’s tea and spat the various pieces into the mug. It was about a dozen pills in all – pain killers, sedatives and various others that he assumed were to control his behaviour. The pain in his limbs made him groan for real as he tried to stir the drink with a finger.

Then he lay back down and waited the brief period before two nurses and the anxious cop burst back into the room. Mac lay steady while his pulse and heartbeat were checked. His brow was mopped and a conversation took place between the nurses. When one leaned over the bed and asked him how he was doing, Mac confessed he’d woken to find someone in the room with him and he suspected the man was going to kill him.

The officer leaned over the bed. ‘That was me mate . . .’

One of the nurses smiled at his attempt to be of assistance and pointed him to his seat. The atmosphere was calmer now and there was another whispered conversation between the nurses, a squeeze of the arm for Mac and assurance that he was OK. The nurses left, one indicating with a finger to her lips that the guard should be silent.

When they were gone the guard locked the door and sat down again, studying his disturbed charge closely. He in turn was being watched with half an eye. Mac could hear his own internal and silent voice.

Don’t watch me. I’m fine. Drink your tea, you idiot.

Mac couldn’t be sure what cocktail of drugs he’d actually laced the mug with. But he was confident that if he wasn’t going to die from it, neither was the other guy. But would the pills be enough to render the man in the chair incapable of stopping him escaping?

‘I’m alright,’ Mac said weakly. ‘Do me a favour. Tuck into your sandwich. Drink your tea.’

His guard started nibbling on his sandwich and drinking his tea. There was a look of slight disgust on the man’s face as he slurped away but it was difficult to tell whether it had become cold or there was a chemical tang left by the cocktail of drugs. The cop raised his mug to prove that he’d drunk its contents almost as if he was Mac’s accomplice. It had been a lot pills and it had to have some effect. Didn’t it?

For fifteen minutes though, it didn’t. Instead it seemed to make the officer more animated rather than less. The cop looked over to see if Mac was awake. When he saw that he was, he asked, ‘Do you mind if I open the window? It’s a bit stuffy in here isn’t it?’

It was working.

Mac shivered. ‘I’m freezing mate. It will be a real shit if I ended up with pneumonia.’

There was a sigh, which was followed at regular intervals by other sighs and draws of breath. Inwardly, Mac was begging him –
Fall off your chair you bastard. I’ve gotta get out of here.

But the officer remained rooted straight in the chair. Mac squeezed his eyes tight and wished he hadn’t. More disturbing images came – less defined than the ones he had suffered the night before when he’d fixed himself in a stress position. Children’s laughter. Gunfire. More laughter, followed by the eerie disembodied voice of Tom Bracken asking what kind of outfit Phil Delaney was running over there. And, all the time, the black shadowed bitch with the hair fluttered above his head. Followed by John Mac with an adult American accent asking him,
What kind of an outfit are you running Daddy?
And the constant flutter of the black figure above his head. He couldn’t see her face. But he knew who she was.

Mac snapped his eyes open with a start and looked over at his guard. The man looked pale, his body unnaturally strained straight. A sheen of sweat glistened against his forehead and nose.

‘Are you alright?’

The cop didn’t even look at Mac as he answered, ‘Yeah. I—’

His head flopped forward and it started swaying gently. Mac climbed out of bed before falling backwards as every muscle in his limbs and back begged for relief. Gasping, he used his hands to massage his arms and legs. Like an old man, he made another effort, struggling over to where his victim was motionless in his chair, coaxing in a hypnotic tone, ‘You need to get into bed.’

‘What?’ came the mumbled reply, but the guard didn’t lift his head.

Mac draped the half-conscious man’s arms over his shoulders, inhaled deeply, then on the out breath he pulled. The dead weight made his back instantly hurt. But Mac ignored the pain and kept pulling, pulling, pulling.

They reached the bed. He let the officer collapse back. It had been some serious chemical cosh he’d been prescribed. Urgently Mac peeled his uniform off – jacket, shirt, trousers and shoes and climbed into it. The size didn’t really fit but the policeman’s cap he put on looked right. It took nearly five minutes to lace up the shoes and find the room’s key in the pockets. On the uniform he also found standard issue telescopic baton and stun gun. He moved, stumbled and hit the door with his face as he tried to open it and escape. Stunned for a few seconds, he saw John Mac’s face again – sweet baby fat and all smiling. His fury at losing his son to his own stupidity engulfed him. Fuelled by anger he reopened his eyes and pressed the key into the lock. Click.

He pulled the door open. Peered outside.

The room was at the end of a ward that seemed ordinary, with patients and staff moving around. He realised he had no idea what the time was and he’d forgotten to steal the officer’s watch. But it seemed to be the morning. Struck by guilt, he went back into the room and took out the notebook in the pocket of his new jacket and wrote two messages:

The guy on the bed has ingested whatever medicines were prescribed for John MacDonagh. Sort him out.

Second message:

FAO Phil Delaney. Don’t blame the guard. I spat my drugs into his tea and he drank it without realising. I haven’t had a breakdown and I haven’t got my son. Sorry about this Phil but you’ll understand my boy’s welfare is at stake and I have to do something about it.

He propped the notes on the bedside table and finally left the room. Walked down the corridor with his head slightly bowed.

An anonymous phone call to the ward alerted medical staff to the fact that a man was in need of urgent medical attention in the room that had been assigned to John MacDonagh.

The note for Phil Delaney was handed to him later in a meeting where he was discussing progress on the hunt for the missing baby. He read it twice, sighed and whispered to no one in particular, ‘I taught you too well Mac.’

Thirteen

Mac’s car was parked a half mile away from the Research Unit office in a side street, his new gun hidden in the crevice of the spare tyre. Instead of setting off he was overwhelmed with a desire to stretch out on the back seat and take a nap. He shoved the feeling off and got down to business. Via backstreets and quiet roads, he drove to within a half mile of the house that had been Garcia’s home in London before his arrest. While the stolen uniform he wore would reassure the neighbours and passers-by, it would attract the attention of any police left to keep an eye on the house. He decided a marked car he could deal with. Surveillance cameras on the other hand might be a problem. He put the Beretta into his jacket and set off on foot.

The ache in his muscles became manageable as he strode down the street, swinging his arms and rolling his neck, hoping to look like a bored cop doing his exercises while patrolling the street. He walked past Garcia’s house, catching furtive glances as he went by. It seemed grander than it appeared in the computer feed he’d half-watched a few days earlier. The only feature that distinguished it from neighbouring properties was the boarded-up front door and the remains of police tape hanging on the gate.

Mac continued to the end of the street. No guard on the house. No obvious surveillance. But, he decided, why would there be? The site of the arrest was already old news and his colleagues had better things to do. He walked round the block and back down the street, keeping his eyes open and then did a sharp right up the path to Garcia’s door. Pinned to it was a notice, which advised any official who had business to get in touch via a police phone number.

The boarding up was well done but Mac knew it would be no trouble to take down. He levered the boards off with the baton and inspected the damage behind. There was a lot of splintered wood and shattered stained glass where Phil’s team had crashed their way in. The locks were broken, the hinges hanging on for dear life and a gentle tap with the foot was enough to open it. Inside the house everything was in chaos from the raid. Mac manoeuvred a chair that was dumped in the hall up against the busted front door. He knew it wouldn’t keep anyone out for long.

But he didn’t want to keep anyone out. He just wanted advance warning that they were coming in. He also knew his adversary. She never came in through any front door. She was too clever for that. Because he knew Elena was coming to this house. She wouldn’t come straight away. She’d get everything ready down to the last detail first. But he knew she would come.

He searched the house and lingered for a while in the room that had served as his son’s nursery. He collected some of the boy’s toys that were on the floor and put them in a plastic bag, which he left in the hall, determined to take them with him when he left. And he would be leaving this place. Mac didn’t care about himself but he was also determined to stay alive. Strangers wouldn’t be bringing up his boy.

And neither would
she
.

He began to prepare the house to defend it against attack. He checked where the junction box was so he could throw the electricity if necessary. He took out light bulbs from strategic points in various rooms so he would be in darkness and she would be in light. He barricaded some windows to cut down the number of entry points and then created obstacles to channel the enemy in certain directions during a fight. He inspected access to the panelled secret room where the nanny had hidden with John Mac, in case he too needed to hide. Then he collected various items that would make a noise if knocked and placed them behind doors so he would know where she was in the house. He walked up the stairs and along the landing, checking for creaking floorboards so he knew where not to tread. He prepared everything like a military operation. When it was over, he prowled the house, checking and rechecking everything. He cleaned his gun and made sure it was fully loaded.

When it was over, he drew the curtains in the front room, leaving a small gap so he could see the front path. She would check the door first before deciding where to break in. Mac had removed all the lighting in the front room so it would be in complete darkness. All except for one lamp that was positioned by him that he could switch on and illuminate the room. He sat on a sofa that was turned towards the window. Everything was ready.

Occasionally, a car came down the quiet road and then passed by. From time to time, one would slow down and Mac would peer through the window to see what was happening. Sometimes one vehicle would pull up and doors would slam before the neighbours hurried into their homes, casting sideways glances at ‘that house’ and hoping ‘that business’ was all over.

Perhaps it was because he had prepared everything so well and was so pleased with his work that Mac made one bad mistake. In a long period when nothing seemed to move on the street, he rested his head against the back of the sofa. He fell into a twilight sleep. The dreams began again but he was conscious enough to understand that he was dreaming. When John Mac appeared telling him in an adult voice to be careful, the dreamer promised him that he was going to be careful. Then he told him to go away, he wasn’t real. Ghostly figures came to watch over him – DI Rio Wray and Calum Burns. Even Phil Delaney. He was swallowed up in blackness and silence. Then the black figure with brown hair appeared fluttering around his head.