Harry nodded. Laura didn’t. She seemed too traumatised to move.
The gunman turned to her and first tugged the makeshift gag out of her mouth. Then he used the wipes to clean her breast - the one his partner had assaulted. He wasn’t gentle about it, but Laura made no protest.
“When we find Renshaw – which we will – he’ll be questioned before we deal with him. If it turns out you knew him, or helped him in any way, the same thing applies. We’ll take your daughter when you least expect it and she will die a slow and painful death. Then we’ll come for your wife. Then you. Understand?”
Harry nodded again. He could hardly dare to believe that this could be ended without bloodshed.
“Say it.”
“Yes. I get you.”
The gun was aimed at Laura. “You?”
“Yes.” The gun didn’t move, so she said it again. “Yes. I understand.”
A snort from Jason, but Harry had the impression that he wasn’t completely in agreement with his partner. He was in no hurry to leave. Not while there was fun to be had.
Harry realised he’d been too quickly seduced by the anticipation of release. This man could so easily reach out and cut Sophie, by way of a parting shot, and there would be nothing they could do to stop it happening.
Then the gunman said, “Give it back to them,” and Jason scooped Sophie up with one hand, provoking a howl of anguish. He dumped her down on Laura, who immediately wrapped her daughter in a protective embrace, pulling the duvet up and turning away from the two men as if they no longer existed.
“Stay exactly where you are for ten minutes. And remember: no police.”
“And don’t be getting cocky,” Jason added. “Don’t wake up tomorrow and remember this any different from how it was. You’re shitting yourselves right now, and that’s how it’s got to stay.”
They backed up to the door, the gun still raised, and then they were gone.
Harry and Laura couldn’t have moved if they’d wanted to. They listened to the intruders descending the stairs, then heard the rattle of a bolt being drawn back. The front door opened and shut, firmly, and they were gone.
It was over.
It was only just beginning.
Tom Bale has had a variety of jobs but none was as exhausting as the several years he spent as a house-husband with two pre-school children. Tom has been writing since the age of seven and completed his first novel at fifteen. After more than twenty years and hundreds of rejection slips his first novel, SINS OF THE FATHER, was published under his real name, David Harrison. With his next book, SKIN AND BONES, he acquired an agent, a pseudonym and a book deal with Random House. He now writes full-time but still manages to waste far too many hours online. To combat this lack of willpower he often writes in cafes, and he counters a lifelong addiction to chocolate by walking, cycling and swimming in the sea.
For more information, visit his website at www.tombale.net, follow on him on Facebook or on Twitter: @t0mbale (zero instead of ‘o’)