I knew I should be trying to protect Jon and Carlene, but had I stayed, then I’d be taken. I was much more help to them free. I’d been captured before, and that had ended my military career, so I was somewhat reluctant to repeat the experience.
There was a fire escape at the end, so I swung onto it and slid down as fast as I could. I now had to make a decision. Whoever had come in were not amateurs, so the chances were they were to take and not to kill. They were also reluctant to leave witnesses, hence the silence shots. They now had to get their captives out of the hotel.
I ran round the side of the hotel to the rear, retrieving my phone and punching the emergency number. I knew I didn’t have to speak, as this would trace the phone by satellite no matter where it was.
Skidding to a halt, I ducked behind a rubbish skip, as four men bundled two hooded captives into the back of a plain white Renault Trafic van. Two other men, again dressed in black like their colleagues, followed them, bringing up the rear. These were professionals, not Special Forces standard, but good nevertheless. They were sloppy in certain respects, as they didn’t point their firearm where they were looking, at least they didn’t do the TV favourite of holding their weapons pointing upwards.
I was hoping to put my phone on the van so then we could track it, but there was no opportunity. It took off gently, making me smile, as these were professionals, no doubt at all. The last thing they wanted to do was draw attention to themselves, as Police the world over love reasons to stop vans moving about late at night.
As I stood cursing gently, I saw a sous-chef, complete with large black and white check trousers, come out of the rear doors. He went to a Kawasaki 900 motorcycle, undid the rear box, took out a leather jacket and started putting on his helmet.
I ran over to him.
“Monsieur, parlez-vous anglais?”
He shook his head. He looked tired, having just finished a long day.
I fished out a wedge of Euro notes.
“Followez cette van, cette Renault trafic!” I said, thrusting the money towards him.
He stared at me, yes, at the boobs and then my legs, before replying.
“Quoi?”
I pointed at the red lights of the van.
“Ca, van, Renault, allez!” I said, cursing the fact I couldn’t speak French.
He looked at the money, around two thousand Euros, and shrugged, pocketing it. Slinging his leg over the machine, he gestured for me to get on.
I wrapped my arms around his waist and hung on for dear life.
It was very cold, so I scrunched in tight behind the rider, but in doing so, failed to see the route or destination. I trusted my phone to do that for me.
He started to close up on the van, and I became concerned that they’d realise we were tailing them. I tried to recall my French lessons at school, tugging on his arm and shouting, “Lentement, doucement, pas trop proche!”
I just hoped I had said what I wanted to say.
It must have been nearly right, for my chef started to pull back
Eventually, the bike started to slow. We were outside the city, to the north. I looked over the man’s shoulder to see the van drive into a collection of farm buildings. He pulled up a good kilometre away.
I got off the bike, smiled my thanks and watched as the man took off again. I checked my phone, no signal. Bummer!
I was in the middle of the French countryside, late at light in winter with a sexy dress and a thin coat. I had no money left and one gun, so I needed a plan.
I slipped the Beretta out of my bag, chambering a round. I approached the farm, but then stopped. These men may not be SAS, but they were pros, so thermal imaging equipment would be a certainty. I sat down, out of the wind behind a wall, while I gathered my thoughts.
What would I do, if I were them?
My task, to take the son to use as a lever against the good professor.
The reality, the boy wasn’t alone, two girls were with him, and one escaped. What do I do, kill the remaining one or take her too? Why kill her? The police would get involved sooner, that is not a good idea. Take her and find out what she knows, one can always get rid of her later if she is of no use.
What about the one that got away?
Slow time enquiries will ascertain her identity, then another team could be despatched to deal with her later, if deemed necessary. This was supposed to be an easy job, but was now complicated and messy. People were not going to be happy, so tempers would be frayed.
So, what do I do with the two hostages?
One, move them out of the city to a safe house….done
Two, contact the paymaster and inform him of events…..probably being done
Three, keep them bound and hooded so the advantage is never lost. Keep them separate, so they both think they are alone. Never speak in their language, keep communications basic and obvious. Never let them sleep, as sleep deprivation keeps the advantage and makes the hostage more pliable….done
Four, keep constant watch from the house for covert approach by ground forces. Monitor a scanner to keep aware of any police of other radio traffic in vicinity. One man to check the sky for airborne assault…in place.
Five, rotate the troops, so no one gets complacent or sleepy. Take all food to the men on post; so do not drag them away to eat.
How many men would I need?
Let’s see, there were six on the job, leaving two at the house and one on point, I made that a minimum of nine. One against nine, those were odds I didn’t mind, particularly as I had an advantage. I was a girl!
What was the last thing they expected?
A frontal assault within minutes of arriving.
One problem, I had one gun and I had no team. I shrugged, still, they weren’t expecting me.
I risked a peep round the end of the wall. I tried to imagine the degree of organisation that was going on. The van had just pulled up, the hostages were being removed and were struggling or certainly requiring attention of four men. The leader wanted to supervise their incarceration, so the others would be watching. Taking a decision, I ran as fast as my heels allowed, across the uneven yard to an outhouse or barn.
From here, I could see the van had been parked inside a barn next to the main house. It was hidden from aerial view, and they’d parked it tail first, making getaway easier. I could see lights in the house itself. Not electric, but lanterns. I guessed that this place had been derelict for some time, probably owned or rented by whoever was paying the bill on this operation.
I waited for a few seconds, just to see if any men were posted on the outside. Unlike all the James Bond films, sentries are best employed in static positions of advantage, out of sight of any potential covert approach. Not seeing anyone, I took a risk and ran again.
Two minutes later, I was against the sidewall of the house. Now all I needed was a way in. Actually, twelve big blokes with guns would be nice, but failing that, I’d be happy with my one with enough bullets. One clip wasn’t going to make my life easy.
Edging along the wall, I came to a door. There were no lights on the other side, but as I ran my fingers round the edges, I could feel the hinges were rusty, signifying that this one hadn’t been opened for a long time. Moving on, I came to a window that was already partially open. Cobwebs and dust told me it hadn’t been used, and I had no way of knowing what was on the other side, as it was pitch-black in there.
I didn’t even know whether I could get into the main building from here either, so I moved on, keeping slow and quiet. The ground was very uneven and littered with rubble and discarded corrugated iron, so it was slow and treacherous. On reaching a large water butt, a crack of light appeared as someone opened a door. Ducking down behind the water butt, I readied my Beretta.