Chapter 3


    *****


    James


    The message from Charlotte’s abductors…


    Finchby…


    Baxter…


    … reys in my head…


    Marsh Street under Barnbridge Road overpass 9pm


    Bring the money


    No police. No other people or she dies


    Ifte she dies. So does the baby


    Brandy and rage burn inside me.


    The bag containing the ransom money swings heavy in my hand. I''m the decoy and at some level, I


    know I may note out of this alive. Klempner''s Ker vest gives me a littlefort, but it’s the fury


    inside that warms me against fast falling temperatures.


    I should be afraid…


    But I’m not.


    Jade-Eyes…


    My beautiful Jade-Eyes…


    And Cara… Your gift to me…


    Since the day I met Charlotte, my Virgin, we have helter-skeltered from one crisis to another…


    Her past has constantly pursued her, ruling her, robbed her of what she deserves. None of it her fault,


    she has simply been the survivor of everything life has dealt her.


    Would I change any of it?


    No. Nothing.


    Content is ? 2024 N?velDrama.Org.


    Charlotte’s past is what has made her what she is. Strong. Fearless. Resourceful. Even in the dire


    situation she’s in, imprisoned in her cell, racked with pain, coughing up green slime, she found the way


    to tell us where she is.


    They’reing for you, Jade-Eyes…


    And me?


    I’m the decoy.


    The night is dark, icy and with the merest hush of a breeze. High cloud makes a haze of the stars but


    does little to nket in what passed for the heat of the day. The streets are zed to a hoared sheen,


    except for where streemps re yellow over the frost.


    I have a trek of perhaps half a mile to reach the rendezvous point, near enough to get there quickly. Far


    enough that, hopefully, they won’t spot Ross.


    I walk briskly, my footsteps click-clicking down empty streets. It’s not thatte, but the cold is keeping


    people indoors and, after all, Christmas ising. Most folks will be with friends, at parties or simply at


    home in the warm.


    I pass windows brightly lit, glowing with warmth and wee, sparkling with fairy lights, dressed with


    spray-on snow and Santa, Please Stop Here signs. In my own home, we never finished the trimming


    up. Charlotte’s abduction killed off any thoughts of celebration and our tree stands half-decorated and


    dismal.


    I pass by.


    In only a few minutes I’m leaving the rtive safety of the residential zone and passing into more


    uncertain territory. This end of Marsh Street is not a good area.


    Edging what was once the boundary of the City, it was built before the main highways were developed,


    a remnant of the old town, under the overpass which carries the modern road to Barnbridge. It''s a risky


    spot for the unwary, noted for assaults and random robberies.


    The police here travel at least in pairs and the other emergency services are cautious. The area is


    noted for hoax calls of fire or medical emergency followed by muggings for cash and drugs, and attacks


    on medics and fire officers for the sheer hell of it.


    I''ll admit, I''m feeling windy about being here.


    Better than the alternative.


    Someone has to do this…


    I reach my destination. The road lies straddled by two great concrete supports for the overpass, dim


    under inadequate sodium lighting. From the road above, moisture trickles down, streaking stark


    concrete walls white before settling to iced sculptures over ground-level graffiti.


    Over me, on the overpass,te evening traffic grumbles past. But here below, all is quiet.


    “Hello?”


    My voice echoes briefly, then dies away.


    “I''m here.” I pace, circling, looking.


    Nothing…


    Zip…


    Nada…


    In my ear, Ross'' voice. "James? You alright?"


    I try to speak without moving my lips. "I’m fine. There’s no-one here."


    I walk around to dispel the chill striking up through my shoes, even through thick socks and boots. After


    five minutes, I’ve not seen a single vehicle.


    A pair of joggers cut across the road a couple of hundred yards away, probably taking the short cut to


    the park. They''re followed by a woman with arge dog, the kind owned by people who either think it''s


    ''tough'' to have a big dog or who actually need one for safety''s sake.


    Then I spot it.


    Taped to one of the great concrete supports, an envelope. My chest tightens. Abruptly, my mouth is dry.


    With fingers stiff from cold, I fumble and the envelope resists opening. I shake my hands, rattle some


    blood back into my fingertips and try again.


    Corner of Birch Square by Waverley Moorings. 9.20. Don’t bete.


    Checking my watch… Fuck!


    That''s less than ten minutes away…


    I’ve wasted time. It''s got to be a mile at least.


    My breath catching, I set off at a sprint.


    “James, is everything alright?”


    “Ross. Birch Square by Waverly Moorings. I’m runningte. Can’t talk.”


    “Okay, James. I’m tracking you.”