Dead Line by Chris Ewan Read Free Book Online Page A

any longer. He shed his composure like a man stepping out of a shower. He surged forwards, drew back his right arm and swung fast, slapping Philippe hard on the side of the face. His hand was open, fingers spread. The impact was loud and percussive. It stung his palm.
    Philippe’s head snapped to the side. A trickle of drool escaped his lips. He inhaled on instinct, then croaked and gagged and clutched a hand to his throat. The ice cube was lodged there.
    Stephanie gasped and stood up, knocking back her chair. There was no response from Alain. Trent hadn’t expected one.
    He ducked down and seized Philippe by the waistband of his jeans, yanking him roughly off the couch, the tumbler falling from his hand and smashing on the stone floor. Philippe landed on his side, curled into a ball. He convulsed. He heaved drily. Trent didn’t waste time checking his airways. He hoisted him up onto his hands and knees and then he thumped him hard between the shoulder blades using the heel of his hand. Thumped him again, jabbing down fast, the sound like a mallet striking a drum.
    No good. The ice cube was still stuck. Philippe gaped up at Trent with his eyes bulging and his mouth wide open as if in a silent scream.
    Trent got behind him and wrapped his arms around his torso. He balled his right hand into a fist and clenched it with his left and heaved up and in towards Philippe’s diaphragm. One thrust. Two. No difference. He thrust extra hard the third time around.
    Philippe convulsed and coughed and hacked up the ice cube, spitting it out of his mouth. He sucked air desperately, groaning and wheezing.
    Trent hauled him away from the broken glass. He knelt beside him. Watched Philippe rock his head and sigh and splutter. Waited until he gazed up at him, trembling in shock and outrage.
    ‘Lesson One,’ Trent said. ‘I don’t work for your father, so I don’t take any attitude from you. If you plan to be part of this situation, you’re going to drink some coffee. If you refuse, you’re out. Got that?’
    *
    Philippe opted to drink the coffee and Alain left the room to prepare it. By the time he returned with a solid silver tray in his hand, Philippe had dragged himself back to the chesterfield. His body was tilted over to one side and his breathing was very deliberate. He was inhaling and exhaling like it was a new and slippery skill he’d just acquired.
    Alain set the tray down on the corner of the desk. There was a steaming white mug and an aluminium coffee pot on it.
    Trent moved across and picked up the mug. Heat leaked through the porcelain against his palm. The coffee was black and hot and strong. Trent smelled its earthy aroma as he shoved the mug towards Philippe and wrapped his hands around it. He could see Philippe’s gaunt reflection in the dark liquid as he lowered his face to take a sip.
    It occurred to Trent that Philippe was exactly the brattish, spiteful type of guy who might try throwing the scalding liquid in his face. So he was cautious, but he remained close.
    Philippe wasn’t drinking fast. He was imbibing from the mug much slower than he had from the whisky tumbler. Trent snatched at Philippe’s left wrist and tapped the face of his gold wristwatch. Told him to stop wasting time.
    Truth was, Trent wasn’t a great believer in the power of caffeine to sober anybody up. But he did believe that shock and fear and intimidation could work, and he was more than willing to test the theory.
    He waited until Philippe was slurping at the rim again before reaching out and tilting the mug at the base.
    Philippe groaned in complaint, his eyes grown wide.
    Trent tipped harder.
    The muscles in Philippe’s throat pulsed. He tried to lower the mug. Trent held it steady.
    Philippe whined through his nose.
    ‘Drink,’ Trent said.
    He whined with more urgency.
    ‘Drink.’
    Philippe’s gullet opened. He moaned. He gagged. Hot coffee spilled from his mouth, running down his chin and soaking into his shirt.
    ‘Please,’