Dead Line by Chris Ewan Read Free Book Online Page B

Stephanie said, from behind him. ‘It’s enough.’
    Trent turned and gave her a savage look. She was sitting forwards on her chair, bare knees pressed together, hands clasped tight in her lap.
    He was struck again by the contrast with how Aimée would likely behave. If she were here, she’d have elbowed him out of the way so that she could be the one forcing the coffee into Philippe.
    ‘It’s not enough,’ Trent told Stephanie. ‘The men who took your husband could call at any moment.’
    Philippe rocked his head back and gasped. He wiped his jaw with the back of his wrist.
    The mug was empty.
    Trent seized it and snatched up the coffee pot and poured a refill, holding Alain’s eye. The bodyguard stared back, steady and unmoving.
    ‘It’s OK,’ Philippe said, waving his hand. ‘I’m fine now.’
    Trent set the coffee pot down. He returned to the sofa. Jabbed the mug towards Philippe.
    ‘Again.’
    ‘It’s fine, I said.’
    ‘Again.’
    ‘I’m fine, I tell—’
    Trent didn’t wait to hear more. He snatched a knuckle-full of Philippe’s hair, yanked his head back until his jaw fell open and slammed the mug against his teeth.
    ‘Drink,’ he said.
    Philippe swallowed some of the coffee but the rest sluiced down his neck and chest. Trent didn’t back off. He poured until the mug was empty. Philippe groaned and rolled his head to one side. His skin was flushed around his lips and jaw. It matched his reddened cheek.
    ‘One more,’ Trent said.
    ‘But that is enough. Believe me.’
    ‘One. More.’
    Trent refilled the mug to the brim. He upended the coffee pot, adding a sludge of grinds to the mix. He fitted Philippe’s hand around the mug. Clamped his fingers there.
    ‘Need my help?’ he asked.
    ‘No,’ Philippe muttered. ‘I’ll drink it.’
    And like a kid clearing all his greens from his plate, he went ahead and did exactly that.

Chapter Eight
    Trent took up a position in the centre of the octagonal room and began, as he always did, by describing his background and experience. His delivery rarely changed. It was no different tonight.
    He started with the usual oblique references to his formative years in the British military and his early work as an analyst for a secretive branch of the UK government, followed by his switch to a London-based corporate security outfit. He explained how his dual Anglo-French nationality had led him to move to the company’s Paris office, where he’d specialised in kidnap and ransom negotiation.
    He talked of a demanding five-year period handling kidnap cases across France, Italy, the Balkans, Greece and Spain, where he’d honed his skills and developed his own particular techniques and tactics. Then he mentioned how he’d decided to relocate to Marseilles in the wake of a spate of kidnappings throughout the south of France to set up his own niche firm specialising in all varieties of K & R protection. He outlined the scope of services his firm provided, ranging from the insurance policy that Jérôme had acquired from his colleague and business partner, Aimée Paget, to the guidance he’d hoped to provide to Jérôme concerning anti-kidnap security measures, to the sort of assistance he could offer in the case of an actual kidnapping, such as the Moreaus were experiencing right now.
    Twenty minutes’ fast talking and then he was done. One o’clock in the morning. Silence in the room. His audience had remained mute throughout. Trent had paid close attention to their reactions when he’d mentioned Aimée’s name. None of them had betrayed a thing. There was no indication of any concern or recognition.
    Stephanie had hung on his every word, shuffling ever nearer to the edge of her chair. She looked pale and tired and just about ready to drop.
    Philippe hadn’t strayed from the chesterfield, though now he was pivoted forwards from the waist, his bony elbows braced on his spread thighs, his gaze fixed on the fragments of pulverised glass between his feet.