Bad Turn by Zoe Sharp

Author:Zoe Sharp [Sharp, Zoë]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zoe Sharp

35

I waited a second after the door closed behind him, then rolled onto my back on the cushions of the sofa, wriggling my hands under my backside and tucking my feet through so now at least my arms were in front of me.

I got to my feet, stepping carefully to avoid making any noise on the polished tile, and prowled the room, looking for anything with a sharp edge or a point. They hadn’t even left me a pen. Scanning, I saw a row of three metal candlesticks on the mantelpiece. I lifted one down and dumped the chunky candle it supported into the fireplace. Sure enough, there was a short metal spike that held the candle in place. I moved to the sofa, wedged the candlestick between my knees and shoved the spike into the plastic ratchet mechanism that held the zip-ties closed. It took a couple of clumsy attempts before I was able to push the locking tab open and loosen the tie enough to slip my hands out.

I rubbed my wrists as I looked around for anything else I could use as a slightly more discreet weapon. In a drawer of a side table I found an old-fashioned corkscrew. The T of the handle fitted neatly into my palm leaving maybe an inch and a half of curly metal protruding. Not perfect, but it would do. If I could get close enough to somebody, I knew I could blind, maim, or kill them with this. It was a comforting thought.

If Hamzeh contacted Eric Kincaid expecting to find him more willing to negotiate because of my capture, he would be sadly disappointed. I couldn’t even rule out that Kincaid would tell him he’d been conned—might boast of it, even. Which did not bode well for my long-term prospects. Or my short-term ones, come to that.

If I hadn’t managed to get myself out of here before then, it was game over.

Outside the door, I heard new voices. Whoever it was, they weren’t happy. I leapt for the sofa, then swore as I darted across to plonk the candle back on its mount above the fireplace.

I contemplated pulling on the hood again just to take the focus away from my hands, but dismissed the idea. Instead, I lay on my side and buried my face into the cushions, letting my hair flop forwards to cover what remained of my features. Still gripping the corkscrew, I shoved my hands behind my back, out of sight, just as the key rattled in the lock.

Footsteps entered and paused. A man’s voice said roughly, “Leave us!”

The door closed again. The footsteps resumed, coming closer. I allowed myself to brace—it was what Helena would have done.

A hand grasped my shoulder, reached for my chin. His touch was not rough, but it still made me flinch.

The man said, “Hush. It’s OK, Helena. It’s all OK now.”

As he lifted me and my hair fell away from my face, I recognised his voice. It took him a second in shock to do the same.

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