Wanting (15 page)

A muted scuffle, then the unmistakeable chill of something being wrong filled Adam.

“Mr Banks?” A rush of relief came after he’d spoken, churning with the chill. “That you?” He felt stupid asking when he knew damn well who it was, even more stupid that if Dane came in it would look like he’d been talking to himself.

Minutes passed with no contact.

“Aww, fuck. Adam, you can hear me?”

“Yes! What’s happening? I’m stuck on the sofa, can’t bloody move.”

“I need… You have to get hold of Langham. They’ve got me.”

“Who’s got you?”

“The fucking barn men!”

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, fuck. I can’t…I can’t get up. It’s like I’m pinned, like someone’s sitting on me. Dane! Dane, come here, quickly!”

Adam tried to open his eyes and failed. He was sinking into the sofa, his body dragged, the pulling sensation wreaking havoc with his equilibrium.

“What? What’s wrong?” Dane asked.

If Adam could see, he’d bet Dane’s face was a picture, and, despite his situation, the thought that Dane would feel needed,
necessary
now, sneaked into the fringes of his mind.

“Mr Banks…he’s talking to me. The barn men have got him. Ring the police. That Langham fella.”

“What? And say what?”

“Just tell him what I said, for fuck’s sake!”

Adam heard the beeps of phone buttons being pressed, the tone an annoying pressure on his nerves. He fought the pull, and it seemed his innards were being yanked out through his back, dangling in space behind him. The fact that it felt so real was alien to his rational mind, and if he wasn’t experiencing it he’d scoff at someone who told him this could be genuine. Maybe he was dreaming, maybe he was overworked, his body so tired he couldn’t move, his mind creating a fantasy while he snored on the sofa.

“I’m in a car. Green Golf. Moss green. Licence plate starting with W and ending KMP. Number 6, I saw that. Bald men, two in front, one next to me. Going full tilt towards you—Lower Repton. I’ll let you know if we go past your place. They’re talking about a barn. Won’t be the last one they used—police presence still there. Fuck. Coming up to the cottages.”

“Our cottage?” Adam gave an almighty heave forward and propelled himself off the sofa.

He opened his eyes—his eyelids fighting him all the way—and staggered towards the living room door. His eyes drooped, that force trying to close them, as though someone held them between fingers and thumbs and dragged them down. It hurt, and he held back a cry of pain. He reached up to try to push the force away even though he knew it didn’t really exist, that there were no fingers and thumbs there. Out in the hallway, he lurched to the front door, aware of Dane following, phone to his ear, relating what Adam was doing, Adam telling him the number plate, the make and colour of the car. Invisible syrup, that was what he walked in, the substance preventing him from making headway fast. It reminded him of the nightmares he’d had after the attack, where he’d tried to run from those men and couldn’t, his feet sticking to the pavement with glue, every step torture on his leg muscles.

Adam lifted a heavy arm and swiped for the door handle, batting at the air as though fighting with an unseen assailant. He missed several times before he found purchase, wrapping his fingers around it and turning. He tugged on the door, swinging it open with great effort. The damn thing felt like it was made out of lead, or that someone was pushing it from the inside, a strong man with big muscles and the iron will to stop him from leaving the cottage. He managed to create a gap big enough to slip through and stumbled out into the night, going down the path in what felt like slow motion, idly wondering how he would appear to anyone watching from the other dwellings. Would they see him moving in real time? Was it only him that the seconds had slowed for? He heard a vehicle’s approach as he finally made it onto the street, his breaths heaving out of him from the effort it had taken to get this far.

Where the fuck was the police protection when he needed it? Maybe it was shift change, maybe they’d decided protection wasn’t needed, but shit, it bloody well was. Why hadn’t they been informed that no one would be outside in a car keeping an eye on them? Or had Langham ordered their babysitter to drive in the direction Oliver was coming from in order to waylay them before they got this far?

The green Golf sped past in a blur, no other car following, and Adam raised an arm, waving at it slowly—as if him doing that would make the driver stop. The taillights, two bastard, bright red rectangular eyes, mocked him as they grew smaller, the car creating distance between him and it at startling speed.

“You just went past! Dane, Mr Banks just went past in that car!” His voice sounded like a forty-five on thirty-three rpm, low and distorted, weird as fuck in his head.

“Jesus, they’re going too fast. We’re going to… Get off me! Let me see!”

“Mr Baaaaanks?” Adam slurred.

“I can’t see. Blindfold. We’re slowing. Taking a right. Ground uneven—car’s jostling. Potholes. You got that?”

“You turned right. Onto a traaaaaaaack. Pothoooooooooles. Dane, tell Langham. Tell himmmmmmmm.”

“Jesus, Adam, you’re freaking me the fuck out. Your voice, your face is all wonky…”

“Just doooooooooo it.”

Adam started running down the street, a jog that was getting him nowhere, as though he ran on the spot. Frustration bubbled inside him, and he pressed into the force, feeling it give a little. Then it burst open—like him shouldering locked doors that now swung wide—and he tumbled forwards, landing on his knees.

Pain shot into his legs, and he absently knew his skin would have angry red scrapes when he investigated them later. Fluidity filled him, swarmed around him, and whatever had been preventing him from doing anything at the normal pace had decided to stop playing games. He ran, reaching the last cottage in the row then going past it, stepping into the road where the pathway ended. Dane’s heavy breathing and stuttered commentating behind him let Adam know he was still on the phone, and he felt calmer for that. Help would be on the way, and knowing this spurred him to focus on the road ahead and pace himself so he didn’t burn out before he found Mr Banks.

He judged, from the time lapse between him seeing the Golf and Mr Banks telling him the car had made a turn, that he would be nearing the track soon. But the speed the car had been going—there were two right-hand turns along here. Which one was it? He ran on, lungs burning, the whip of the cold air freezing his ears. His feet ached already—he wasn’t one for exercise—and his thigh muscles protested with the sharp stab of cramp threatening to make his legs useless. A stitch jabbed his left side, and he raised a hand to cover the area, knowing it would do jack shit in easing the pain, the reflex natural.

The first right-hand turn appeared around a slight bend, and he sped across to it, noting it was asphalt—smooth, newly laid asphalt. He took a chance and ran on, hoping to God he’d made the right choice and that the first track was new asphalt all along and not just in the opening. With no time to dicker, he pushed forward, his breathing loud in his ears, like it inhabited his head as some crouching monster ready to pounce.

Dane called out, his voice reedy and thin, and Adam didn’t need to glance over his shoulder to know he was lagging far behind. The sound of another vehicle broke through the ragged breaths in his head, and the sight of a car coming towards him gave Adam hope at first, which turned to dread when he considered the fact it might be the Golf returning. He darted into the hedgerow, the ends of branches harsh on his bare arms, scratching like a spiteful bitch with a score to settle. He stared at the car, praying Dane had the sense to dive for cover as well, and watched it approach then glide past, a male driver with a female passenger inside, paying Adam no mind.

Relieved, he came out of the hedges then ran on, seeing a road sign way too far in the distance for his liking. When they drove it didn’t seem far at all from Lower Repton to here, but running was a different matter. He remembered the sign read Mereton Marsh and shouted the information back to Dane, not stopping to check if he’d heard or not. Mr Banks being silent was playing on his mind. Had he lost the thread that had joined him with the psychic police aide?

“Mr Banks?” he panted out, throat sore from the cold air, his chest tight, a band of strength squeezing. “Can you…can you hear me?”

With no response, Adam battled with the rise of panic spreading through him. He needed to remain focused, not let fear have the upper hand. He trudged on, the road sign seeming to remain far away, and prayed harder than he’d ever prayed before.

“Please,” he said, the wind snatching the word away. “Please, just let me make it in time.”

Oliver was grabbed by the arm and pulled out of the car onto soft ground. It sprang beneath his feet—he’d take a guess at it being grass. He dragged in a deep breath, and the cold air seemed to freeze all his bronchial branches, making it difficult to exhale without pain. Fear played a factor—he was rigid with it, knowing, because he’d had that vision, that he had a way to go before he got to where he’d seen himself bound and ready for slaughter. Part of him wished they’d just take him there now, get it all over and done with so he didn’t have to hold back the piss that threatened to soak his legs. The other part…well, he didn’t want to move at all, could do with stalling for as long as he could so that help would arrive.

He was tugged forward, the grip on his arm hard and relentless, his skin pinched between what he could only imagine was a finger and thumb. Whoever had hold of him took pleasure in squeezing, and he bit back the urge to cry out from the sharp, nipping zaps of pain. He stumbled, righting himself quickly while counting his footsteps. He reached only seven before the ground changed to a harder substance, and if they’d taken him to a barn like he’d thought then he imagined he stood on concrete surrounding the structure. There were no pebbles, nothing to tell him what else it could be.

A deep wail of sound penetrated his ears, the vibrations unnerving and sinister. He realised it was door hinges bemoaning being used, and someone prodded him in the back to make him walk on. He lurched forward, flailing his free arm to brace himself if he fell, but managed to remain on both feet. The air changed, the scent of it, less the freshness of outdoors and more the interior of a stable.

Bumps crackled under his shoes—hay, had to be—and he was released, the disappearance of that hold a small mercy. His skin throbbed as if the biting fingers were still there, and he imagined bruises would leave their ugly, plum-coloured marks by morning.

Would he be alive to see them, or would Hank be the one examining them while Oliver lay cold on the slab? Hank, who could determine that those bruises would have been made while Oliver was still alive.

That thought gave him extra chills, standing alone more so, in a place he couldn’t see. The loss of his sight had been anticipated—Thomas and Jason had been treated to the same, hadn’t they—but it had been hypothetical thinking.
If
he’d be taken,
if
they managed to get a hold of him.

And they had. He’d fallen into the trap of trusting someone he knew, even though that person had crept up on him while he’d been standing outside the station taking a breath of fresh air. And who would suspect an abduction outside a cop shop anyway? Who would be so brazen as to walk over and bundle you into a van with the risk of being spotted by a member of the Force?

Many men, evidently, otherwise there wouldn’t be thousands of crimes reported involving kidnaps and vans. People like those who had taken him knew no boundaries. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, possibly didn’t think they’d get caught. Then again, this outfit was undoubtedly well prepared, planning way in advance. With no evidence of them having been left behind at the other scenes, they knew a bit about forensics and what the police looked for too, he’d bet.

He listened for signs of what would happen next, although he knew. If they played this one the same as they had others, he’d be stripped naked soon, threatened to do as they asked and placed centre stage. That humming would begin. Once that started, he knew his time was limited. Adam and Dane had said the hum had gone on for maybe five minutes until the whipping. Then a man had shoved his hard cock into Jason’s mouth and the rest had converged on one another in a mass orgy.

Oliver surmised he had about half an hour of living left.

That sobered him further. If he’d been told that his last few minutes on earth would be spent being used as a sex toy, he’d have thought it would have been Langham doing the using and that would have suited Oliver fine. To go out while in the throes of passion with him would be a brilliant precursor to see another kind of heaven. But with all these men? No, he didn’t want it. No one in their right mind would.

Something coarse—rope?—brushed his hand. He shivered, wincing by instinct in case they decided they were going to hit him. No blow came, nothing but the prickly awareness that they stood close, watching him, gearing themselves up for the treat to come. And it
was
a treat to them, the highlight of their week maybe. What they’d been looking forward to their whole lives.

His arms were wrenched backwards, wrists held together by the itchy material. His ankles were bound too, scuppering any chance he might have had at escaping. He was a little off balance now, and he concentrated on getting used to standing with his feet so close together.

“Stay,” said a man, his voice deep and chilling and calm. “Stay.”

It sobered him yet again, and before he could go off into freak mode, he forced himself to make his body and mind relax. He had to find a way to regain contact with Adam—if he didn’t, it meant he’d given up the fight already. He got a brief glimpse of Langham in his mind, all sexiness and rigid muscles, and the promise of their future lingered behind his closed eyes—the darkness there frightening and so damn deep from the blindfold it made him want to shout out in frustration. But the moment of weakness passed. He had a life to live, one where he was free to be himself, living with his lover without giving a shit who knew they were gay.