The Reluctant Knight (9 page)

“Head back to the
town, Daniels,” Mycroft said, not even trying to hide the
disappointment from his voice, but not trusting himself to look at
either of his two companions.

Not long after
Daniels swung the car around, Mycroft's phone rang.

“Good evening,”
Mycroft said, even though it was anything but.

“Her majesty sends
her condolences. She's aware the woman was important to you.”

“Yes. Amelia Jones
is
a very talented woman. Does her majesty have any
suggestions for how best to console her many fans?”

“She hasn't asked
me to mention anything regarding that. I'm sure that's more your
sort of thing.”

“Well, perhaps her
majesty should have a think about it. I believe quite a number of
them are exceedingly fond of her. Writing is just one of her very
many talents.” Mycroft hung up, unable to suffer any more of the
pathetic attempt at an apology.

Less than a second
later his other phone buzzed with a message. It seemed Mr Delra had
heard by now as well.

I'd offer you
my condolences, but I won't deny that I'm still hoping you won't
need them.

Daniels drove them
to the nearest town, a couple of miles from the border, and paused
at the next available opportunity. While on the way, Mycroft mulled
over his options. There were few.

As soon as they
were stationary, Sherlock and Daniels looked to him. It didn't take
a genius for him to notice neither of them wanted to give up on
Amelia.

Sherlock had never
had any regard for rules. Now that he'd decided he liked her, he'd
quite happily do whatever was possible, and both of them knew it
was still possible to rescue her. And Daniels was just too simple
to think of anything else but helping a person in distress. For
both of them, the next decision was simple.

Mycroft, however,
had given his word that he would never ever plunge his country into
war for personal reasons. And saving Amelia was definitely
personal.

“Is the only
objection that the UK doesn't go to war?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft
nodded, seeing a look in his younger brother's eyes that he
recognised.

“Just the UK,”
Mycroft added, understanding exactly where Sherlock was going.

Despite Amelia's
best efforts, she shivered with fear. The situation that she didn't
think could get much worse had got worse. With each little shudder
that rippled involuntarily through her body she felt the noose
around her neck tighten a tiny bit.

Already it had
gone from a loose-fitting circle to a very present collar. To make
it worse, the position they'd tied her in was painfully awkward.
She had her legs bent up behind her back. If she dared move more
than a fraction she could grab her feet with her hands.

Landing on the
snow-covered ground had also made her clothing damp. Even if she
could calm her fear, she doubted she could warm herself enough to
stop shivering.

Every now and
then, as she felt the noose tighten further, she let out a whimper.
Somehow she didn't cry, but she came close and her breathing was
ragged and uneven.

She squeezed her
eyes shut and tried to imagine something else, but the roar of the
car engine and the feel of the rough rope on her skin just brought
her back to the present.

“Calm yourself and
think,” an imaginary version of Myron said in her head.

“Easier said than
done,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

“You'll get
through this if you remain calm,” he said again.

“I'm going
crazy.”

“Calm, Amelia,
calm.”

“As you command, I
obey.” As she whispered this, she felt her shivers lessen. She
focused on hearing him tell her to calm in the same smooth tone he
always used. It might not be real, but if it worked it was good
enough for her.

Less than ten
minutes later she felt the noose loosen for the first time since it
had been put on her.

“Thank you,
Myron,” she whispered. “Even when you're not here it seems you're
useful.”

Over the next hour
she managed to remain calm and keep still. Her body still felt
cold, and she knew she was going to have dreadful pins and needles
when they finally let her move, but for now she was surviving.

After what felt
like another hour passed by, Amelia found herself getting emotional
again. When they'd said it wouldn't be long she'd really thought
they were almost there.

Not long after she
thought this, the car slowed and turned a corner sharply enough to
slide her slightly along the boot carpet. Immediately, the noose
tightened to an uncomfortable amount. She whimpered.

A couple of
seconds later the car hit a pothole or bump and jolted her. Again,
the rope tightened. This time she didn't dare whimper. When it
happened for the third time the rope started to dig painfully into
her throat.

She tried not to
panic and to breathe as best she could but the rope was too tight.
For the next couple of minutes she gasped for air, but the car
continued on, oblivious to her plight. Spots of dark brown and
black were just beginning to spatter into her vision when the car
pulled to a halt.

Knowing she needed
help, Amelia tried to call out, but only a half strangled gurgle
came out. She tried a second time, but it only made things
worse.

Thankfully, the
Russians either noticed she was in trouble or had decided enough
was enough. Just as she was losing focus on the world around her,
they opened the lid and reached in to untie her and get her on her
feet.

“About time. Those
potholes and bumps almost killed me,” she croaked as soon as she
could breathe, acting far braver than she felt.

“It is your own
fault, but we're here now. Our boss would like a little chat.”

“Wonderful. Can we
do it the British way over a nice cup of tea?” She tried to look
like she didn't care either way but was sure she didn't manage it.
Either way, he yanked her up out of the boot and tried to get her
to stand.

In front of her
was a concrete structure that looked like a bunker from one of the
world wars. The building had been patched, modified and turned into
something a bit like a submarine, but half on land. It didn't look
pretty. She gulped and someone laughed.

“Now we will show
you our Russian hospitality.” Again, there was laughter, and Amelia
had a feeling she wasn't going to enjoy whatever followed.

They grabbed the
tops of her arms and half dragged her, half marched her towards the
entrance of the building. As they got closer, she saw a young
Russian smoking a cigarette come to attention. He looked cold but
pulled open the cast iron door for them and nodded
respectfully.

Seconds later she
was inside, and she realised it didn't look much better. Water was
leaking in through cracks and corroding the metal that had been
added later. It even took two slams of the door behind her for it
to shut in the warped metal frame.

The inside of the
building was a little warmer than the outside, but it was still
cold, and she was soon shivering while she looked around and tried
to learn as much as possible.

The furnishings
were sparse. A plain wooden table in one room with several wooden
chairs. No comfortable seating of any kind. A clock sat on a small
side table. It said it was almost three in the morning but Amelia
wasn't sure if she believed it.

She was taken
through one more room that looked like a giant cloak room with
several large coats hanging on the walls. Most of those had seen
better days, as well. Then they dragged her out into a corridor and
walked her right to the far end. Once there, they opened another
door to a flight of stairs that evidently led down into the ground.
This one really didn't shut properly behind them.

As they plunged
down, she noticed all the walls were damp and the air temperature
dropped a few degrees. If she was lucky it wouldn't get any
colder.

They opened yet
another metal door, the first that looked like it might be kept in
some kind of working order, and Amelia soon saw why. On the other
side was what had once been an old shower room. With the addition
of chains screwed into one wall and a single stool, it had become a
prison.

She struggled as
they pulled her towards the chains, but with three of them holding
onto her there was little she could do. Even Tom's lessons couldn't
give her enough strength to break out of their collective
grasp.

Once she was
chained up, they let go of her and walked away. She slid to the
floor, trying not to wrinkle her face up at the smell of old vomit,
urine and sweat.

“I don't think
much of your hospitality so far,” she yelled, as they all walked
away. They laughed and ignored her, shutting her in and locking the
door.

“Right, what can I
do now? I'm in chains,” she said, deciding she might as well talk
out loud while she tried to get through this. It made sense to her
to pretend she was talking to Myron, even if he probably couldn't
hear her. It had helped in the car, so it might help now.

“I've got nothing
to pick the lock with and can't reach it anyway. There's a stool,
but,” Amelia got up and walked as far as she could. “I can't reach
that either. I could try and pull the chains out of the wall, I
suppose.”

After getting a
good grip on each chain she used her whole body weight to pull
backwards. They didn't budge.

“Or maybe
not.”

She sat down and
looked around the room. There really wasn't anything else she could
do.

“Right, with no
obvious way out, for now, I can't do an awful lot. I'm shattered
and can barely think. I know you'd probably power through this,
Myron, but I'm going to try and get some sleep. Maybe after some
sleep my mind will work better and I'll be able to come up with a
plan.”

Not knowing what
else to do, Amelia curled up to preserve as much body heat as
possible and wrapped her coat around herself. She wouldn't give up,
but she might need to let the Russians make the next move.

Despite the light
on in the room and the cold hard floor she had to lay on, she
drifted off quickly. It had been almost two whole days since she
had first been taken and she'd only had the odd nap here and there
since. Her brain knew what it needed and shut everything else
down.

***

The sound of the
door slamming open woke her. She lifted her head and looked at a
pair of big shiny boots as they came stomping towards her. Whoever
this was, his clothing was in a better state than anyone else’s had
been in so far.

“Well, well. So
you're what the boys brought me. Even like this, I can see what he
likes about you,” the tall black-haired man said with a slight
Russian accent.

“Uhh, hi. Is this
your house? It's a bit cold if so. Would you mind awfully turning
up the heating?” She smiled while she sat up, trying not to look
intimidated.

“Perhaps. But that
depends on you.”

Amelia took her
cue from the imaginary Myron in her head and rolled her eyes.

“Tell me, this
Myron Holmes, he must like you a lot, yes?

“Who?”

He shook his
head.

“That won't work.
I know you are acquainted with him. My boys took you from the hotel
room he left you in, did they not?”

She didn't
respond, but decided to try and study him.

“And it is not the
first time you have been seen with him. Twice now my men captured
you and him at the same time, and only four days ago you were in
Scotland together.”

Amelia sighed and
tried to pick up on something about the man in front of her but
he'd left little information for her to gather. He looked like he'd
lost weight recently. There was a new, home-made belt-hole on his
belt, but other than that the man was well-attired, well-groomed
and wearing glasses. From his accent, she'd guess that he regularly
used English.

Before she could
pull backwards, he leant forward and grabbed her chin to try and
hold her head still where he could see it. She reached up and
grabbed his hand, bending it back to force him to let her go.

Instead of letting
go of her, he just smacked her with the other hand as hard as he
could. Her head flew sideways and took her whole body with it.

While she lay on
the floor in a daze he yelled something in Russian. Immediately,
two men came into the room. She tried to back up and get to her
feet before they reached her but they were too fast and she was
soon grabbed and the chains hooked together in such a way that her
hands were stuck behind her back.

After waiting for
them to leave and close the door, he strode over to her. There was
now little she could do about it as he grabbed hold of her chin
again and crouched in front of her.

“There, now, we've
bruised your pretty face. I doubt Mr Holmes will be too pleased
about that, but he should have taken better care of you, shouldn't
he?” the man said when he looked over her face.

“You're assuming
he gives a rat's arse about me.”

“I think we both
know you're at least a lover of his.”

Amelia laughed at
the irony of it and he finally let her go and wandered back towards
the metal stool.

“Have you ever met
Myron Holmes?”

“Unfortunately
I've not had that pleasure, no, but my boss has. What of it?” He
didn't look at her as he spoke. Instead, he inspected the stool for
dirt, wiped it with his hand anyway and sat down where he could see
her.

“He doesn't take
lovers.”

“Well then, you
must be even more important, but I think we've discussed your
status enough. I want you to tell me about him. You evidently think
you know him.”

“I don't think you
understand. I know absolutely nothing about the man except the few
things his brother has told me. I'm an author, a crime writer, and
his younger brother and he were answering some research questions
of mine.”