Under Fire: (A Dan Taylor thriller)

© Copyright Rachel Amphlett 2013

The copyright of this book belongs to Rachel Amphlett

No reproduction without permission

The names, characters and events in this book are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-0-992-26851-0

ISBN: 978-0-992-26851-0

The copyright of this book belongs to Rachel Amphlett

No reproduction without permission

The names, characters and events in this book are used fictitiously.

Any similarity to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental

‘Meticulously researched, and executed with all the adrenalin, thrills, spills, and gusto of a Hollywood blockbuster’ ~
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The plot of
Under Fire
features an English protagonist, and UK English is used throughout. International readers will notice nuances.

North Kent, UK

Grant Swift pulled his keys out of his pocket and glanced through the glass doors of the atrium in the large industrial building. His fingers flexed around the handle of the battered briefcase in his hand, the black leather peeling and faded to grey.

Sleet poured off the covered walkway, the force of the downpour echoing through the building’s reception area. Grant jumped as a gust of wind shook the glass doors and sent debris tumbling across the landscaped path which led towards the car park.

‘Going to make a run for it, Mr Swift?’

Grant turned to the reception desk, manned by a solitary security guard who had looked up from a half-completed Sudoku puzzle. He pushed his scarf under his coat collar. ‘If I miss our anniversary dinner this year, I might as well look for a new home.’

The guard laughed, reached across and turned up the radio. ‘I reckon you should take your chances then. Better you turn up soaked and frozen than late.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Grant swung the briefcase over his head and pushed his way through the glass doors, the sound of a top forty radio station echoing in his wake. His feet kicked up torrents of water as he ran through the puddles on the concrete footpath. His breath fogged in the air.

As he neared his car, a late-model silver Mercedes saloon with a personalised plate reading ‘GEN1US’, he swung his arm up and pointed the key fob at the door. The indicator lights flashed once. Wrenching open the door, he threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat and launched himself into the driver’s seat. Pulling the door shut, he sat stunned, watching the sleet streak down the windscreen.

‘Jesus,’ he murmured, ‘bloody English weather.’

He shivered. His last assignment had been on a project in the Middle East. Two months later he was ruing the day he’d accepted a contract with the organisation and returned to the United Kingdom.

He ran his hand through his sodden black hair, shivered as cold water dripped down the back of his neck, and then glared as a pool of water spread under the briefcase and over the upholstery of the car.

He shook his head, put the ignition card in its slot and started the car. The engine purred to life, the instrument panel lighting up like a primed jet fighter. Grant leaned forward and adjusted the temperature controls. The fog on the inside of the windscreen began to clear as he fastened his seat belt and switched on the headlights.

Flicking on the wipers, he put the car into drive and swung away from the complex.

A mass of architecturally-designed glass and steel, the organisation’s headquarters was the centre-point of the new business park. Its three storeys towered above the neighbouring offices, all designed to fit in with the tree line of the surrounding countryside. Twenty miles from the centre of London, the intention was to create an oasis of calm for the software engineers who had descended on the place nearly two years ago.

Grant fidgeted in his seat, got comfortable and pointed the car in the direction of the city. With the weather worsening, an hour’s drive had just turned into two hours and he was definitely going to be late. Twenty minutes later, he was on the road heading west, the traffic nose-to-tail while he did his best to avoid being blinded by the rear fog lamps the idiot in front of him had switched on.

The traffic slowed to a crawl and he craned his neck, trying to peer over the vehicles in front of him, He saw the red and blue flashing lights of emergency vehicles and groaned.  He glanced down as the phone began to ring in its cradle and flicked a switch on the steering wheel.

‘Don’t divorce me yet.’

A throaty chuckle emanated from the other end of the line. ‘That bad?’

‘I’m about forty minutes away, tops,’ he lied.

‘I thought as much.’ A pause. ‘I’ll phone the restaurant and tell them we’ll be there at eight o’clock, okay?’

‘Sounds like a plan.’ He checked his mirrors. ‘I’ll take the next exit. It’s a bit of a diversion but at least I’ll be on the move. I can’t see this lot going anywhere fast.’

‘Okay. Be safe.’

‘Always. Love you.’

‘Love you too. See you when you get here.’

Grant ended the call. Checking the mirror again, he indicated left and began to pull across to the left lane. Headlights flashed in his rear-view mirror. He squinted and angled his head so his eyes could adjust. He calculated the exit was only about two miles away and, sure enough, within a minute or so he passed a green sign pointing to the left. He started indicating half a mile before the slip-road began, easing himself out of the traffic and then edged the car down the ramp away from the dual carriageway.

The van behind him slipped into the wash from his tyres and followed him down the road. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, Grant smiled. Obviously someone else had had enough of the tailback.

As his car descended, he allowed it to pick up speed around a curving left-hand bend, and then slowed as he passed through the green traffic lights at the end of the slip-road. He steered the car across a right-hand turn and pulled up at a T-junction.

The force of the sudden impact from behind threw him forward, his body straining against the seatbelt. He blinked, shocked. Clutching the steering wheel tightly, he quickly corrected the car as it veered towards the middle of the road. The headlights behind him flashed once. He groaned, drove the car across the junction and pulled up on the opposite side of the road, cruising to a halt.

The road was deserted, and no traffic passed the two vehicles. A street lamp flickered above the Mercedes, its light shimmering across the wet tarmac.

Fantastic.
He punched the steering wheel with the palms of his hands, put the car into ‘park’ and unclipped his seatbelt, his heart hammering between his ribs.

As long as the idiot’s got insurance.
Reaching down to the glove compartment he popped the lid open, took out a small notebook, then felt further under the dashboard and pulled out a ballpoint pen with the end chewed off. Closing the lid, he put his hand on the door handle.

He glanced in the wing mirror and froze. A silhouetted figure emerged from the other vehicle, a coat pulled up over its head, running towards his side of the car. Grant pressed the button to lower the window and blinked as rain blew in.

The figure slowed to a halt at the car door and bent down. In the bad light, Grant could just make out a bearded chin, a hood covering the upper part of the face, while rain cascaded down the figure’s back. The man shouted over the noise of the storm.

‘Sorry! My wife’s at home – expecting our first. Tried to stop but the brakes seized up. You okay?’

Grant held out the notepad and pen. ‘Give me your insurance details – I’ll write mine down for you.’

The man nodded and opened his mouth to speak.

Without warning, the passenger door was wrenched open. Grant turned, astonished, as another man pushed the briefcase onto the floor and lunged for him. Grant yelled, pulled on the door handle, then felt an arm thread around his neck. He coughed, gasping for breath.

The man in the hood leaned further through the window and murmured in his ear. ‘Don’t struggle – you’ll only make it worse.’

The other assailant held a syringe in his hand, the needle upright and primed.

Grant kicked his feet helplessly at the floor of the car, his toes clipping the throttle pedal. The man with the syringe grinned, his short cropped salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the low beam from the light above the car door.

Bile rising in his throat, Grant tried to prise the hooded man’s grip away from his throat. The salt-and-pepper-haired man grabbed his wrist, yanked up the sleeve and plunged the needle into the vein in the exposed skin.

Grant opened his mouth to yell – fear, pain, frustration – and immediately the hooded man clamped a hand over his jaw, silencing him to a muffled cry.

The other man relaxed, sat back in the passenger seat of Grant’s car and watched him, his eyes gleaming.

Grant’s head started to spin, his heartbeat pounding in his ears gradually slowing, echoed by the rain drumming on the roof of the car. Black dots appeared before his eyes as the hooded man’s grip slackened and he fell back into his seat.

A muffled voice. ‘He’ll be out in sixty seconds.’

Sixty seconds? What happens after sixty seconds?
The drowsiness began to claim him. Grant blinked twice, fought to lift his chin from his chest, aware his head was drooping.

The man with the salt-and-pepper hair lifted Grant’s briefcase out of the passenger footwell of the car, opened it and began sifting through the contents before he snapped it shut and shook his head at the other attacker.

‘Nothing here. We’ll take him with us. Let’s go.’

Grant’s body sagged as the car door was opened. The hooded man reached in and, checking over his shoulder for any unwanted witnesses, slowly began dragging Grant from the vehicle.

‘No…,’ Grant murmured. Dammit, what had they given him?

Before he passed out, he was lifted into the back of the vehicle and a blanket laid over his body. The musty aroma of oil assaulted his nostrils, while the hard steel floor of the vehicle dug into his spine.

Then darkness.