Free The Abduction: A Novel by Jonathan Holt

plastic bottle. It was banana flavour, sweet and sickly. But she was hungry, so she drank it all.
    It seemed strange to her that they were so interested in watching her do this. What was so special about the Ensure?
    Unless it’s drugged. A terrifying scenario flitted into her mind. She would now fall unconscious, then they’d undress her while she was out and do whatever they wanted to her. Perhaps they’d even film themselves. Maybe that was what this was really all about – making some kind of snuff movie. Or they could be traffickers, and this would be the first step in forcing her into prostitution.
    She must have been staring at the bottle in horror, because Harlequin said quietly, “It’s not drugged.”
    She looked at him, surprised that he’d been able to guess her thoughts. She realised that, whatever else he was, he was intelligent – too intelligent, surely, to be just some Mafia henchman. And his English, although he spoke it with a strong accent, was grammatically correct.
    So: an educated man, then. She wasn’t sure if that made her situation more or less terrifying.
    But at least he’d spoken to her, so she seized her chance. “I’m an American citizen. I demand to know who you are and why you’re keeping me here.” As soon as the words were out, she wished she’d said, “I respectfully ask” instead of, “I demand”.
    But Harlequin only watched her thoughtfully. “It is because the prisoner is an American citizen that she is a prisoner.”
    “Who are you? What do you want me for?”
    “Our name is Azione Dal Molin – in English, ‘Action for Dal Molin’.” He glanced at his watch. “As for what we want you for, you’re about to find out.”

TEN
    DANIELE BARBO HELD up his hands, fingers spread, so that they were exactly opposite the hands of the young woman sitting across the table from him, his left palm facing her right and vice versa, with only a few millimetres separating his skin from hers.
    “Begin,” a quiet voice said behind him. He heard the click of a stopwatch.
    He looked directly at the woman, flinching minutely as they established eye contact. But he’d made good progress since the first time he’d done this exercise. Now he was able to meet her gaze without panic or distress, although he felt his breathing quicken.
    Long seconds passed. Where their hands almost touched, his palms and fingers seemed to throb, as if his pulse was reaching out to hers. It was, he knew, an illusion, but the sensation was not unpleasant.
    “Good,” the voice behind him said.
    If he could manage it, the exercise required him to stare directly into her eyes for six whole minutes. Gradually he relaxed, and it became easier. She was, he supposed, attractive; her eyes especially so. Around the pupils, her irises were light grey, flecked here and there with variations of colour. Magnified by the curve of the cornea, he could make out intricate white lines within each one, like the pattern inside a Murano glass paperweight. Involuntarily, his skin prickled at her closeness, and blood thickened in his groin.
    The eyes opposite him seemed to widen minutely, as if she knew. Or, he realised, as if something similar was happening to her. His hands twitched, ready to break away, but the fractional distance between their palms still held.
    As their breathing deepened and synchronised, he became aware of the regular rise and fall of her chest. Now, somehow, he understood that it was her turn to feel self-conscious. He could feel her wanting to drop her gaze; the inner struggle as she told herself she couldn’t. It felt as if the two of them were having the most intimate conversation, but without speaking a word. He wondered if it was the same for her. Every fibre of his body told him that it was, that this intense bond was being reciprocated. But a small, rational part of his brain knew that, unlike him, she had probably done this many times before, and with other patients besides him.
    He also