Free Sacred Sword (Ben Hope 7) by Scott Mariani Page B

since the invention of the mobile telephone, he wished he had one so that he could call for help.
    He couldn’t run much further. Any second now, the killers would cotton on to his escape. They’d get in their vehicle and come after him. Bundle him in at gunpoint, and it would all be over.
    The deep bellow of air horns blasted his terror away. He whirled around at the edge of the road and saw the massive grille of an eighteen-wheeler truck looming over him as it slowed down with a sharp hiss from its airbrakes. Wesley threw down the case, waved his arms frantically and stuck out his thumb. ‘Help me,’ he wheezed. ‘Help.’
    The driver beamed a gap-toothed grin down at him from the cab.
    ‘You lookin’ for a ride, old timer? Then climb aboard.’

Chapter Nine
    By the time Simeon was back from his church business, darkness had fallen and it was nearly time to set off for the evening meal at the Old Windmill. The three of them were in the vicarage’s hallway, on the verge of heading outside to the Lotus, when the phone rang.
    ‘It had better not be the bloody archdeacon again,’ Simeon said, picking up. ‘Oh, it’s you, Bertie … really? Gosh, that didn’t take you long … Yes, he’ll be delighted. We can come and pick it up right away.’
    They definitely didn’t make them like Bertie any more. Ben couldn’t believe the difference in the Land Rover as he followed the Lotus’s taillights along the three miles of winding roads from the garage to the restaurant. The old mechanic had retuned Le Crock’s radio to a local station. Ben half-listened as he drove; then the entrance of the Old Windmill appeared through the trees and Ben parked beside the Lotus in the floodlit car park.
    The place was aptly named. The ancient stone windmill itself stood silhouetted against the starry sky, while the restaurant was a modern building with large windows overlooking the surrounding woodland. Ben’s hosts led him inside, into the bar area where a smiling waitress greeted them with ‘Hello, Vicar; hello, Mrs Arundel,’ and led them through a doorless archway into the busy restaurant area. The place was decked out in colourful Christmas lights and glittery decorations, with an enormous tree in one corner. The dozen or so tables were cosily laid with rustic chequered tablecloths. Bing Crosby’s version of
Hark, the Herald Angels Sing
was playing over the speakers on the walls.
    ‘Good thing I booked in advance,’ Michaela said over the buzz of chatter. ‘Think we must have got the last table.’
    ‘Damn,’ Simeon muttered suddenly, patting his pockets. ‘I think I left my mobile in my other trousers.’
    ‘Well, I don’t think you’ll be needing it tonight, darling,’ Michaela said, with a discreet roll of the eyes to Ben, as if to say, ‘See what I mean?’
    As the three of them crossed the restaurant, there was a chorus of ‘Hello, Vicar’ from a group of middle-aged women clustered around a heavily drinks-laden table in the corner near the archway. Simeon waved back at them. ‘The ladies’ badminton club,’ he whispered to Ben.
    ‘My husband is a big hit with them,’ Michaela said. ‘Especially with Petra Norrington.’
    ‘Oh, come on.’
    ‘It’s true. She adores and venerates you. Thinks you’re gorgeous. Look at her eyeing you from behind her wineglass. Like a peroxide spider.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ Simeon said.
    They took their seats at the table. Ben had his back to the archway and the bar area beyond it. To his right, a broad expanse of window overlooked the car park and the woods in the background.
    The waitress took their orders for drinks. Michaela wanted white wine, Ben asked for a medium glass of house red. ‘No wine for me,’ Simeon said. ‘I’m afraid I might have a migraine coming on if I touch alcohol tonight.’
    ‘Again?’ Michaela frowned.
    They ordered dinner – roast duck for Ben, on Simeon’s recommendation. Michaela went for poached salmon steak. Service was efficient,