Free Dead Line by Chris Ewan Page A

Or maybe the gangs might begin to feel he was threatening their livelihood. Reducing their payouts. Frustrating them, at the very least.
    And these were tough men. Hard men. Revenge was in their nature. It was something they’d been conditioned to pursue. They couldn’t show weakness. They couldn’t afford for others to identify it in them. He’d always known that somewhere, some time, there’d be someone who wouldn’t hesitate to strike back.
    But Aimée had known what to expect. That was something, for sure. He’d schooled her on how she was likely to be treated, where she might be taken and how she would be held. She was a determined character. She was steely. It was one of the traits that had first attracted him to her and he knew that it would take a lot for her to begin to panic. She wasn’t someone who’d easily break.
    And they had their secret codes, prepared responses she’d provide to the proof of life questions he could ask her captors. Her answers would tell him a great deal about what they were up against. How many men. Whether they were violent. If they were experts or amateurs. How they were treating her. If they were likely to accept a lower ransom sum.
    They had everything in place.
    He was ready for the call.
    But still his mobile didn’t ring.
    And what good was all their preparation, what use a skilled negotiator, without another voice on the end of the line?

Chapter Eleven
    The phone was still and silent on the magnificent desk. It was a perfectly ordinary business phone. Unremarkable in every conceivable way. And yet it was preoccupying everyone inside the study. All eyes were fixed on it. Watching it. Waiting for it to do something that it stubbornly refused to do.
    The device was toxic. Trent knew that better than anyone. Better than he could ever have cared to know.
    ‘You should get some rest,’ he said. ‘All of you.’
    It was closing in on three in the morning and Trent’s eyes burned with fatigue. Sure, he had a comfortable chair, but Jérôme’s study wasn’t a room to relax in. It had a sterile, unlived-in feel. There was no clutter. No personality. The uniform ranks of green leather-bound books gave no hint of Jérôme’s interests or passions. There were no framed photographs on his desk. No paintings on the wall. The room felt like a display in a furniture shop.
    ‘No.’ Stephanie shook her head. ‘They may call.’
    She looked every bit as weary as Trent. Maybe more so. Her face was ashen.
    ‘It could be days until they contact you,’ Trent told her. ‘We can take it in shifts. Some kind of rota. I’ll start.’
    She raised her chin on her long neck. Smoothed the fabric of her dress across her lap. ‘You said that I should answer the call. That it should be me.’
    He was silent. She was right. He had said it. And he’d meant it, too.
    But the locked drawers in Jérôme’s desk intrigued him. He wanted very much to see if he could access them. And he’d need some time alone to do that.
    ‘You pair, then.’ Trent parted his hands, gesturing to Alain and Philippe.
    Alain grunted dismissively, as if reacting to some variety of insult. He moved over to the side of the room and dropped to his backside on the floor. He leaned his head against a curtain and rested his forearms on raised knees. The curtain moulded itself around his shoulders, coming away from the edge of the glass and exposing a glint of blazing light.
    Philippe followed Alain’s cue and reclined lengthways on the leather chesterfield. He placed his hands behind his head.
    ‘Fine,’ Trent said. ‘If none of you intends to sleep, then we should make use of the time available to us. Tell me about Jérôme.’ He fixed on Stephanie. Raised an eyebrow. ‘What kind of a man is he? What type of character?’
    Philippe scoffed. ‘You ask her?’
    ‘I’m asking all of you. It’s a simple question. Anything you tell me could help. How will he bear up against the gang? How will he cope with their