Free East of the City by Grant Sutherland

seconds, quiet, thinking. Then he lifted one leg and drove his foot straight through the glove-box. The sound of breaking plastic was like a gunshot, but the driver didn’t bat an eye. We drove on in silence.
    After nearly an hour we got to the King’s Head in Brentwell, I felt like I was on home ground.
    ‘Straight on,’ I said. ‘On past the Post Office.' I handed Bill the map. He’d calmed down a bit; he even tried to fix the glove-box, but when he couldn’t he just tossed the lot out the window.
    ‘Don’t bring us out right on top of the bam,’ he warned me.
    Leaning forward, I gave the driver directions. They were quiet in the back; we’d slowed to about thirty, Bill started to take an interest in where we were. We headed out of the village past the council houses; there were a lot more than I remembered.
    ‘How far?’ Bill said.
    ‘Couple of miles.’
    ‘When we’re down to half a mile, tell us.’
    Back when we’d passed through the City I’d had doubts about what I was doing, but those doubts were a lot stronger now. The others were tense, I knew that, but somehow it didn’t make me feel any better. They were professionals and I was what? A mug?
    ‘Left,’ I said, ‘up this lane.’
    We turned off the main road; we hadn’t seen any houses for a while. It was still a way yet but the next building I expected to see was Lower Park Barn. There was a ridge along the left shoulder of the lane, wooded, with a thick undergrowth. I saw Bill inspecting it. After a while I pointed to the right. Where the ground dipped, there was another stretch of woods. ‘Just past there.’
    ‘Near the wood?’
    ‘Other side,’ I said. ‘About half a mile.' The van slowed, then stopped. Bill asked me where the lane went and I told him. Straight on. I couldn’t remember if the barn was visible from the lane. I said, ‘There’s a track comes off it down to the barn.’
    Bill had a few words with the driver, then he turned and flicked up the canvas flap. ‘The barn’s at two o’clock, far side of the woods, half a mile. You two, get out of here, make your way dowu under cover. Get yourselves close enough without being seen, then call in. Clear?’
    There was a rumble of agreement from the back. The van door opened and closed, someone in the back said ‘right’, and we were away again. I glanced in the side mirror. Two men in jeans and heavy coats scrambled up into the woods on the left bank, you couldn’t see their guns, but each of them hugged an arm to his chest.
    The whole operation seemed so matter of fact it made me feel naive, like I’d just got a glimpse of reality for the first time. Facing the front again, I said, ‘How many K and Rs have you guys done?’
    Nobody answered. Bill kept his eyes fixed on the woods. The farm track appeared on our right, and about a quarter of a mile down you could see the half-collapsed roof of the barn. It was derelict.
    The driver’s head swivelled as we passed the muddy track, then he turned to Bill. ‘Tyre tracks. Someone’s been down there.’
    We went on up the lane; when the barn roof dropped out of sight we stopped. Bill gave more instructions and the other pair in the back got out and disappeared over the ridge on our right. Bill told the driver to find somewhere to turn.
    I said, ‘Do you think Sebastian’s down there?’
    Bill reached behind the seat and pulled out some electronic gear, and a pistol. ‘If he is, these are the dumbest kidnappers so far. Not impossible.’
    We found a small lay-by further along. As we turned, Bill passed me a handset with a stubbed aerial; he explained how to use it. By the time he’d finished we were parked, facing back down the lane, engine idling.
    ‘We’ll drop you at the turn-off to the barn,’ he said.
    Maybe I should have expected that, but I hadn’t. A slow rising wave of fear rippled up from my gut. Four of the hardest men I’d ever seen were on the job, and Bill was tipping me out there to join them? And