Free Black List by Will Jordan Page B

there with nothing but four cream-coloured brick walls for company.
    No officer had come to charge him or take his statement. No rights had been read, no identification confirmed, no phone calls or legal advice offered. It was as if he’d simply been forgotten about, and for a brief time he had almost convinced himself that that was exactly what had happened.
    Perhaps it was all a mistake. Perhaps they had tried and failed to find evidence of wrongdoing and were now debating what to do with him.
    Perhaps…
    It had been a desperate hope, and finally dashed when the door to his cell was thrown open and a trio of men in civilian clothes moved in, tied a cloth sack over his head and marched him right out of the station. They hadn’t said a word despite his attempts to communicate with them, to reason with them, to plead with them.
    He’d been bundled into the back of a waiting van, which had departed the police station at a brisk but measured pace. Observing the speed limit, not wanting to get pulled over. There had been at least two men with him in the van, acting like a human vice to keep him pinned in his seat, though again neither of his captors had said a word. Each smelled of cologne and cigarette smoke.
    An hour and forty-one minutes of strained silence had thus passed; enough to get well clear of London with almost no traffic on the roads at such an early hour.
    The last few minutes of the van ride had taken them down a rough, uneven road, each jolting movement rattling Alex’s bones and straining the vehicle’s suspension. An unpaved or seldom-used track with no ambient traffic sounds, suggesting a rural location.
    Wherever he was, the building in which he now resided was substantial to say the least. The van had driven right inside it, and after disembarking he’d been marched a short distance across a solid concrete floor before being forced down onto the chair. Though he couldn’t see, the echoing interior and faint movement of air gave the impression of great space, as if he were in the centre of an empty warehouse or parking garage. The air was cool and damp, and smelled of oil and engine fumes.
    Beyond those scraps of knowledge, however, Alex had no idea where he was. It made little difference anyway. Even if he knew the exact address, who could he tell?
    He gasped at the metallic clang of a door opening behind him, rusty hinges grating, and felt his heart beat faster as boots clicked towards him across the vast echoing space. They were moving slowly, and apparently circling around from the left, though the acoustics of the room made it difficult to tell for sure.
    It was at that moment that Alex caught a scent of something on the air. Something rich and strong and bitter. Coffee.
    The footsteps had stopped somewhere in front of him, and no further sounds were heard. Seconds stretched out into minutes as Alex sat there, his back slowly seizing up on the uncomfortable chair, his hands throbbing, his pulse racing. Despite his best efforts to remain calm, he could feel his breath growing faster, the clammy fabric of the hood pressing against him every time he inhaled. It was a terrible sensation to feel so vulnerable, so unaware of one’s surroundings. His captor could be holding a knife inches from his face and he wouldn’t have a clue.
    Finally he could take it no longer. He had to say something, had to break the tension.
    ‘H-hello?’ he said, afraid to raise his voice too much.
    It certainly wasn’t the authoritative challenge of a man seeking to regain control of the situation, but it did get results.
    Suddenly the footsteps were coming towards him. Alex tensed, bracing himself for the crushing impact of a fist driven straight into his unprotected face, stomach or any other part of his body that didn’t bear thinking about.
    To his surprise, however, no such thing happened. Instead he felt a tug at his neck, and a moment later the hood was yanked off, at last permitting him to view his