Free Snatched by Dreda Say Mitchell

shoulders, inhaled deeply, then on the out breath he pulled. The dead weight made his back instantly hurt. But Mac ignored the pain and kept pulling, pulling, pulling.
    They reached the bed. He let the officer collapse back. It had been some serious chemical cosh he’d been prescribed. Urgently Mac peeled his uniform off – jacket, shirt, trousers and shoes and climbed into it. The size didn’t really fit but the policeman’s cap he put on looked right. It took nearly five minutes to lace up the shoes and find the room’s key in the pockets. On the uniform he also found standard issue telescopic baton and stun gun. He moved, stumbled and hit the door with his face as he tried to open it and escape. Stunned for a few seconds, he saw John Mac’s face again – sweet baby fat and all smiling. His fury at losing his son to his own stupidity engulfed him. Fuelled by anger he reopened his eyes and pressed the key into the lock. Click.
    He pulled the door open. Peered outside.
    The room was at the end of a ward that seemed ordinary, with patients and staff moving around. He realised he had no idea what the time was and he’d forgotten to steal the officer’s watch. But it seemed to be the morning. Struck by guilt, he went back into the room and took out the notebook in the pocket of his new jacket and wrote two messages:
     
    The guy on the bed has ingested whatever medicines were prescribed for John MacDonagh. Sort him out.
     
    Second message:
     
    FAO Phil Delaney. Don’t blame the guard. I spat my drugs into his tea and he drank it without realising. I haven’t had a breakdown and I haven’t got my son. Sorry about this Phil but you’ll understand my boy’s welfare is at stake and I have to do something about it.
     
    He propped the notes on the bedside table and finally left the room. Walked down the corridor with his head slightly bowed.
     
    An anonymous phone call to the ward alerted medical staff to the fact that a man was in need of urgent medical attention in the room that had been assigned to John MacDonagh.
    The note for Phil Delaney was handed to him later in a meeting where he was discussing progress on the hunt for the missing baby. He read it twice, sighed and whispered to no one in particular, ‘I taught you too well Mac.’

Thirteen
    Mac’s car was parked a half mile away from the Research Unit office in a side street, his new gun hidden in the crevice of the spare tyre. Instead of setting off he was overwhelmed with a desire to stretch out on the back seat and take a nap. He shoved the feeling off and got down to business. Via backstreets and quiet roads, he drove to within a half mile of the house that had been Garcia’s home in London before his arrest. While the stolen uniform he wore would reassure the neighbours and passers-by, it would attract the attention of any police left to keep an eye on the house. He decided a marked car he could deal with. Surveillance cameras on the other hand might be a problem. He put the Beretta into his jacket and set off on foot.
    The ache in his muscles became manageable as he strode down the street, swinging his arms and rolling his neck, hoping to look like a bored cop doing his exercises while patrolling the street. He walked past Garcia’s house, catching furtive glances as he went by. It seemed grander than it appeared in the computer feed he’d half-watched a few days earlier. The only feature that distinguished it from neighbouring properties was the boarded-up front door and the remains of police tape hanging on the gate.
    Mac continued to the end of the street. No guard on the house. No obvious surveillance. But, he decided, why would there be? The site of the arrest was already old news and his colleagues had better things to do. He walked round the block and back down the street, keeping his eyes open and then did a sharp right up the path to Garcia’s door. Pinned to it was a notice, which advised any official who had business to get in touch