Free Snatched by Dreda Say Mitchell Page B

was indeed fluttering around the front room, trying to flick the light on and off before disappearing out of the room.

Fourteen
    Mac slammed to his feet, pulled out the Beretta. His breath lunged in and out of his chest in a high-energy rhythm. He was disorientated by the dark. Night had fallen while he’d slept. Then he heard a clatter. Tins that he’d arranged by the kitchen door had been knocked over when it was opened. He levelled the gun up. Edged towards the hallway. Froze. Then darted out into it. The front door was open. The armchair he’d used to block it pushed back. Elena had come in the simple way. He turned his gun towards the kitchen and advanced. There was no noise at all now. The only light came from the streetlamps outside.
    When he reached the kitchen he peered around the door, gun in hand looking for any sign of movement. There was none. He walked over to where he’d placed a lamp on the draining board and switched it on. The kitchen transformed into soft yellow light.
    He heard another bang as one of his noise traps upstairs was set off. He flicked the lamp off, gazed upwards, eased slowly out into the hallway until he reached the bottom of the stairs. He began climbing, carefully avoiding the steps that creaked until he reached the landing. In one of the bedrooms the narrow light of a torch moved around. On the front of his feet, once again deftly avoiding any creaking floorboards, Mac headed cautiously for the room. When he reached the door he saw the back of a shadowy figure in the half-light ferreting through drawers.
    He levelled his gun and quietly ordered, ‘Hands high in the air.’ The figure froze. ‘It’s over for you this time.’
    She seemed smaller, slimmer than he remembered. Dressed in black tracksuit bottoms, a hoodie top and trainers, her look seemed rather amateur for an international criminal.
    ‘I said, put your hands up.’
    The hooded figure turned their head slowly. Jumped when their gaze found Mac’s gun.
    ‘Hey, hey – come on, chill out man. I mean come on – I’m not doing anyone any harm. Do you want the stuff back? Have the stuff back. Look, I’ll prove it . . .’
    This was no woman.
    ‘Shine the torch into your face,’ Mac commanded.
    The man didn’t hesitate. A youth. Late teens to early twenties. Pasty, spotted complexion and feral blue eyes. Terrified enough to pee his pants.
    One-handed he started chucking bits and pieces from his pockets onto the floor as he spoke. ‘I thought the house was abandoned. Put the boom stick away—’
    ‘Are you on your own? Or have you brought someone with you?’
    ‘My mate’s outside the front keeping watch. We’re just doing a bit of residential . . . ain’t out to hurt anyone . . .’
    ‘Shit,’ Mac cut in violently.
    What was he thinking of? He had no evidence that Elena was even in London. No evidence that Agent Tom Bracken had told Elena that her baby was being kept at Garcia’s house as part of their sweetheart deal to help each other out. And no evidence that Elena would be coming tonight or any other night to recover the child.
    On the hallway below, there was a shout, a hissing noise and a bang.
    ‘That’s my mate,’ the youth said tentatively. ‘Shall I go and get him and tell him?’
    Mac sighed, a wave of defeat descending on him. ‘Get the fuck out of here.’
    The youth shook with nervous laughter. ‘Yeah, sure.’ He pointed at the stolen items that he’d dumped on the bed, ‘It’s all there; I haven’t taken anything. I promise.’
    Mac said nothing. The youth lowered his hands and began to sidle towards the bedroom door. He rushed past Mac into the landing. There was a creaking on the stairs signalling the burglar’s accomplice coming upstairs. Only when the burglar started walking rapidly backwards through the door with his hands raised again, did Mac realised something was up.
    The youth stuttered, ‘Your friend here said it was OK for me to go. So I’ll be off.’
    Pop.