Chapter 1
Kat
I stare at the large doors of the downtown bank. It’s warm in there, not bloody freezing like it is out here. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to mingle with the regular customers, just long enough to get warm before one of the cashiers gives me the stink eye.
I usually leave then, because it means security is on the way, or worse, the bank manager who’s got a face like someone shoved a broom up his arse.
I pull the hoody over my head. The last thing I need is the security camera scanning my face. I’m trying to lie low. Not have a bright red flashing light over my head pointing at me saying ‘look, here’s Kat Heaton’.
As I push the heavy door of the bank open, a rush of warm air hits me. I almost sigh with pleasure, but I steel myself. I have to blend in. So instead I head to the carousel of leaflets, which will tell me how I can get a mortgage, or how I can invest. Fat chance of that ever happening now.
I’m barely halfway to my destination when one of the side doors crashes open. Mr ‘Broom up his arse’ comes rushing over, a face like thunder.
“You again,” he hisses, “I should call the cops. You’re probably casing the joint, but I can’t be arsed with the paperwork.”
He grabs the back of my hoody.
Well, that was short-lived. I’ll have to find somewhere else to keep warm.
He starts to march me towards the front door when it flies open.
Several of the customers scream as three men wearing ski masks crash inside brandishing guns.
The first one is wielding a sawn-off shotgun.
“Everyone. On the fucking floor,” he yells.
My oh-so-brave escort shoves me forward, and I stumble before hitting the floor. Then he makes a run for the door, which he came out of.
I hear a loud bang as the shotgun goes off. I glance over my shoulder at Mr Jobsworth and wish I hadn’t. He isn't moving and a large pool of blood begins to pool underneath his body.
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream, which turns into a whimper. I screw my eyes shut, unable to look, knowing that if I scream, I may well be next.
It doesn’t stop the other customers from screaming until another gunshot goes off. This time into the air.
My eyes snap open to see plaster drifting down from the ceiling, one of the other gunmen still pointing his gun at the ceiling.
“The next fucker that screams will end up the same way as the idiot over there, so shut the fuck up!”
I hear whimpering and a few sobs. Then another masculine voice.
“Fill up the bags quickly, and don’t try anything stupid or we kill someone,” he snarls.
I risk a quick glance to see the cashier is filling up what looks like a pillowcase with dollar bills.
That's when I hear them. Sirens. Someone must have hit the alarm. Fuck, we’re all toast. They’ve already killed one person. I feel my heart hammering against my ribcage. I’ve never been the fearful type, but shit. My life may not be all champagne and roses, but I’d like to live long enough to find out whether it could be.
I thought the one in charge was maybe the guy with the shotgun, but it soon becomes apparent he was just trigger-happy.
“Let’s go,” the guy who shot up the ceiling yells. He must be in charge.
“What? We’ve barely got anything.”
“We won’t have anything at all if the cops get here before we make it out.”
The boss glances around, then he points at me.
“Insurance,” he growls.
The shotgun guy storms over to where I’m lying on the floor. Before I can even think, he smashes the butt of the shotgun into my cheek.
Pain cascades up my jaw and explodes in my head and just before the darkness takes me, I hear his boss.
“I said take her as insurance, not fucking kill her.”
All I can hear is an annoying drip, drip, drip. It’s like Chinese torture. My head feels like it's about to explode, and I can still taste copper in my mouth. I force my eyes open and I’m grateful for the semi-darkness. The only light is coming from a cracked window at the back of an open toilet cubicle.
My wrists are handcuffed to a pipe which connects to a sink. It's where the monotonous dripping is coming from. This is some sort of bathroom. Dirty cracked tiles cover the floor and a couple of urinals are attached to the wall on the other side.
I’m in the men's toilet. Probably in a cafe or bar somewhere.
My thankfulness is soon gone when a fluorescent light is turned on. I squint at the brightness. A man stands in the doorway. He isn’t carrying a gun, so at least he’s not planning on shooting me, at least not yet. He’s still wearing a ski mask, probably for my benefit. It's difficult to tell which one of the men he is. I suppose it doesn’t matter much, it’s not like any of them are vying to be my best friend.
They must think I’ll probably head to the nearest police station if I get out of here and try to describe what my abductors look like. Nothing could be further from the truth. The last thing I need is for my father to find out where I am.
Suddenly bile threatens to rise in my throat. Shit. My ID. It was in my jeans pocket. I should have dumped it. So much for lying low, although they probably recognised my face, anyway.
My father had to come up with some reason I wasn’t around, so the newspapers were full of the stories of Katrina Heaton being sent to rehab. The trauma of losing her mother sent her over the edge. My photo was plastered across the front page of all the tabloids.
I’ve never taken drugs in my life, but I was definitely traumatised by my mother’s death, but not in the way everyone thinks. My father had to come up with some excuse as to why I disappeared. I guess that was the best he could do when his original plan failed.
I blink when the flash goes off on the camera.
“Let’s see if Daddy dearest will stump up the cash for his wayward daughter,” he mocks.
Then the light goes off and I’m left in darkness.
Damn, I can’t let him find me because if he does, all this running and living on the streets for the past two weeks will have been in vain.
I pull at the pipe, hoping that I can get free from it. The bathroom looks to be in a poor state of repair. Just my luck that the pipe is the only thing that isn't falling apart.
I might have been grateful that they didn’t shoot me in the bank, but that relief soon fades away when I consider what the consequences of my father finding me might be.
My father wants rid of me. What better way than having some kidnappers off me? It would be an easy way out for him. It means he won't have to deal with me himself. I know too much and if the truth ever came out, his political aspirations would be dead in the water. You can’t really be the next senator if you're serving time in the state penitentiary or sitting on death row.
I lean my head against the cool tiles. It eases my throbbing head a little, and then I wait. I’m not sure what for. Probably the pissed-off kidnappers take their anger out on me when they realise there’s going to be no money forthcoming.
I don’t have to wait long. Well, it doesn’t seem like it, but who knows? It’s difficult to tell the passage of time when you’re handcuffed to a pipe in a men’s lavatory.
When the light comes back on, I’m faced with two of them. This doesn’t seem like it’s going to end well.
“It seems like daddy isn’t playing ball, or maybe he needs a little more proof.”
One of them comes up behind me and puts me in a headlock. I struggle, but it’s pointless. His hold only gets tighter, so I can barely breathe.
The other one undoes one of the handcuffs, so I’m no longer attached to the pipe. But before I can try to hit him, I’m pushed to the floor, face down.
The self-defence classes I took at my mum’s insistence aren’t doing me much good. Two against one like this. I don’t really stand a chance.
I’m no longer in a choke hold, but he twists one arm behind my back at an unnatural angle, while the other guy pulls my other arm out so my hand is flat on the tiled floor.
“Let’s see if daddy plays ball when he has one of your fingers.”
I scream as he pulls a knife from his belt, and I struggle to get away, but it’s no use. My other arm gets twisted even more, making me whimper and cease any attempt to get free.
Before he can do the deed, there’s a loud noise from outside the bathroom.
It sounds like a door being kicked in.
My heart crashes against my rib cage. I’m not sure who I’m more scared of. The men in here who are trying to remove one of my fingers, or whoever it is that has just broken in.
If it's someone sent by my father, I’m in more danger than just losing one finger.
The guy with the knife lets go of my hand.
“Fuck, it’s Romano. Stay here while I try to smooth things over.”
I recognise his voice. He’s the boss of the trio.
He drops the knife as he scrambles towards the door, holding his hands in the air, like he’s about to surrender.
“Mr Romano… I can explain.”
I hear a loud bang as a gun goes off. Fuck. I have to get out of here.
I don’t know who this Romano person is, but he sounds like the sort of person my father would hire to do his dirty work. A cold-blooded killer who’s just shot someone without even waiting to hear what they have to say.
I see the knife and know what I have to do. I quickly reach for it, and before the arsehole behind me realises, I’ve jammed it hard in his thigh.
I pull it out and ram it home again.
He screams and releases my arm.
He rolls around the floor, trying to stem the flow of blood which is pooling underneath his leg. I scramble away. There’s no way I’m dropping this knife now. I’ve used it once, and if I have to, I’ll use it again.
I can’t leave by the door, not with this Romano character out there, so I head for the small window in the cubicle.
I step through the pool of blood ignoring the stickiness on the sole of my shoe.
I try to open the window, but it seems to be stuck fast, so I do the only thing I can. I smash the glass with the dangling handcuff. It shatters and shards fly everywhere. Blood drips from my hand, but I pull the sleeve of my hoodie down to try to stem the flow and give my hand some protection as I push the remaining broken glass from the edges of the window. The window is small, but I’ve always been fairly small, and coupled with having eaten barely any food for the last two weeks, I’m skinny enough to fit through the gap.
The drop to the concrete below is further than I thought and as I hit the ground, I hiss as my ankle turns. I can’t worry about that now. I have to get out of here.
I look left and right and see an alley. That’s my best bet. It's the quickest route away from the building I was being held in, so my best chance of escape.
I limp down the alley, wincing every time my foot touches the ground. Too intent on making my escape, I don’t see the trail of bloody shoe prints I leave in my wake.
