Dead Line by Chris Ewan

Trent was fairly sure he was suffering from a tide of nausea. He was swallowing audibly. Another mouthful of coffee and he’d likely pass out.
    Alain was perched on the end of the desk next to the tray of coffee things, one foot touching the floor, his other leg bent at the knee. He’d shed his jacket and draped it over the chair alongside Stephanie, then loosened his tie and unbuttoned his frayed collar. The Ruger was still in its holster. The holster was still fitted around his shoulder and chest. He looked a lot like a squad detective receiving a debrief.
    One spot remained conspicuously unoccupied – the office chair behind the desk. It was the most comfortable seat in the room and it would have given one of his listeners the best possible view of what he had to say. But it appeared that nobody was prepared to claim it. Perhaps it was a subconscious decision to keep the spot open for Jérôme. Perhaps it signified something else. Trent was still weighing up the possible explanations when Philippe cleared his throat.
    ‘We should contact the police,’ he said, glancing up at Stephanie and Alain. ‘Men we trust there. Men my father can rely on.’ Beads of sweat had broken out across his forehead. His skin had a waxy texture and he was squinting myopically, as though the light in the room was too bright for him.
    ‘Not a good idea,’ Trent replied.
    ‘Why?’ His cheek was still livid. Looked like it might bruise. ‘They have the manpower and the resources to deal with situations like this.’
    ‘They also have a different agenda from us.’
    ‘ Us ?’
    ‘That’s right. Like it or not, we’re a team now.’
    Philippe curled his lip. He shook his head at the others in the room. ‘He’s just looking to get paid for something the police will do better. And for free.’
    ‘Not true.’ Trent fixed his gaze on each of them in turn. He was very deliberate about it. ‘My fee is covered by Jérôme’s insurance policy.’
    ‘But you’re just one man,’ Philippe persisted. ‘I bet the police would assign some kind of specialist unit.’  
    Trent bobbed his head. ‘You’re right. They would. But tell me, what would be their goal?’
    ‘To get my father back.’
    ‘Possibly. But they’d also want to try and apprehend the gang. They’d want to prevent the gang from doing this to someone else.’
    ‘Are you concerned they’ll put you out of business?’
    ‘I’m concerned they might bungle their investigation. I’m concerned they’d show their hand. When the men who snatched your father get in contact, the first thing they’ll tell you is not to talk to the police. And they’ll mean it, too. If they catch sight of the authorities anywhere near them, do you know what they’ll do?’
    Philippe didn’t reply. He just stared at Trent, a bluish cast to his lips, a simmering loathing in his sleep-hooded eyes.
    ‘They’ll kill your father. Make no mistake. They don’t want to be caught. They don’t want to come close to risking it. And catching them isn’t your concern. Your only thought should be getting your father back alive. I can help you to achieve that, but you have to work with me and you have to work with the gang. This is a negotiation now.’ He glanced at Stephanie. She was blinking rapidly. ‘You’ll have to pay. I’m sorry, but that’s the reality. Hoping for any other outcome is like putting a loaded gun against your husband’s head and pulling the trigger.’
    Stephanie winced but Trent didn’t back off. It was vital to get his point across. Not just for Jérôme. For other reasons, too. Reasons that had to do with his own concerns. With Aimée and the bigger objective he was working towards.
    Trent turned back to Philippe. ‘What do you do for a living?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m a businessman,’ Philippe replied, though he looked far from it in his ridiculous shirt and his sagging jeans.
    Alain snorted.
    ‘What kind of business?’ Trent asked.
    ‘A nightclub. In the Vieux