Dead Line by Chris Ewan Page A

Port.’
    ‘He has only a share,’ Stephanie explained. ‘His partners take their profits in cash. Philippe prefers to consume his in other ways.’
    ‘A lot you know,’ Philippe snarled back. ‘The way you make your living. On your back for my father.’
    ‘Hey!’ Trent snapped his fingers. ‘Enough.’
    Stephanie’s head rolled loosely on her shoulders, like she was reeling from a physical blow. Her plump lips were pursed and moist, as if she were sucking on a straw. Great lips. Wonderful features. But right now her wan skin had pulled taut over her angular cheekbones, and she looked lost and alone and utterly abandoned. Trent could see that she was the kind of woman men would trample other men to protect. He could feel the temptation to go to her. It was a hard instinct to resist.
    ‘We don’t have time for this.’ He jabbed a finger at Philippe. ‘Let’s get back to your club. You must have all kinds of suppliers, correct? You need drinks. Snacks. A sound system. DJs. That kind of thing.’
    Philippe nodded, an amused slant to his mouth, as if Trent was tragically unhip.
    ‘But you have something they need, too, don’t you? They survive because of your custom.’
    He sniffed and lifted his shoulders. Maybe the club wasn’t doing too well. It wouldn’t surprise Trent to hear it. Philippe didn’t strike him as the dedicated type.
    ‘My point is, it’s the same with the men who’ve taken your father. You have to set your emotions aside and view this as a business transaction. Think of it like this: these men have a commodity you want. They have Jérôme. But the reverse is also true. You have something they need. You have money.’
    ‘My father has money.’
    ‘Same thing. That’s why they targeted him.’
    ‘Or because of the insurance policy,’ Alain put in, crossing his arms over his chest, squeezing the revolver with his biceps. ‘It’s possible they know it exists.’
    ‘Unlikely,’ Trent replied. ‘But either way, Jérôme is worth something to the gang. And to get him back, you need to barter a deal. And that’s where I come in.’
    Before he continued, Trent finally did what he’d wanted to do since he’d first stepped into the room. He walked around the oversized desk, rolled back the giant leather chair and took a seat.
    A simple process. A comfortable one, too. The chair was well sprung, the leather soft and warm. The backrest was supportive in all the right places. It didn’t even creak as he adjusted his weight.
    But the effect was telling.
    Stephanie gazed at him uncertainly. Philippe appeared stunned. Alain tensed and slipped off the side of the desk, as if sensing a threat.
    ‘This is Jérôme’s chair?’ Trent asked.
    Stephanie nodded, mouth agape.
    ‘And nobody sits here except Jérôme?’
    ‘You should respect him,’ Alain said.
    ‘You think he’ll be mad at me?’ Trent leaned backwards. He smoothed his hands along the armrests. ‘Listen, I’m just keeping it warm for him until he returns. Believe me, I want him back alive every bit as much as all of you.’
    He scanned the faces in front of him. Philippe and Stephanie averted their eyes. Only Alain held his gaze. His stare was unwavering.
    Trent asked himself if maybe the bodyguard sensed that he was lying? If he saw clean through his words?
    Because the truth was he didn’t want Jérôme back as much as any of them.
    He wanted it much, much more than that.

Chapter Nine
    ‘Let’s talk money,’ Trent said, pressing his fingertips together. ‘The insurance policy Jérôme took out with my firm covers him for a ransom payout of up to two and a half million euros.’
    Philippe whistled.
    ‘Sounds a lot, doesn’t it? And I’m not here to try and save our brokers any cash. If that’s what it takes to free Jérôme, then that’s what we’ll pay.’
    ‘Do you really think they will ask for this much?’ Stephanie asked, as if she couldn’t quite conceive of the sum.
    ‘No,’ Trent told her. ‘I