nothing on there that stands out?’
‘It’s just the numbers, I’m afraid. No names attached. You’ll have to check them yourself.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate what you’ve done.’
She raced up the stairs, aware that she needed to access her account fast to intercept his mail. If there was someone bugging her place, he may well have planted spyware on her PC capable of picking up every keystroke, which meant he’d have access to all her email.
Which meant that . . .
‘I don’t want anyone to find out I’ve helped you, ma’am,’ continued Weale, sounding a little unsure of himself now. ‘So if you could delete the email and not tell anyone about it . . .’
Reassuring him she wouldn’t, she rang off and strode into her bedroom, switching on the light.
Then froze as she heard movement behind her.
Seven
Tina didn’t even have time to turn round, her assailant was that fast. An arm encircled her neck, dragging her backwards into a choking headlock.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a gloved hand come into view at waist height, holding a syringe. She was still wearing her thick winter coat, so her assailant pulled it back to expose the top of her jeans-clad thigh and turned the syringe round in his fingers, ready to jab it into her leg. At the same time he increased the pressure on her neck so that she could barely breathe as she was pulled into his chest.
But Tina had been on the wrong end of violent assault too many times before, and she reacted fast, using her forearm to knock the hand holding the syringe out of the way, buying herself a precious second and a half. She kicked her legs up in the air and reached back with her free hand, grabbing her assailant between the legs and yanking his balls with all the strength she could muster.
He grunted with pain and his grip on her throat slackened,allowing her to wriggle free. She felt him instinctively stab her with the syringe, but this time the coat got in the way, and although it hurt, she knew it hadn’t broken the skin.
He grabbed at her but she managed to dive across her brand-new double bed, rolling off the other side and landing on her back on the carpet.
Now she saw her attacker properly for the first time. He was a big guy, at least six three, with broad weightlifter’s shoulders and powerful arms. He was dressed in a dark hooded top with the hood pulled up, and a scarf covered the bottom half of his face. Above it, his skin was pale and his eyes narrow and cold.
And then a second man, dressed similarly but a lot smaller, came into the room. Now Tina knew she was in real trouble, because he was holding a nine-millimetre pistol which was raised in her direction. Her assailant began to move round the bed towards her, still holding the syringe.
‘Come quietly, Tina Boyd,’ said the gunman calmly in a foreign accent that she recognized immediately as Russian.
She was trapped. There was pepper spray in her coat pocket but she knew it would do no good against people like this. Not when one of them had a gun.
The man with the syringe was smiling now. She could see the laughter lines forming round his eyes. He was enjoying this – the bastard – and she wondered if he was the one who’d killed Nick Penny.
A potent cocktail of fear and rage surged through her and she sat up suddenly, leaned back, and yanked out one of the drawers from her bedside table. She grabbed something out of it and threw the drawer at the man with the syringe.
He swatted it away easily, the contents spilling over the bed. Underneath the scarf she could hear him chuckling – a deep,rumbling sound – as he regarded the weapon she’d grabbed: a simple handheld torch.
‘Inject her,’ snapped the gunman. ‘Quickly.’
The man with the syringe loomed above her, a wall of muscle, then leaned down in order to haul her up, speaking a steady flow of Russian to her in excited, breathless tones.
Which was when Tina yanked the lid from the top of the torch, flicked
‘It’s just the numbers, I’m afraid. No names attached. You’ll have to check them yourself.’
‘Thanks. I appreciate what you’ve done.’
She raced up the stairs, aware that she needed to access her account fast to intercept his mail. If there was someone bugging her place, he may well have planted spyware on her PC capable of picking up every keystroke, which meant he’d have access to all her email.
Which meant that . . .
‘I don’t want anyone to find out I’ve helped you, ma’am,’ continued Weale, sounding a little unsure of himself now. ‘So if you could delete the email and not tell anyone about it . . .’
Reassuring him she wouldn’t, she rang off and strode into her bedroom, switching on the light.
Then froze as she heard movement behind her.
Seven
Tina didn’t even have time to turn round, her assailant was that fast. An arm encircled her neck, dragging her backwards into a choking headlock.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a gloved hand come into view at waist height, holding a syringe. She was still wearing her thick winter coat, so her assailant pulled it back to expose the top of her jeans-clad thigh and turned the syringe round in his fingers, ready to jab it into her leg. At the same time he increased the pressure on her neck so that she could barely breathe as she was pulled into his chest.
But Tina had been on the wrong end of violent assault too many times before, and she reacted fast, using her forearm to knock the hand holding the syringe out of the way, buying herself a precious second and a half. She kicked her legs up in the air and reached back with her free hand, grabbing her assailant between the legs and yanking his balls with all the strength she could muster.
He grunted with pain and his grip on her throat slackened,allowing her to wriggle free. She felt him instinctively stab her with the syringe, but this time the coat got in the way, and although it hurt, she knew it hadn’t broken the skin.
He grabbed at her but she managed to dive across her brand-new double bed, rolling off the other side and landing on her back on the carpet.
Now she saw her attacker properly for the first time. He was a big guy, at least six three, with broad weightlifter’s shoulders and powerful arms. He was dressed in a dark hooded top with the hood pulled up, and a scarf covered the bottom half of his face. Above it, his skin was pale and his eyes narrow and cold.
And then a second man, dressed similarly but a lot smaller, came into the room. Now Tina knew she was in real trouble, because he was holding a nine-millimetre pistol which was raised in her direction. Her assailant began to move round the bed towards her, still holding the syringe.
‘Come quietly, Tina Boyd,’ said the gunman calmly in a foreign accent that she recognized immediately as Russian.
She was trapped. There was pepper spray in her coat pocket but she knew it would do no good against people like this. Not when one of them had a gun.
The man with the syringe was smiling now. She could see the laughter lines forming round his eyes. He was enjoying this – the bastard – and she wondered if he was the one who’d killed Nick Penny.
A potent cocktail of fear and rage surged through her and she sat up suddenly, leaned back, and yanked out one of the drawers from her bedside table. She grabbed something out of it and threw the drawer at the man with the syringe.
He swatted it away easily, the contents spilling over the bed. Underneath the scarf she could hear him chuckling – a deep,rumbling sound – as he regarded the weapon she’d grabbed: a simple handheld torch.
‘Inject her,’ snapped the gunman. ‘Quickly.’
The man with the syringe loomed above her, a wall of muscle, then leaned down in order to haul her up, speaking a steady flow of Russian to her in excited, breathless tones.
Which was when Tina yanked the lid from the top of the torch, flicked
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