Page 61 of Chase

Mayfair is around two miles from Westminster. It’s one of London’s most influential areas, and home to the rich and famous. We weave through the evening traffic, taking a route past Buckingham Palace. The building stands proudly in the now-illuminated evening skies.

Russell sits in the rear of my car; our captive is in the passenger seat with my brother’s gun pressed to the back of his chair. Once he climbed into the vehicle, I secured his wrists with cable ties then attached them to his belt. He gives the impression of a schoolboy waiting patiently for his class to start which, in a way, he is. But it’s a lesson he won’t receive twice.

“Wave to the king,” I suggest as we pass the palace. His furious eyes flick to mine, and he scowls. “It may be your last chance.”

“I would if my hands weren’t attached to my dick,” he snarls. I grin back at him.

“Push me, and I’ll staple them to it.” He visibly winces as no doubt the image of his hands being nailed to his privates flits through his mind.

“What the fuck do you idiots want?” We haven’t told him why he’s here. I wanted to leave him to sweat for a while. With no explanation, we took his phone from his pocket then started on our journey.

“You’ll find out in good time,” Russell says, eerily soft. “Not far now.”

The red brick building comes into view, sporting an inconspicuous gray door against the stone. Down Street Tube Station hasn’t operated since 1932, when it was closed after only twenty-five years of service. Residents in areas such as Mayfair don’t ride on the underground. In recent years, it’s been adapted for tourism in the form of tours of the disused passageways and rooms. It has an interesting history, with parts of it being used at headquarters for Winston Churchill during the Second World War.

I draw up in front of the building as Hunter and Harrison step out of the archway on the other side of the mini-mart next door. Both are dressed smartly in chic suits and sharp white shirts. Hunter holds a bundle of keys in one hand as he approaches my window, an excited smile on his lips. I press the button to lower the glass, and he leans down to speak to me. His eyes lock onto my passenger.

“Good evening, Mr. Hastings,” he drawls. “Thank you for joining us.”

“It’s not as if I had a fucking choice.” Hunter shrugs as the passenger door opens and Harrison stabs our captive in the arm with a needle. His eyes pop wide as he realizes what’s happening, but within moments, I see the darkness fall over his eyes, and he passes out.

“Good job, Waite,” Hunter tells his accomplice. Harrison grins, obviously proud of himself. He loves all this undercover bullshit. “Now, let's get him inside before he wakes up. Come on, Russ.”

Russell starts to clamber out of the car. Hunter walks around to the passenger side and helps Harrison extract Hastings, throwing an arm around each of their necks as if he has just had too much to drink.

“You go park somewhere,” Harrison says, “then meet us downstairs.” Both my car doors slam, and I watch them all disappear through the inconspicuous gray door and out of sight.

I find a parking spot farther down the street between a vintage red Mini and a luxurious black Bentley. After reversing my jeep into the space, I sit momentarily, considering what will happen tonight. Yes, I’ve dispensed justice before. I’ve heard men scream and beg for their lives. But never has it seemed more important to make one pay as it does now. I want to hear every cut of his flesh, every break of his bones. Not only do I want to watch and listen, but I need to partake. I rarely get involved in the actual violence, leaving it to the men who always enjoy it. But tonight, I will fucking enjoy every slash.

After climbing out of the car, I slam my door closed then walk down the street toward the station entrance. On stepping through, I find a dark, narrow staircase. A simple white sign on the wall tells me there are one hundred and three steps to descend. As I step down, old white and red tiles line the walls. In the distance, I hear trains passing on nearby tracks beneath the city streets, the sound of metal scraping over metal loud and clear.

On reaching the bottom of the stairs, the noise of the train subsides and I can hear voices from further along the corridor. I find them in a small room. My friends stand in a circle with our prisoner in the center. In the corner is an old metal bathtub from a time long gone. Hunter’s focus moves to me as I step in to join them.

“Interesting place, isn’t it?” he says casually. “Hard to believe people practically lived down here during the war. Churchill probably washed his balls in that bath.”

“How did you get access?” I ask him.

“Someone I know is a tour guide. It felt the most fitting place for this.” There are dozens of abandoned tunnels and stations around London. We’ve used many over the years, but this is our first time in Down St. He turns to Hastings, who’s now awake and standing in the center. “I would imagine many of your arsehole friends live in Mayfair.”

“I fucking live in Mayfair,” he growls back.

“And you’ll die here,” Russell tells him. “Your blood will seep into the ground deep below the pavement you have walked.”

“If you’ve brought me here to kill me, fucking get on with it.” His voice is wavering despite his words. “But before you do, I want to know why.”

I chuckle under my breath as I am reminded we haven’t told him the why of the situation. He’s in the dark.

“Samantha.” My word is blunt and clear.

“Who?” His lips twist into a smirk. “I don’t know any tart by that name.”

“Watch your mouth,” I snap, stepping forward into his space. Our eyes lock, and we glare at each other. “The woman you beat to a pulp in the back of your car.”

“Which one?” he goads. His vile features are highlighted in the murky tunnels, and the only light sources are pathetically dim wall sconces. “Some little whores love it rough. The way their skin marks is…” He trails off, then rolls his eyes dramatically. “Fucking perfect.” My fist connects with his chin hard, and he stumbles backward.

“Let’s see if your skin marks so prettily.” I land another blow on the same spot.

“You need to get to the gym, Chase. That will barely leave a bruise.” He tries to smile nastily, but his lips barely widen, as if frozen.

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