Page 19 of Savage Redemption

“What the fuck are you saying, Bartosz?”

“Do I have to spell it out?” He sighs. “Yes, I can see that I do. I assume that despite never having heard of her existence until a couple of minutes ago, you have more than a passing interest in the kid’s welfare. I understand she’s thriving. Up to now. It would be tragic, would it not, if that was to change?”

“You bastard.”

He shrugs. “Yes, probably, but needs must. The thing is, Adan, the moment you’re free, what’s to stop you just disappearing? You’re a resourceful man. You have contacts. We’d never see a penny of what you owe us.”

“I gave you my word,” I begin.

“Alas, I feel I need something more… tangible. Some form of surety. And, as I say, Erin offers me that.”

“You’re threatening her? A child? Ababy?”

“Not as long as you keep your side of our bargain. You’re to keep in touch with me, send the payments on the dot, and we’llall be happy. Erin most of all.” He examines the picture once more. “Sweet little thing.”

I snatch the photo from him. “You touch a hair on her head…”

“Let’s hope such unpleasantness does not prove necessary, but of course, that’s up to you. Now, do you have any further questions regarding our arrangement?”

“Get out, Bartosz.” It’s all I can do not to grab him by the neck and throttle him right here and now.

“I see we understand one another.” He gets to his feet. “Did Julia tell you that we eat at six? I gather we’re to have salmon this evening. Oh, I almost forgot. You’ll be needing this.” He hands me a very authentic-looking passport and a brand-new smartphone. “My number is in there already, and you’ll find details of a bank account in your name. I deposited the fifty thousand euros mentioned earlier, along with details of flights tomorrow out of Tenerife. I expect you to be gone by noon. I’ll make a car available to take you to the airport. Is there anything else?”

“Fuck you,” is my only response.

“My thoughts exactly. Until dinner time, then.” He gets to his feet, bows his head, and is gone as quickly as he arrived.

I’m left with a set of photographs and a burning desire to rip someone limb from limb.

I seriously consider skippingthe invitation to dinner, but my stomach overrules me. I bite back my seething anger and present myself in the dining room one minute after six. Bartosz and his wife are already seated, him at the head of the table, Julia Bartosz to his right. The daughter is nowhere to be seen.

I take the spare seat to Bartosz’s left and reach for the half-full bottle of red wine in front of me.

“A fine burgundy,” Bartosz murmurs. “You will enjoy it.”

I swallow a glassful in one go and pour myself a refill.

My hosts make no comment. Instead, Julia offers me soup.

“It’s stilton and broccoli,” she tells me. “One ofSeñoraHernandez’s specialities.”

I accept and help myself to two of the crusty wholemeal rolls accompanying it. I’m famished, no point denying it, and the food above stairs is very good. In fairness, I was reasonably well-fed whilst incarcerated in the cellar, too, probably courtesy of Señora Hernandez, but not in such quantity.

I make short work of the soup. It really is exceptional, and I’m wondering about a second bowl when the main course arrives.SeñoraHernandez places the huge platter of salmonen croûtein the centre of the table and proceeds to carve it up. A maid trots in with a tray of steaming vegetables then scuttles out again.SeñoraHernandez serves a generous helping of her salmon onto each plate, then beats her own retreat.

Up to now, the conversation has been minimal, but once the edge has been taken off my hunger, I find I have plenty to say.

“Where’s your daughter?” I demand. “Were you scared I might repay your ‘hospitality’ in kind? Did you prefer to keep her away from me?”

“She’s at a sleepover,” Julia explains. “A friend from school. Why would you think we wanted her to avoid you,SeñorSan Antonio? Unless you fear she might still be traumatised following her brief stay in your keeping. If so, I can assure you that?—”

I tilt my head. “Not that, though I am glad she got over the experience. Did your husband not enlighten you regarding his plans for ensuring my compliance?”

“We rarely discuss business, Señor San Antonio,” she replies blandly. “Is there something I should know?”

I look to Bartosz, who simply raises his eyebrows.

“Your husband has threatened to harm my daughter if I fail to meet the terms of our agreement,” I explain. “She’s only three months old.”

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