Page 80 of Savage Redemption

A couple of minutes later, the low growl of an engine reaches me. I grasp the bars of the gate and peer through. Headlights come into view, and soon a battered four-by-four crunches to a halt a few feet from me. The windows are blacked out, so I can’t see who’s inside, but the huge gate starts to slide to my right. It moves just far enough to allow me to walk through.

On the other side, I shield my eyes from the glare of the headlamps as the gate closes. No one emerges from the vehicle, but one of the rear doors swings open.

Short of other options, I hop inside and close the door behind me.

I can see the backs of two heads in the front seats, but neither man turns or speaks to me. The four-by-four grinds back into motion and pulls away, back up the gravelled driveway. I judge the distance to the house to be perhaps half a mile.

We come to a stop in front of a graceful two-storey dwelling surrounded by an elegant wraparound veranda.

“Get out. You’ll be met at the door.”

No further words of welcome appear to be forthcoming, so I open the car door and scramble out again, dragging my duffel behind me.

“Leave the bag. It will be returned to you before you leave. Maybe.”

“But…” I protest. “It has my passport in. And my money.”

“The bag,” the voice from within the vehicle repeats his instruction.

I resign myself to the inevitable and toss my duffel back onto the car seat. I close the door and turn to contemplate the short flight of steps leading up onto the veranda.

Right. Here goes.

The door opensbefore I reach it. The man awaiting me is familiar.

“Good evening, Mr Bartosz,” I say. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“You left me little choice, Miss Darke.” He stands aside and gestures me to enter. “Second door on the right.”

I follow the directions and find myself in a study or office. It’s quite grand, imposing, even. The solid mahogany desk dominates the large space, a laptop open on its gleaming surface. A Chesterfield-style chair made of polished burgundy leather is positioned behind the desk, and a matching one faces the desk at an angle. A two-seater sofa in the same expensive leather occupies one wall.

Mr Bartosz — Baz if I recall correctly — seats himself at the desk. “Please, Miss Darke, make yourself comfortable. May I offer you some refreshment?”

“No, thank you. I’m good.”

“In that case, whatcanI do for you?”

“Is Adan here?” I blurt. “He said he was coming to see Mr Kaminski, but he hasn’t come back. Is he still here?”

Mr Bartosz regards me in silence for several moments, then, “My advice to you, Miss Darke, is to forget you ever met San Antonio. Return to your family, the UK. I can provide transport to the airport and a flight ticket if you require it. Or perhaps you’d like me to phone your father again? I’m sure he would come and collect you if I ask him.”

I stiffen my posture, all five foot four of it. “There’s no need to do that, Mr Bartosz.”

“No?” He waits in silence.

“Is he here?” I repeat. “Please.”

He seems to be considering his response. Eventually, “Yes, Miss Darke. He is. And he will remain here for as long as we see fit.”

I knew it. “Can I see him?”

“No, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Now, if you’ll excuse me…?”

“I… I’m not leaving. I’m going nowhere without Adan.” I glare at him and concentrate on not trembling under his cool, assessing gaze. This man has the power to crush me under hisboot heel, but some inner sense tells me he won’t. Baz Bartosz is hard as nails, but I don’t detect any of the mindless cruelty I became so accustomed to in the past.

“You are wrong, Miss Darke. You will leave when I say you will.”

“You… you can throw me out, but I’ll go straight to the authorities. The police. I’ll tell them you have a man held prisoner here, that he’s in danger.”

---