The Hard Way Duncan Brockwell (romance book recommendations .TXT) đ
- Author: Duncan Brockwell
Book online «The Hard Way Duncan Brockwell (romance book recommendations .TXT) đ». Author Duncan Brockwell
âIs that good enough?â
âVery well. Come in if you must.â
The driver returned to his Peugeot.
Hanging up, Henry pushed the green âEnterâ button and the gates whirred to life. The detectivesâ car drove into the compound and he closed the gates after them. âYouâd better not need feeding,â Henry mumbled.
He waited at the door until they parked up and rang the bell. âCome in, detectives. You donât need feeding, do you?â When he received confirmation in the negative, he showed them through to the lounge, where he lay back down on the sofa.
The two detectives sat on armchairs. After a few minutes of silence, he felt eyes on him. Sitting up, both stared at him. âCan I get you something? Tea, or coffee?â They shook their heads, not ones for talking, he guessed. âSomething stronger?â
Henry stood, picked up his tumbler and sauntered over to the corner bar. He went behind it and poured himself another triple measure of the âgood stuffâ. The detectivesâ eyes followed him wherever he went. âAre you sure you donât want a whisky? Itâs no bother.â
Coming out from behind the bar, he leaned against it.
âSit down, Mr Curtis!â the driver said, stern, his voice non-negotiable.
Henry was taken aback by the manâs tone. âHey! You canât talk to me like that.â
The driver stood, reached behind him, and pulled out a pistol. Pointing it at Henryâs chest, the âdetectiveâ gestured at the sofa. âOver there! Sit on the sofa, be a good boy.â
His glass shook, his legs turned to jelly. âItâs you, isnât it? You murdered my Colin. You murdered Brandy and Kurt.â
âGive this guy a prize. Youâre sharp, Mr Curtis. Now sit on that sofa, or shall I force you to sit by blowing out your kneecaps? I donât think you want that, do you.â
Henry felt sick. He was face-to-face with his husbandâs killers. The room started spinning; everything went black. The last thing he saw before he fainted was the passenger getting up from his armchair. Henry fell to the carpet.
Big, strong arms pulled him up, before carrying him over to the sofa. Having the driverâs gun pointed at his chest made him want to cry. âPlease, I donât want to die. Iâve got money; if itâs cash you want, I can get you whatever you need, please. Put that gun away.â
Pleading didnât seem to help. All he received for his troubles were angry scowls. âWhatever it is Iâm doing, Iâll stop it. Please, tell me.â
âNo dignity,â Driver said to his colleague. âYou are going to die tonight, Mr Curtis. Itâs your choice how you go.â
âIâll find a piece of paper and pen,â Passenger said.
âIn a drawer behind the bar, thereâs a pad of paper in there.â Henry thought being helpful might stand him in good favour. âPlease, you donât have to do this.â
Driver sauntered over to the coffee table and sat on the edge, the pistol still pointed at Henryâs chest. âIâm afraid we donât have a choice, Mr Curtis. I promise, it wonât hurt, if you play ball. If you do as we say, itâll be quick and painless. Mess us around, and, wellââ
âIâll go find the bathroom and get set up.â Passenger left the room.
Henry stared at the pad of paper Passenger had left on the table. Driver stood and handed him the pen. Henry looked up. âWhatâs this for?â
âItâs quite simple. All I need from you is to write the word âsorryâ on that pad of paper. Then sign it from yourself. If you do that, Iâll make this as quick as I can.â
âYou want me to write my own suicide note?â He dropped the pen on the glass table in front of him. âIâm not doing it. You canât make me, either. And besides, no one will believe it. Me? Kill myself? Why would I do that? I have a fabulous life.â
Driverâs expression wasnât angry; it was confident. âOh, youâll write that note, Mr Curtis. I know you will.â He reached into his suit jacket and retrieved his mobile.
Taking the phone from his attacker, Henry stared at the photo Driver intended him to see. âYou bastard! You wouldnât.â His hand shook at the picture of his sisterâs ten-year-old boy.
âYou see? Itâs not just your life youâre playing with. If you donât follow our instructions to the letter, weâre going to pay your little nephew a visit at his boarding school. You donât want anything bad to happen to him, do you?â
Henry welled up at the thought of these two thugs hurting his sisterâs son. A tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away, took a deep breath and picked up the pen. âJust the word âSorryâ?â Driver nodded. He attempted to write it.
Putting the pen down again, he couldnât do it. He angered Driver, who stood next to him and placed the nozzle of his pistol in the back of his head, hard, to the point of almost cutting him. Henry put his hands up. âIâm sorry! Iâll do it.â
âIn the next thirty seconds, or weâre driving to your nephewâs school next. He wonât be a happy kid by the time weâre done with him.â
Henry could still feel the gun in the back of his head when he scrawled the word âSorryâ on the paper. He signed his name and looked up at his murderer.
âAre you ready up there?â Driver shouted to his partner.
Receiving the affirmation, Henry did as instructed and walked up the stairs followed by Driver, who nudged him a couple of times in his back with the gun. âIâm going.â He saw lights on in his bathroom and burst into tears.
The Passenger stood. âItâs all good. A lovely temperature for you.â
âTake your clothes off and get in the tub, Mr Curtis.â
Fighting back the tears, Henry untied his dressing gown belt, let it fall to the floor and stood naked in front of his guests. He lifted his right leg and put it in the warm water, then the left, before submerging his
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