A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two Mark Hobson (romantic novels in english TXT) 📖

Tobias walked over to the edge of the canal, brought his arm back, and threw the mobile phone with all of his strength out into the middle of the channel, where it made a loud splash.

He stood there in silence, looking out across the city, but not really seeing the buildings and warehouses and trees. In his mind’s eye all he could see was the girl, alone in the basement and imprisoned in the cage.

Oh God, what had he been thinking? he thought to himself. Why had he done that to her? His beautiful daughter?

He quickly made a decision. He must get back to her.

They must leave, and find a new home far, far away. Where nobody knew them. Where Lotte could not find them - just the two of them.

Tobias hurriedly packed up his gear, removing the boiler suit and ramming it and the welder’s hood back into his bag. Then he dashed through the boatyard, ignoring the shouts from his boss, and out of the gates.

Head tucked into the falling snow, he set off back.

Pieter had seen the strange little episode unfold, watching as Vinke threw the phone into the canal, and he made a mental note to have the water dragged; it was imperative that they retrieve that phone.

Then Vinke was heading in his direction, the path he was taking through the allotments passing just a few metres from his hiding spot, and he kept as still as possible and prayed that he wouldn’t spot him lurking in the undergrowth.

Pieter breathed a quiet sigh of relief as the hulking form swept by and out onto the cobbled lane.

Reaching into the deep pocket of his coat, he brought out a walkie-talkie and lifted it to his lips.

“Target is on the move. K Team, four-man track, two by two. Maintain visual contact but do not, repeat do not apprehend. Out.”

Waiting for thirty seconds to give Vinke a head start, Pieter slowly came to his feet and stepped out of the allotments and turned right onto Bickersgracht. Vinke was already halfway along the lane and Pieter shuffled along in his wake, his head pointing down but his eyes raised to keep watch on their quarry from under the brim of his beanie hat.

Further along, the familiar figure of one of his colleagues appeared, and likewise turned and followed Vinke, the two undercover police officers seemingly not together, but maintaining their own distance from each other, looking all the world like two regular blokes walking home through the heavy snow.

Elsewhere, Pieter knew the two other members of K Team across the canal would be hurriedly getting into their beat-up old car and hightailing it onto busy Lange Eilandsgracht to join the pursuit on the far side of the railway tracks that dissected this area from the rest of Amsterdam, and which Vinke would soon be crossing.

Sure enough, at the south end of Bickersgracht, Vinke swung over to the underpass that took him below the raised railway tracks, then turned left to follow the line of viaducts all the way down to the bridge over the water inlet that fed into Prinsengracht canal, before picking up the riverside path there. In the distance, Pieter saw the tall Ibis Hotel and the grand Centraal Station building.

The road that ran parallel to the path was quieter here as most traffic heading towards the station came from the opposite direction. There were a few buses parked up near the long River Cruise boats moored here, and just an old green Cortina gliding along, belching smoke and playing loud music – inside, the two men from K Team.

They drove past Vinke and turned right. As was standard procedure while trailing a suspect, they would park up and get out, and head down a side street to merge casually back into the game of cat and mouse, with Vinke all the while being unaware he was under surveillance.

Was he making for the train station? Pieter wondered. From there he could be heading to anywhere in the country, even beyond Holland’s borders. What’s more the packed-out concourse would be thronging with thousands of commuters, which worried him. Should Vinke latch on to the fact that he was being followed, and if things turned violent, it would potentially put the lives of members of the public at great risk.

Just then his walkie-talkie clicked and a grating voice came over the frequency.

“Target is turning left, away from the station. Making for the ferry terminal.”

He was heading north over the river.

Johan Roost decided the best vantage point to carry out the hit was up on the roof of Centraal Station. From there he would have a clear view of the surrounding area, even as far as the north bank of the river.

Getting up there was a piece of piss.

The Ibis Hotel was positioned right up alongside the train station. There was even a glass walkway over the railway lines. All he’d had to do was book a room a few days ago and turn up like any other guest, and use his door key card to operate the elevator. Walking out through the sliding doors on the fourth floor, he lingered by the glass wall, ostensibly admiring the stunning views over the city until the coast was clear.

Then he hurried across the walkway and paused where there was an emergency exit leading out onto the metal fire-escape, removed a pair of rubber-handled pliers from his breast pocket, and cut the wire that would trigger the door alarm. Pushing the horizontal bar the door popped open, and he passed outside onto the metal gantry, closed the door behind him, and then started to climb up the stairs of the fire-escape.

It took him all of ten seconds.

At the top he squeezed his frame through the gate, by-passed the door leading to the upper-level muster station, and instead he went up the short ladder leading onto the roof itself.

As he stepped out onto the series of slanting roofs