A Chance Encounter Rae Shaw (ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt) 📖

late. Anybody in particular?’ He lit a cigarette, blatantly defying the no smoking sign behind the desk.

‘Yes, Ellen, her name is Ellen Clewer… I mean, Devera.’

The receptionist scanned down the list of names. ‘Yep, arrived and checked in. Gone out again with a red-head, swinging happily on his arm.’

‘Gone!’ Mark's knees buckled.

~ * ~

Her mouth was sealed shut, blocking her screams. The screams that nobody in the building would bother to investigate, nor would they care about the bangs and shouts. Ellen was in exactly the right place for lassitude and disinterest. The man pinioned her head between his hands while the woman taped Ellen’s eyes, sticking her eyelashes together. Pain spiked in her jaw; the tape refused to split open.

Had Freddie really patiently cultivated her friendship and trust for three years for this day? It didn’t make sense – why her when there were more vulnerable girls to be tricked: a whole hotel full of potential victims? Freddie wasn’t behind this nightmare. It had to be an opportunistic snatch. Perhaps she had been spotted entering the hostel alone. The man on the desk with the rabid breath had eyed her, noting her accent with a wry smile. ‘We love the Brits here,’ he had said, and winked.

What a fool she was. How stupid and naive. Deidre was right; she had led a charmed life, barricaded in her bedroom, refusing to deal with the outside world.

Leaving her trussed up on the bed, they ransacked the room. Her presence thrilled them. She heard things through her frantic breathing and thunderous heartbeats: her bag was unzipped, and the contents scattered.

The woman laughed.

The man snapped his fingers, impatiently. ‘We only need her passport.’ There was no trace of an Irish accent.

~ * ~

‘British girl?’ The lanky receptionist rested his elbow on the ledger. The nonchalance was infuriating.

‘Yes. You're sure she's gone?’ Julianna leaned over the counter, rustled up an unblinking stare from her copper’s armoury and used it to pin him down.

‘Blonde thing with humongous tits.’ He cupped a pair of imaginary breasts. ‘Works up the street.’

‘No, that’s not her,’ Mark said. ‘Brown hair and eyes. Slender build.’

‘Oh her. Yep, still upstairs. Popular she is tonight. You’re the second couple to want to see her. So she likes couples.’ He chuckled, and winked.

She grabbed his collar. ‘Which room?’ He weighed nothing. She lifted him up onto his toes and he squirmed satisfyingly, like a worm on a hook.

‘Twenty-two,’ he gasped. ‘Second floor. What’s the rush? She couldn’t have finished with the first lot yet.’ She dropped him, and stepped between the counter and Mark, who was charging forward with a raised fist.

‘No, Mark,’ she said. She snatched his flying arm and spun him around on his toes. ‘He’s just the gatekeeper, he’s not got a clue. We’re wasting time here.’

She bounded up the stairs two at time, slipping on an uneven step near the top before recovering her balance. Mark followed, calling for his sister in a desperate tone.

Twenty-two was locked. Mark rattled the door handle and pounded on the door. ‘Ellen, open the door. For God’s sake, it’s me.’

Julianna pressed her ear to the door: muffled voices and scampering. She inspected the rusty lock and hinges – the top one was loose.

‘You realise I will probably break my leg doing this.’ She moved away from the door. ‘Step back, Mark.’ Being a black belt in karate had to mean something on a day like this.

She raised her heel and unfurled as much power as she could muster, channelling the energy with a focused kick and landing the flat of her booted foot by the weak hinge. It rattled and the wood splintered, but the door remained steadfastly shut. She repeated the process twice more until, with her strength nearly spent, the door flew open and ended up hanging off the last hinge.

Mark was frozen for a second, unable to move. Julianna barrelled past him. There were towels scattered on the bathroom floor; signs of a struggle. She raced into the heart of the room. The girl on the bed, who was much smaller than Julianna had anticipated, was curled up, lying very still and possibly unconscious. She was bound with duct tape around her wrists and ankles. Her mouth was covered and her eyes too. On the bedside table was a bottle of clear liquid. Standing over Ellen with a syringe close to her arm was a man, and next to him, a wan-faced nymph with scabby cheeks.

‘Don’t come any closer.’ His black hair was tied back into a mangled ponytail. A white scar ringed his neck and each of his cheeks was pitted with tiny craters surrounded by wiry whiskers. It was a face she would never forget. The woman tottered on her heels and spoke to the man in a foreign language.

Julianna preferred not to fight; she was bone weary and unsure what she might unleash in her fractious state. But Moran had said no police, no other agencies who might complicate the extraction. ‘Get out,’ she said, foisting vehemence into her voice.

‘Or else.’ The man laughed. The syringe dripped its contents on to the bed. He edged towards Ellen’s exposed arm. ‘Stay back.’

‘You heard her, get off,’ Mark said, his hands balled fruitlessly at his side. Mark had no clue how to punch.

The petite woman backed into the corner of the room and cowered. Julianna bit the bullet and launched herself at the man, knocking him away from Ellen. With her fists and feet flying, she jabbed and stabbed, blow after blow. He attempted to feint and box with her, but her martial art techniques were quicker and smoother. If this man represented everything she loathed and hated, then he was her new punch bag. The tactic worked. While Mark protected Ellen with his body, Julianna unleashed her version