many walked the street, but there were enough to show Toby it was well into the evening now, their attire making it clear they were out for a night on the town. Women in short skirts—in this weather!—and halter neck tops. Men in jeans, dress shirts untucked, hands in suit jacket pockets. Smart casual. This wasn't some lowlife town, then. More upmarket than most places.
He studied the scenery for a street sign, anything to give him some clue.
Where the fuck are we?
He didn't need to ask the why—this had something to do with what happened last year, didn't it? Even a dense person would know that. Yeah, he'd been waiting for this to happen, but hadn't really thought it would.
Why was that? The men had been organised back then, gave him a good going over. Meant business. Why had he been so stupid as to think they wouldn't bother coming after him and Russell?
'Cos, so they say, shit like this just doesn't happen, does it?
Of course it did. Just like Sasha being killed, him beaten and drugged, and him being dumped in a grave had happened.
How quickly the mind forgot or dulled reality so a body could cope.
The lights turned green. The big bastard pulled off smoothly and blended into traffic in the next lane. Horns honked, loud and persistent, drivers protesting that the big bastard should have been in the correct lane in the first place. That the bloke had to veer across like that screamed the man was in unfamiliar territory, or his mind was occupied with other things. Either way, the driver was at a disadvantage. Maybe if Toby scooted down to the doors and tried to open them, they could get out, van moving or not, and find help.
Like he's going to have left them unlocked.
Toby sighed. Him and Russell weren't going anywhere except the driver's destination. Maybe once they arrived there would be an opportunity to get the fuck away.
He jerked his shoulder, the one pressing against Russell, gently trying to wake him. The volume of the radio, now blasting about some woman who kept bleeding love, would disguise anything they had to say. They could make a plan.
Or something.
Yeah, running with my hands tied behind my back will be a fucking breeze...
"Russell!” he said, voice low.
Russell snapped his eyes open and glanced from the driver to Toby. He let out a sigh and briefly closed his eyes again. “You all right? Shit, I fell asleep."
"Yeah. I'm fine. Head hurts, but I'm okay.” Toby shot a look at the driver then propped his chin on Russell's shoulder so he could speak with less chance of the big bastard hearing. “I had the thought of trying the door, but these guys are from a fucking big outfit, I reckon. Don't make mistakes often, know what I mean?"
Russell nodded, eyes narrowed at the driver.
"So,” Toby said, “when we get to wherever it is we're going, d'you reckon we can make a run for it?"
"Depends where we're headed and how many blokes are at the other end."
"Fuck.” Toby paused, then, “How did he get hold of you? What happened?"
As Russell explained, Toby listened with anger boiling inside him. These fucking tossers were something else, weren't they? Who the hell did they think they were, flouting the law like that? And as for them snatching Mr Jacob...shit, he was surprised the old duffer hadn't died of shock. His boss being hit didn't sit well with Toby. No need for that kind of thing, was there? An old bloke posed no threat whatsoever. The driver was just being an arsehole. Showing who was in charge. Toby would like to see how in control the man was with a boot in his bollocks. No matter how strong a fella was, their crown jewels being whacked always bent them double—unless they wore steel jockstraps.
Toby raised his eyes at the part in the tale where the road by the post box had been blocked off. They had to have some contacts to be able to get that sort of thing done. Was this some kind of network of criminals then, for fuck's sake? People all over the country helping one another
He studied the scenery for a street sign, anything to give him some clue.
Where the fuck are we?
He didn't need to ask the why—this had something to do with what happened last year, didn't it? Even a dense person would know that. Yeah, he'd been waiting for this to happen, but hadn't really thought it would.
Why was that? The men had been organised back then, gave him a good going over. Meant business. Why had he been so stupid as to think they wouldn't bother coming after him and Russell?
'Cos, so they say, shit like this just doesn't happen, does it?
Of course it did. Just like Sasha being killed, him beaten and drugged, and him being dumped in a grave had happened.
How quickly the mind forgot or dulled reality so a body could cope.
The lights turned green. The big bastard pulled off smoothly and blended into traffic in the next lane. Horns honked, loud and persistent, drivers protesting that the big bastard should have been in the correct lane in the first place. That the bloke had to veer across like that screamed the man was in unfamiliar territory, or his mind was occupied with other things. Either way, the driver was at a disadvantage. Maybe if Toby scooted down to the doors and tried to open them, they could get out, van moving or not, and find help.
Like he's going to have left them unlocked.
Toby sighed. Him and Russell weren't going anywhere except the driver's destination. Maybe once they arrived there would be an opportunity to get the fuck away.
He jerked his shoulder, the one pressing against Russell, gently trying to wake him. The volume of the radio, now blasting about some woman who kept bleeding love, would disguise anything they had to say. They could make a plan.
Or something.
Yeah, running with my hands tied behind my back will be a fucking breeze...
"Russell!” he said, voice low.
Russell snapped his eyes open and glanced from the driver to Toby. He let out a sigh and briefly closed his eyes again. “You all right? Shit, I fell asleep."
"Yeah. I'm fine. Head hurts, but I'm okay.” Toby shot a look at the driver then propped his chin on Russell's shoulder so he could speak with less chance of the big bastard hearing. “I had the thought of trying the door, but these guys are from a fucking big outfit, I reckon. Don't make mistakes often, know what I mean?"
Russell nodded, eyes narrowed at the driver.
"So,” Toby said, “when we get to wherever it is we're going, d'you reckon we can make a run for it?"
"Depends where we're headed and how many blokes are at the other end."
"Fuck.” Toby paused, then, “How did he get hold of you? What happened?"
As Russell explained, Toby listened with anger boiling inside him. These fucking tossers were something else, weren't they? Who the hell did they think they were, flouting the law like that? And as for them snatching Mr Jacob...shit, he was surprised the old duffer hadn't died of shock. His boss being hit didn't sit well with Toby. No need for that kind of thing, was there? An old bloke posed no threat whatsoever. The driver was just being an arsehole. Showing who was in charge. Toby would like to see how in control the man was with a boot in his bollocks. No matter how strong a fella was, their crown jewels being whacked always bent them double—unless they wore steel jockstraps.
Toby raised his eyes at the part in the tale where the road by the post box had been blocked off. They had to have some contacts to be able to get that sort of thing done. Was this some kind of network of criminals then, for fuck's sake? People all over the country helping one another
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