All three of them were carrying guns.
Kate had never seen a gun before. Not a real one, not up close and personal. She'd seen them on telly, of course, and in news reports about gang violence. She'd been trained what to do if a gun was pulled in the hospital, but there was no panic button here, and no guaranteed minimum response time.
The sight of the small, black, stubby metal objects paralysed her. She knew exactly the damage a bullet could do. Her mind was suddenly filled with images of herself lying on the floor, bleeding out from ruptured arteries, lungs filling with blood, choking on her own fluids, twitching and convulsing as she voided her bowels, wet herself and lost control of her body, dying on a black and white lino floor in a pokey flat with the smell of a tramp in her cooling nostrils.
What the bloody hell had James got her mixed up in?
She instinctively crawled backwards into the corner, as if cramming herself between the MDF cabinets would help. One of the men went into her bedroom, another grabbed James and dragged him to his feet, the third came for her. By the time her reached down to take her arm, Kate was hysterical. She began kicking and screaming, flailing around with her fists and shaking her head wildly. She didn't see what hit her across the temple, but if she'd been able to think about it, she'd have realised it was the handle of the gun. Her head swam, her vision sparkled, she went limp with the sound of James' protests ringing in her ears.
She didn't entirely pass out, though. She remained vaguely aware as the man grabbed her wrists, spun her around and pulled her out of the flat by her ankles. Her head bounced off the doorframe with a horrible thud, scraping the back of her scalp so it bled through her hair; it was thickly matted with blood by the time they reached the lift.
She was thrown into the lift like a sack of rubbish and ended up in a foetal heap in the corner. As the doors slid shut, she finally blacked out.
In years to come, Kate would grow accustomed to waking from unconsciousness. The sharp pain in her head that revealed the site of the blow; the dry, metallic taste in her mouth; the shock of bright light; the fear that maybe this time some permanent damage had been done. The most important lesson she learnt, though, was not to panic. To take a moment to assess the damage, establish her capabilities.
The first time she awoke from such an ordeal, she didn't have this experience to draw on, so she sat bolt upright and looked left and right quickly, terrified. The sudden movement caused a spike of agony in her head, her vision blurred, and she slumped back down onto what she realised was a red leather sofa, groaning as the room span around her. She clutched her hands to her head as if that would stop the wild rotation of the room and make the pain go away. It didn't.
'Here, take these,' said a voice above her. She squinted up and saw a man looking down at her. He had a glass of water in one hand and a packet of Nurofen in the other.
Slowly, she sat up and reached out for the medicine, gulping them down hungrily, and draining the glass of water. As she handed back the glass she instinctively opened her mouth to thank the man, but then realised her mistake.
'You're welcome,' he said softly, with a smile. She registered an accent, but couldn't place it. Russian, maybe?
Kate wanted to run, to scream, to try and escape, but she guessed she wouldn't get five metres. She leaned back into the comfy sofa and took in her surroundings.
The lighting was low and red. She was in a large room, a hall of some kind. No windows, so possibly a cellar. There were sofas and armchairs dotted around on the thick carpet, arranged in horseshoes with glass tables at their focal points. At the far end was a bar and on either side were raised platforms with metal poles that ran to the ceiling. She was in a strip club. An upmarket one, but not one of the majors. Probably central London. Even through the headache she knew what that implied about the management.
There was one more detail, too — handcuffed to the stripper's poles, sitting on the floor with their hands behind their backs, were James and Lyudmila. The girl was out for the count, but James was conscious. She couldn't be sure in the half-light, but Kate thought he'd been beaten up.
The man in front of her sat down in an armchair. He placed his arms on the armrests very deliberately, as if arranging himself like a work of art ready for display. His movements were precise and considered, but Kate did not think it was vanity. She got a sense that he was so full of anger or violence that even the simple act of sitting in a chair required titanic effort and conscious control.
This man immediately scared her more than anything else that had happened on this bizarre, awful night.
She forced herself to meet his gaze, but his eyes were lost in shadow. He was middle aged, maybe in his forties. Short hair topped a high forehead above a long, straight nose and sensuous, amused lips. He was not overweight nor musclebound and he wore an expensive, well-tailored suit. He should have been attractive, but there was something cruel about that smile, and his body language screamed danger.
'What is your name?' he asked softly.
'Kate.'
'Hello Kate. People call me Spider.'
Of course they do, thought Kate. Can't have a criminal mastermind with a name like Steve or Keith. She almost voiced her sarcastic thought, but didn't, possibly because she was surprised to find herself capable of levity. She wondered if maybe she had a concussion, and then mentally chided herself; of course she had a bloody concussion.
'Interesting name,' she said. 'Where's it from?'
His smile widened. 'I am from Serbia.'
'Oh.'
'Have you ever been?'
Kate shook her head.
'It is the most beautiful country on Earth.' He paused and Kate felt herself being appraised. 'Maybe one day I will take you.'
The way he said it left Kate in no doubt that the double meaning had been intentional. There was a long silence. No sound penetrated this room from outside. All she could hear was her own breathing and the soft hum of ancient aircon.
'What do you do, Kate. I mean, for a living?'
'I'm a student doctor. You?'
'Oh, I do many things. Many things.'
'Is this your club?'
He nodded. 'And let me say, Kate, that if you ever tire of the medical profession, I am sure we could find a place for you here.'
'If Lyudmila's an example of how you treat your staff, I think I'll pass.'
'Lyudmila broke the terms of her contract.'
'How?'
'She spat.'
It took Kate a moment to work out what he meant, but when she did she felt sick to her stomach.
Spider leaned forward, gently intertwining his fingers and placing them on his knees.
'How do you know her?' he asked.
'I don't.'
Spider looked puzzled and then surprised. He swore in Serbian and despite the language barrier Kate could tell he was amazed.
'You mean James brought her to you on his own?' he asked, openly astonished.
Kate didn't know what to do. If she said yes, would that make things better or worse? Eventually she nodded.
Spider turned to look at her brother and shouted. 'Have you found a spine, Booker? I did not think you ever would.'
'She… she was hurt, boss,' wheedled James. 'And Nate…'
'That useless junkie is gone. He works for the Albanians now.'
