to have a bugger of a time going anywhere without it.
‘So, Miko. Bearing in mind that you have a lot more metal in those legs of yours, do you feel like telling me where Risto is holding the boy?’
He is hyperventilating wheezily, but I can tell he is summoning the breath to speak. I lean closer and he tells me the name of a villa outside Fornel, about forty minutes away on the road to the airport. I get him to repeat this then reach for a drawer under the table.
‘Time for me to leave you, then,’ I say. ‘But before I do, one more thing. Don’t take it personally, but it struck me that you just might be lying, you know, maybe to buy yourself time so that you could forge an escape. No pun intended.’
I produce two syringes and lay them on the workbench where he can see them: one containing clear fluid, the other a pale blue liquid. I pick up the clear one and inject its contents into a bulging vein in his forearm.
‘This is dihydromertile silicate,’ I tell him. ‘It’s slow-acting, so you won’t feel anything for a while, but it will stop your heart and your lungs completely in about two hours. I know you weren’t paying much attention on the trip here, so I should let you know you’re in an abandoned farmhouse in pretty much the middle of nowhere, and I’m afraid there’s little chance of someone stumbling across you and coming to the rescue inside the time you’ve got left. However, on the upside, the blue syringe contains a neutralising antidote: monohydrate dosamide, and I’m going to leave it here. This is the deal: I go to Risto and, to avoid an unseemly squabble, I offer the location of this farmhouse in exchange for the kid. He saves you, I save the boy, and we’re all happy. Unless, of course, you’re lying, in which case I administer the antidote and we listen to Neil Young all night long.’
Miko closes his eyes, steadies his breathing, and in a broken whisper tells me where Risto really is.
The villa is set, rather picturesquely, in a sprawling vineyard, with high hedges thoroughly obscuring the building and its gardens from the road. As I turn into the vine-flanked avenue, the headlights of Miko’s Beamie flash across a curtained window. Thus prewarned, Risto emerges impatiently from the front door just as I pull up, silenced Glock out of sight beneath my open window. I shoot him in both legs before he can speak, then step out of the car and kneel on top of his writhing body, patting him down for weapons. I find a nine-mill and a stiletto.
‘Were you expecting someone else?’ I say quietly to him. ‘Anxious times when family goes missing, aren’t they? Where’s the boy?’
He looks up at me, his eyes barely able to focus for the pain. ‘Fuck you,’ he manages to splutter.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find him myself. Can’t expect you to help me with a bullet in your balls, can I?’
I let the remark register for a second. He pulls a single key from his trouser pocket and lets it drop on the flagstones.
‘Thank you.’
I find the boy tied to a bed, gagged and urine-soaked. He flinches as I approach, and I remember I am carrying the Glock.
‘It’s okay. I’ve come to take you home.’
I remove his bonds. He looks uninjured but remains terrified. When he speaks, his voice is lower and more croaky than I expect, due to dehydration.
‘What about the bad men?’ he asks.
‘They’re very, very sorry. They won’t be doing it again.’
‘I want my mummy.’
I lift him up with my left arm, raising the gun again with my right.
‘I’m sure they do too,’ I say.
I carry him with his face rested on my shoulder, and tell him to keep his eyes closed until we are in the car. I fasten his seatbelt and turn on the engine, then climb back out again.
‘I’ll just be a second. I’m going to get you a drink, okay?’
The boy nods, still trembling.
I drag Risto inside the house and out of sight. With the lights on in there, he is able to get a better look at me. The
‘So, Miko. Bearing in mind that you have a lot more metal in those legs of yours, do you feel like telling me where Risto is holding the boy?’
He is hyperventilating wheezily, but I can tell he is summoning the breath to speak. I lean closer and he tells me the name of a villa outside Fornel, about forty minutes away on the road to the airport. I get him to repeat this then reach for a drawer under the table.
‘Time for me to leave you, then,’ I say. ‘But before I do, one more thing. Don’t take it personally, but it struck me that you just might be lying, you know, maybe to buy yourself time so that you could forge an escape. No pun intended.’
I produce two syringes and lay them on the workbench where he can see them: one containing clear fluid, the other a pale blue liquid. I pick up the clear one and inject its contents into a bulging vein in his forearm.
‘This is dihydromertile silicate,’ I tell him. ‘It’s slow-acting, so you won’t feel anything for a while, but it will stop your heart and your lungs completely in about two hours. I know you weren’t paying much attention on the trip here, so I should let you know you’re in an abandoned farmhouse in pretty much the middle of nowhere, and I’m afraid there’s little chance of someone stumbling across you and coming to the rescue inside the time you’ve got left. However, on the upside, the blue syringe contains a neutralising antidote: monohydrate dosamide, and I’m going to leave it here. This is the deal: I go to Risto and, to avoid an unseemly squabble, I offer the location of this farmhouse in exchange for the kid. He saves you, I save the boy, and we’re all happy. Unless, of course, you’re lying, in which case I administer the antidote and we listen to Neil Young all night long.’
Miko closes his eyes, steadies his breathing, and in a broken whisper tells me where Risto really is.
The villa is set, rather picturesquely, in a sprawling vineyard, with high hedges thoroughly obscuring the building and its gardens from the road. As I turn into the vine-flanked avenue, the headlights of Miko’s Beamie flash across a curtained window. Thus prewarned, Risto emerges impatiently from the front door just as I pull up, silenced Glock out of sight beneath my open window. I shoot him in both legs before he can speak, then step out of the car and kneel on top of his writhing body, patting him down for weapons. I find a nine-mill and a stiletto.
‘Were you expecting someone else?’ I say quietly to him. ‘Anxious times when family goes missing, aren’t they? Where’s the boy?’
He looks up at me, his eyes barely able to focus for the pain. ‘Fuck you,’ he manages to splutter.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll find him myself. Can’t expect you to help me with a bullet in your balls, can I?’
I let the remark register for a second. He pulls a single key from his trouser pocket and lets it drop on the flagstones.
‘Thank you.’
I find the boy tied to a bed, gagged and urine-soaked. He flinches as I approach, and I remember I am carrying the Glock.
‘It’s okay. I’ve come to take you home.’
I remove his bonds. He looks uninjured but remains terrified. When he speaks, his voice is lower and more croaky than I expect, due to dehydration.
‘What about the bad men?’ he asks.
‘They’re very, very sorry. They won’t be doing it again.’
‘I want my mummy.’
I lift him up with my left arm, raising the gun again with my right.
‘I’m sure they do too,’ I say.
I carry him with his face rested on my shoulder, and tell him to keep his eyes closed until we are in the car. I fasten his seatbelt and turn on the engine, then climb back out again.
‘I’ll just be a second. I’m going to get you a drink, okay?’
The boy nods, still trembling.
I drag Risto inside the house and out of sight. With the lights on in there, he is able to get a better look at me. The
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