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Chapter Eight
Marek checked the walls, more out of habit than an expectation of finding a conveniently bricked-over window or secret door. Cellars, or basements as his mother and the Americans would say, were common in most English countryside cottages. The old ones had them. Cellars had served as food storage in this part of the world for ages before the invention of refrigerators. This one was larger than most, roughly two meters long and three meters wide. The walls were gray stone that was cool to the touch. He’d made a circuit of the place several times in the past hour. No windows.
He also didn’t find any cameras or listening devices. Without electronic bug-detection equipment he couldn’t be sure, but even if there had been bugs and cameras, he needed to talk to Ms. Rose Hancock, so he would have to risk being overheard.
Rose was sitting on the second step up, her head resting in one hand, the other wrapped across her middle. Occasionally there was a random residual giggle. She was in pain and possibly still in shock from the botched escape.
His job was to get her back to Boston. The revelations of the past few minutes required him to rework and realign his knowledge of the situation, but the end goal hadn’t changed.
First priority, assess the physical situation. Done.
Second priority, take care of the target. Third, gather information. It was time to take care of items two and three.
Marek grabbed one of the large jugs of water off the shelf and brought it over. “Ms. Hancock, we need to wash off your knees.”
Her pants were shredded. Watching her jump from the moving car had been horrifying. She’d been lucky or smart to hit and roll the way she had.
She sat up, wincing, and stretched out both legs.
Marek dropped to one knee. “Is it okay if I touch you?”
“You’re asking?”
“Of course.”
He could feel her looking at him. “Um, yes, yes, of course.”
He tore each pant leg from the knee down to the hem, then tore a few inches over her knee, so he had a good view of her leg from above the knee to her feet.
Uncapping the bottle, he raised it and poured water over one leg. Blood and dirt ran over her skin in rivulets.
“Who did you try to kill?” he asked.
She looked at him, her face soft, and his instincts told him she was going to answer.
The door at the top of the steps opened.
He sprang to his feet and started up when Rose’s gasp of pain made him halt.
“Ms. Hancock?” he asked, twisting his upper body to look down at the top of her head. She was hunched over.
“Rose?” The light from the kitchen cast the big man in shadow, though the bulb illuminated his legs. His voice rang with concern.
“I’m fine,” she hissed.
“I…damn it. Eat something.” The gunman set down two brown paper sacks on the top step, then he reiterated his demand and closed the door.
Marek carefully backed down the steps, then dropped to a crouch.
“Ms. Hancock?”
No answer.
“Rose?”
“I’m fine.” She raised her head, but didn’t look at him. Instead she focused somewhere over his shoulder. “Did he bring food?”
The scent of fried fare from the local chipper was drifting down the stairs. There was an anxious, hungry note to her voice, as if she hadn’t eaten in a while.
