A State Of Sin Amsterdam Occult Series Book Two by Mark Hobson (golden son ebook .TXT) 📕

table, Nina looked around at her now-familiar surroundings, wondering what she could possibly do. The door at the top of the steps was always kept locked apart from when Tobias had come and gone, so she doubted if she could somehow break out that way. There were no windows down here, nor any ventilation shafts to crawl through. The bathroom likewise was completely sealed in. Tobias had obviously taken some time to prepare the place and to make it seemingly escape-proof.

Could she distract him somehow, perhaps cause a diversion or something to get him to come down here, and then attempt to overpower him? Standing, she wandered around the basement, looking for something she could use as a weapon. The knives and forks were all of the cheap plastic types found in motorway cafes, and useless to use for stabbing or slashing someone. There were wire coat hangers in the wardrobe, but these were fixed to the rail. The small lamp on her bedside table had a short flex which if she unplugged it might be used to strangle or tie someone up, but Tobias was a strong man and she had no delusions of how successful that would be. There were the two chairs which she might be able to throw at him, along with plenty of small items like books and DVDs, as well as the cushions from the couch, even the bookshelf, but again he would probably just brush those aside with his big, powerful arms. And if she failed, if he fought her off, what then? Would his wrath and terrible temper get even more out of control? Whatever she decided to try she would have just one opportunity, and if the door were locked anyway, it would all be for nothing.

Nina slumped down onto the edge of her bed.

Her chin trembled, and she started to cry.

Overhead, Tobias had gone quiet again.

They were in position by midday.

Pieter raised the binoculars to his eyes for what must have been the ninth or tenth time in the last five minutes.

He was lying on top of the sea dyke, and he was bitterly cold even with the thick fleece he wore and the woolly hood pulled up. The ground beneath him was frozen solid and as hard as concrete, and at his back was the huge expanse of the Markermeer lake, which was really part of the North Sea but for the 30km long dam separating the two huge bodies of water. A cold wind blew over the white-crested waves straight towards where Pieter had taken up position, and he wondered again why he had chosen this spot, but knew that for all of its discomforts, this really was the best place from which to watch the house.

Overhead a seagull hovered in the stiff wind, and he hoped it didn’t give away his location. There was a strong salty smell in the air.

Running along the top of the embankment was a footpath which was popular with dog walkers, and just below and running parallel with it was a narrow road. On the far side ran a shallow ditch, solid with ice, and with small footbridges crossing over every hundred yards or so. Beyond this was the bungalow.

It was a ramshackle place Pieter thought, giving it another scan. The old pebble-dash walls and doors looked on the verge of falling down, and there were clumps of weeds growing out of the guttering. One window had a taped-over crack in the corner. The kind of dwelling hurriedly constructed after World War 2 by the thousands all over Holland, and allowed to run into disrepair by their owners.

High hedges surrounded the yard out front but through their twiggy branches he could see a propane tank and a green-painted corrugated iron shed, and an empty field beyond.

It was the kind of non-descript run-down home out in the middle of nowhere that most people wouldn’t have glanced twice at. The perfect location you could say. Parked in the yard was a black van.

Just then a movement caught his eye and Pieter spun the binoculars a little to the left, and he saw coming towards him a man walking a dog, crossing over the narrow footbridge next to the bungalow’s driveway. Hurriedly, Pieter rolled over onto his side, ducking down out of sight below the level of the dyke, and he felt his nerves jangle.

Footsteps were coming up the other side of the grassy slope, someone muttering to themselves, and a dog’s panting breath.

Then someone was slipping into position beside him, and the dog was licking his cold fingers which felt good, and a familiar face peered at him from beneath a red woolly hat.

One of Dyatlov’s men, a member of the assault team.

“Well?” Pieter asked him.

“Quiet as a graveyard. Nobody stirring at all, not even a little mouse with fucking clogs on. Looks like he’s having a Sunday morning lie in.”

Pieter looked once again at the house and their surroundings. From here he could see the various members of the assault squad in position, ready to launch the raid from different points. They had assembled in double-quick time and rushed out from Amsterdam to the small coastal community of Warder, approximately 35km to the north, and once here they had hurriedly formulated an assault plan. Go in hard and fast but with no fanfare and with as little disturbance to the locals as possible, as the element of surprise was essential if they were to rescue Nina alive and well. Now they were all ready and just waiting on Pieter to give them the green light.

“It’s your call,” Dyatlov’s man reminded him unnecessarily.

After a couple more beats of his racing heart, Pieter gave the tiniest of nods.

“It’s a go, repeat, it’s a go,” the other man whispered into his walkie-talkie, and then he slipped away, taking the dog – who may have a role to play in the assault – with him.

Within sixty seconds the various teams were on the move. Working in