A Chance Encounter by Rae Shaw (best ereader for academics .TXT) 📕

lowered his head, hiding his face for a few seconds. A share of the burden of responsibility rested on his shoulders. He had encouraged the vice unit to utilise their officer to help trace Julianna. ‘Shot?’

‘Yes. The police are, well, upset about their colleague, especially the manner of his death. They’re calling in extra officers to comb the area for any signs of the gang. But they have to be cautious now that they know guns are involved.’

‘No Julianna?’ Jackson reiterated.

‘No,’ Chris said. ‘I fear she's been moved and without the tracking device. They're probably taking her out of the country, and quickly. They know they’ve a traitor in their midst.’

‘Stay with the police. They’re going to focus on finding the killers of their police officer. Julianna’s predicament might lower in priority.’

‘I fear so.’

Mark emitted a groan of pain. The hopelessness was profound and disabling.

Jackson looked across at Mark. There was nothing he could say or do. Everything that had happened was a consequence of Ellen's foolhardy trip to Dublin, and before that, their father's criminal past. The aftershocks continued to ripple on. Jackson generously turned away as Mark battled to keep his composure.

  41

Julianna

SATURDAY 4 a.m.

Disturbed by a muffled nose, Julianna stirred from her protective foetal position on the mattress. Given the awakening sunlight, it had to be dawn. Her teeth chattered; the cellar was icy even on a summer’s day. Lifting her head, she licked her cracked lips and listened.

A bang. The solitary noise echoed somewhere above her head. An inexperienced person might assume it was a car backfiring or a door slamming, or maybe a champagne bottle losing its cork under pressure. It was none of those: it was a single gunshot.

She waited, expecting more gunfire, but the only sounds were startled birds calling to each other. She hoped the noise signified the arrival of armed police in response to the tracker’s beacon. Maybe the police had let off a warning shot. It seemed a convincing idea. But she dared not risk calling out.

The burst of energy she had stockpiled replaced the inertia of fatigue. She carefully stood and cocked her ear to listen. I'm here, she mouthed. Footsteps resonated throughout the cellar, punctuated by the ricochet of the door bolt.

Stazki, wide-eyed and sweating heavily. He stank of cigarettes and fried food.

‘The police are here for me, aren’t they?’ she said, cheered on by his alarmed expression.

He strode over and slapped her face. ‘No police, you stupid bitch. You're fucking trouble. Should've killed you.’

The slap was the last boost she needed. She was ready. He had come alone with no backup, but no police either, if he was to be believed. The only weapon was the chain: a potentially powerful one. She backed away from him, creating slack in the links; she tempted him closer with an arrogant smirk. When he raised his hand to strike her again, she twisted her hips and brought up her leg for a sideways kick. The sole of her shoe thrust into his ample belly with a worthy amount of force. Karate kicks were her speciality and her father had taught her to smash planks with the precision and power of those kicks. Stazki doubled up and clutched his stomach. Unable to speak, he grunted. With his head lowered, his scarified neck was exposed. She hooked the chain around it and yanked it.

Leaning backwards, she added her weight and strangled him. His knees buckled and he crashed down, dragging her with him. He thrashed about blindly and snatched a handful of her sleeve, tore it, then dug his fingers into her flesh. She ignored her pain, and his bulging eyes, and the crimson of his neck and cheeks. Instead, she focused on the door and freedom. Suddenly, he slumped and released her arm.

Julianna's cramping fingers let go of the heavy chain. He landed face down. She waited, half-expecting him to rise phoenix-like from the floor, and when he didn’t, she knelt and searched him for the key to her shackles. His back trouser pocket contained a mangled packet of cigarettes, but nothing else. She heaved him over on to his back, and flinched at his grotesque appearance. Above his ugly scar, his lips had turned bluish, the skin of his cheeks blotched and purplish. The links of the chain had marked his throat with figures of eight. He moaned – a bubbly exhale – and opened his mouth to gasp for air. She hunted through his pockets and found the key.

Free of the hampering chains, she rubbed her sore wrists. The temptation to beat him to a pulp again was strong, almost overpowering. With him incapacitated, she could finish off what she had started in Dublin. Would Mark congratulate her? He had agreed with her reasoning when she removed the punchbag; violence was not the solution to her anger and nothing had changed. Mark’s approval mattered more than ever.

She attached the shackles to Stazki's wrists and slipped the key inside her trouser pocket.

There was another bang. Another gunshot, then another and a barrage of angry shouts followed by more shots fired in rapid succession. Nobody seemed to be speaking in English. If they weren't the police, who were the intruders? She opened the door a fraction and peered down the length of the cellar corridor. The floorboards above her head creaked in time to cautious footsteps. Creeping down the grimy passageway, she tiptoed toward the stairs but as she passed the other door, she stopped. She couldn’t leave her there, terrified and vulnerable. Julianna drew back the bolt and slowly opened the door.

There were two women, not one, and both were chained to the walls and hugging each other. They wore grubby floral dresses that were torn in places, their long hair was matted with filth, and their pale skin sallowed by undernourishment