Dead Line Read Online Free PDF Page B

on his left side. But there was no sign of where he was keeping Trent’s wallet. No sign of Trent’s Beretta.
    They walked without speaking towards the crest of the driveway and Trent spent the time thinking carefully about the security measures that Jérôme had in place. A high fence. A steel gate. Surveillance cameras and a bodyguard. The Moreaus took their privacy seriously. It made Trent wonder exactly who they were afraid of, and why.
    His eyes were alert, scanning his new surroundings, mapping possible routes back to the road in case he needed to leave in a hurry. The bodyguard moved with purpose beside him. Swollen arms swinging like pistons. Powerful legs pounding the ground. He’d stuck a flesh-coloured plaster over the cut beside his eye but a dribble of dried blood had escaped from beneath. It looked like a stray cotton thread. Maybe, Trent thought, if he tugged on it the guy’s forehead would unravel.
    ‘When do I get my phone back?’ Trent asked.
    ‘When you leave.’
    ‘And my gun?’
    ‘It’s safe.’
    ‘Terrific. Can I have it?’
    The guy shook his head with all the emotion of an android. ‘When you leave.’
    ‘My wallet, then?’
    Alain marched on without responding. The darkness that surrounded them was a living thing. It shimmied and stretched and throbbed. It cocooned them, as if they were alone together on an unlit stage, the auditorium abandoned.
    ‘So, why are we walking?’ Trent asked. ‘Did you decide that I could use more exercise?’
    ‘You saw the Mercedes.’ Alain scowled down at his dress shoes, the band-aid wrinkling up beside his eye.
    ‘You expect me to believe you don’t have other vehicles to call on? Come on, I know Jérôme is rich. That’s a given for anyone who takes out a policy that includes my services.’
    Alain grunted. His large feet scuffed gravel. Dust coiled up around the cuffs of his trousers like the embers of a deadened fire.
    ‘I wanted to talk to you. Alone.’
    ‘So talk. The only things listening to us out here are the trees.’
    They tramped on, their footsteps loud in the darkness, the tall cypresses crowding in on them from either side.
    ‘I don’t trust you,’ Alain said.
    ‘No kidding. You should have mentioned something sooner.’
    Alain glanced across. His movements had a twitchy, mechanical quality. A surplus of nervous energy. Trent recognised the symptoms. He was experiencing them himself. The bodyguard’s system had been flushed with adrenalin during the abduction. He’d been overloaded with stress and fear and anxiety. And now he had a whole new set of problems to contend with. Starting with Trent.
    ‘Mme Moreau wants you inside,’ he said, like it was the worst idea he’d ever heard. ‘The lawyer told us that you’re the adviser the policy specifies. We kept you waiting because I asked him to make some calls. He telephoned two of the families you’ve worked for in the past.’
    Trent nodded. The pack of documents that accompanied Jérôme’s insurance policy contained a select list of former clients who were willing to vouch for him.
    ‘I’ve worked for a lot of wealthy individuals,’ Trent said. ‘A few of them are generous enough to discuss my performance with others who find themselves in a similar situation.’
    ‘They speak very highly of you.’
    ‘They should. I got their loved ones back alive.’
    ‘That’s what they told us.’
    ‘But . . . ?’
    ‘But I still don’t trust you. M. Moreau never mentioned you to me. He never talked about a kidnapping policy.’
    ‘And you believe that as his bodyguard you should have been told?’ Trent made a clucking noise with his tongue – a sudden pop in the unlit stillness. ‘Listen, these policies have to be kept completely secret. The records are carefully guarded. Otherwise, you risk alerting potential kidnappers.’
    Alain twisted sideways from the hip, staring at Trent as he walked. His jacket was unbuttoned. Each time he swung his left arm, Trent could see