Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Chapter Thirty Five

Sherlock opened his eyes but could still not see anything but blackness. He moved his head and instantly regretted it. The pain was excruciating. A wave of nausea swept over him and he closed his eyes again, with an involuntary groan. He moved one hand towards his head but found he couldn't, without pulling against his other shoulder. He was confused so just lay still, waiting for his head to clear so that he could figure out what was going on. He drifted back into unconsciousness.

Sound, movement and vibrations impinged on his awareness and he opened his eyes again. It was still pitch dark but he could see a very fine vertical strip of light, barely a millimetre wide, in his field of vision. It did nothing to illuminate his surroundings but it reassured him that he had not gone blind. He was lying on his side, in a confined space. He knew this because his feet were up against one firm boundary and the back of his head was pressed against another, his knees were bent towards his chest and his hands were pinioned behind his back. From the pain in his wrists and the lack of feeling in his fingers, he concluded that his wrists were tightly bound. He moved one foot and confirmed that his ankles were bound, too.

The pain in his head was intense and, when he tried to tried to turn it, to look around, his cheek peeled off the surface, leading him to believe that he had blood on his face. He tested the theory with his tongue and tasted the ferrous, salty tang, confirming that suspicion, too. The noise, movement and vibration were all familiar. He recognised that he was in a moving vehicle and he concluded that he must be in the boot. So, he summarised to himself, he was bound hand and foot, in the boot of a moving car and someone had hit him on the head. But how had he gotten here and why?

He was finding it hard to concentrate, which suggested he was concussed. That fitted with the 'hit on the head' scenario. He needed to remember where he had been, before waking up in a moving car. That was easier said than done because his befuddled brain was refusing to co-operate. In fact, all it wanted to do was shut down, so it did and he lost consciousness, yet again.

The next time he was aware of anything, he was moving again but not in the smooth, orderly manner of a car on a highway. He was upside down – or, at least, his head was and it was banging against someone's backside. He was being carried over a shoulder. The inverted position and repeated striking of his head on the other person's buttock was doing nothing to improve the pain in his head and the rising sense of nausea. There was nothing he could do to avert the inevitable. His stomach heaved and he vomited coffee all down the back of the other person.

The stream of profanities that erupted from his bearer were a prelude to the sudden and ignominious dumping of his body on the ground, whacking his head, yet again, on the hard surface and trapping his hands under him, as he lay on his back, looking up into a furious and vaguely familiar face. He didn't have much time to study that visage because a hefty kick in the ribs took his breath away and caused him to curl into a tight ball, on his side, to protect his softer body parts.

Then he heard a voice he did recognise – that of Sr Oliviera – shouting at the other man, telling him, in no uncertain terms, to bring Sherlock inside. Rather than pick him up and risk being vomited on again, the man just grabbed his ankles and dragged him across the hard earth, over a threshold and into a dark and musty building, with straw on the floor. Sherlock was hauled a few yards inside the building and then his feet were dropped and his legs flopped into the straw, as he rolled onto his side.

'Is he still alive?' he heard Oliviera enquire, sounding rather alarmed.

A rough hand felt around Sherlock's jaw and found his carotid pulse.

'Yes, for now,' came the guttural reply.

'Oh, my God! This is insane! He has powerful friends! They won't rest until they find him!' Oliviera sounded more like a bleating lamb than a powerful politician.

'You should have thought of that before you showed him the photo of your plane, you fucking idiot!'

'How did I know he would recognise it? I don't even know how he recognised it! It's not even the same plane!'

'Well, whatever he recognised, it's too late now. At least he won't live to tell the tale.'

'But you said he rang someone? He must have told them!'

'He rang his wife. We're dealing with that.'

That statement filled Sherlock with fear and dread. He tried to sit up and shout out but all he managed was to do was flail about in the straw and emit a strange, incoherent groaning sound. His head was filling up, again, with cotton wool and he barely felt the blow, as the man who was not Oliviera kicked him in the back of his head. He fell back onto the floor and did not move again.

ooOoo

Molly sat on the sofa, between Freddie and William, her arms wrapped around the older boy, hugging him to her side. Freddie was still sound asleep and oblivious to the drama unfolding around him but William was wide awake and all too aware that something bad was happening.

'Where is Daddy?' he asked, at last, having been silent, since Mummy came out of the bedroom and sat down next to him, several minutes ago. Molly knew that there was no point trying to hide anything from William.

'I don't know where he is, darling. He went to see someone who turned out to be a bad man. He called me and told me to bring you and Freddie here. Auntie Caro is coming for us and Uncle Henrique is looking for Daddy.'

William nodded and took hold of his mother's hand, giving it a comforting squeeze.

'Daddy will be alright, Mummy, you'll see.'

Molly hugged him closer and dropped a kiss onto his head then jumped, in alarm, as the landline rang, shattering the quiet of the room. Molly crossed the floor and picked up the receiver. It was the hotel receptionist.

'Miss Hooper, the elevator to your floor seems to be malfunctioning. We are sending a technician to deal with it. You haven't obstructed the doors in any way, have you?'

'Why would I do that?' she asked, not wanting to give a bare faced lie. She had had her fill of lying, during Sherlock's fake demise.

'Well, I can't imagine, Miss Hooper. Anyway, the technician is on his way but it may take him a while as he has to use the stairs.'

'That's not a problem for me, thank you. I'm not intending to go out again for a while.'

'Is everything alright, Miss Hooper?' the receptionist asked.

'Everything is absolutely fine, thank you,' Molly replied and hung up the phone.

She went to sit next to William again. She felt like a sitting duck. She took out her mobile and dialled Caro's number again. Her call was answered immediately.

'Caro, where are you? Are you anywhere near?'

'Yes, I am, Molly. I should be at the hotel in about ten minutes.'

'I've disabled the lift. You won't be able to come up to this floor but we can come down to you, by the stairs. Drive into the underground car park and wait by the stairs at the other end of the building, not our end. A technician is coming up to deal with the lift so we can't use our stairwell.'

'Molly, shouldn't you wait until we get there? I can send my driver up to help you.'

'No, Caro, I feel trapped here. I just feel as though someone is about to burst in. I can't stay here a minute longer. We will come down and meet you in the car park. Have you heard from Sherlock?'

'No, I'm sorry, Molly, not a word but Henrique is with the delegados and they are checking the street CCTV footage from the area outside the Diners' Club.'

'Did they impound the plane?'

'It's all in hand, Molly.'

'OK,' Molly replied. 'Just get here as soon as you can, Caro, please.'

She shut off the call and turned to William, who had listened to the whole conversation.

'Are you OK, William?' she asked. He gave her a determined look and a decisive nod. 'Good boy,' she replied, smiling at him, appreciatively. 'Right, this is what we are going to do.' She explained to the little boy exactly what was going to happen.

ooOoo

Henrique was at the headquarters of the Polícia Federal, with the delegados, João Vitor Diaz, in the Street Surveillance Suite, reviewing the recordings from the cameras in the vicinity of the Diners' Club, around the lunchtime period. There was no camera immediately outside the club so they had no idea which direction Sherlock took when he left the premises and only a rough idea of what time that was. Of all the personnel on duty, only Henrique and Diaz knew what Sherlock looked like, so it was up to them to try to spot him in the busy lunch time streets. Agent Esteves had been sent for and was on his way, to assist in the search.

They had located Oliviera's plane at the local airport, where it was based, and grounded it. They had also obtained its flight records, from air traffic control. These would be analysed and assessed for their relevance as evidence. Federal agents had been dispatched to the Minister's various homes and haunts, to locate and arrest him. In the meantime, the priority was to find Sherlock. Esteves arrived and got straight work, scanning the CCTV images, intently, looking for the distinctive features of the English detective. And spotted him.

'Sr Diaz, there!' he declared, freezing the image and pointing at a figure in the crowd. It was a head-on shot of Sherlock, his phone held to his ear, weaving his way through the lunchtime foot traffic. All three men looked at the screen as Esteves advanced the image, frame by frame.

'Look here,' Esteves spoke again, pointing to two faces in the crowd behind the subject. 'They are following him.' They all watched, almost mesmerized, as Sherlock moved down the street and the two men tailed him. Then, without any warning, Sherlock ducked to his right, down an alleyway and, just a few yards behind him, the two stalkers turned down there, too. There could be no doubt that they were after him.

'Where does that alleyway come out?' Diaz demanded. A female agent consulted the electronic map and announced the answer, to the room. Esteves checked a schematic and switched the view to another camera, on the parallel street. He synced the timer to the moment when Sherlock turned down the alley. Then they watched and waited.

Nothing happened for quite some time and then a car drew up at the end of the alleyway and the driver jumped out, ran round to the back of the vehicle and opened the boot. Moments later, the two stalkers emerged from the alleyway, carrying Sherlock between them, like a roll of carpet. The picture was quite grainy and everything happened very quickly but Esteves froze the image and, once again, advanced it frame by frame.

They could see that the Englishman's hands were secured behind his back and his feet were bound at the ankles. His head lolled, out of control, so it was obvious he was unconscious. In seconds, he was bundled into the boot of the car, the lid slammed shut and the driver jumped back into the front seat and sped away. The other two men disappeared, back down the alleyway.

'Check that registration number,' Diaz ordered.

'Already on it, sir,' the female agent answered, tapping rapidly on a keyboard.

'Can we track that car?' Henrique asked.

'We can check the traffic cameras, within the city, for the registration number,' the woman replied. 'We have software for that. But, if it leaves the city boundaries, we may lose it. There are not so many cameras out in the sticks. But we do have an owner,' she announced. 'It's a hire car, registered to a local luxury car hire firm.'

'Damn!' Henrique swore. Another time consuming job, finding out who hired the vehicle. This hunt for Sherlock's whereabouts was not proving easy and, with every passing second, his life was in greater danger. These men were clearly ruthless. To carry out a snatch, in broad day light, in the middle of Rio was daring if not desperate.

Esteves was already on his feet.

'I will go and see the car hire people. Please, let me know if you get any leads. Call me on my cell.' He left the room, at a fast walk.

ooOoo

Molly opened the suite door a few inches and glanced, quickly, up and down the corridor outside. It was completely deserted. She checked to the right and saw the door leading to the stair well. The technician would be using that stair, closest to the damaged lift. She pulled her head back into the sitting room and bent to scoop a now awake Freddie off the floor. She looked at William, as she shouldered her hand bag. They were all dressed in casual street clothes, as if they were going out for the afternoon. If anyone asked, they were going to the ice cream parlour. Hopefully, no one would look twice at them.

'OK, babes,' Molly said, smiling at both boys, 'let's go.'

She stepped out into the corridor, holding William by the hand and carrying Freddie on her hip, and they walked purposefully down its length, past the doors to the other five penthouse suites, on either side of the hallway, reaching the door to the other stairwell, without meeting anyone. Molly pushed open the door, they walked through, and stood on the landing at the top of the stairs. Molly looked over the banister. It was an awfully long way down but rather down than up, she thought to herself and they began to descend to the basement car park.

In the room behind Reception, where the security staff were based, a guard was scanning the various security camera feeds and spotted a young woman, with two children, walking down top corridor and disappearing through the doorway that led to the stairs. He took out his walkie talkie and spoke into it.

'She's making a run for it. She's coming down the West Stairwell.'

ooOoo

Sherlock lay on his side, in the straw. His head had bled again and a curious rat, attracted by the scent of fresh blood, approached his still form, cautiously, its whiskers and nose twitching. It came right up to him and sniffed his hair, decided he was far too big to eat but thought it might do a bit of investigating of his pockets. It sniffed along the length of his body, from head to toe, found nothing of value and scampered off, toward the grain store, where it was assured of a meal. Sherlock was oblivious to its existence, oblivious to everything.

ooOoo