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A Twilight FanFiction
By Becky Scarlett-Cullen
Chapter 3
--"Peaks and battles;"
Hour three—11am, January 1st, 2009
EPOV
Grabbing my coat, wallet and keys I run out of the suite. I sprint along the corridor towards the elevator; completely oblivious to angry cries of annoyance that sound all around me, as I push people out of the way.
These cries are invariably followed by gasps, as my face is recognised, but I ignore them, and race on.
I reach the elegant doors and stab at the button, praying that it's quick…
Ten agonising seconds later, the door opens, and I step in. It's empty, thankfully, and I push the button for the lobby.
The elevator moves painfully slowly. In fact, I've never realised quite how inappropriately slowly it does move. I may have to see someone about that. Comfort in an elevator is of no use whatsoever when you're in a hurry, because your wife and children's lives are on the line.
Mind you, my case is probably fairly unique.
I close my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose and leaning heavily on the elaborate panelling of the ridiculous elevator. Really, could it go any slower?! But at least it gave me a moment to think. How would I get to Windsor, from the centre of London, on a day like today? I mean sure, it was New Years Day, but London never really took a break. It might as well have been just any another Thursday morning in the city.
I could call for the helicopter, but it wouldn't get here in time. Walking out the front door in this place would mean dealing with the press, which was not something I wanted right at this moment.
Which left two options.
I could potentially climb out of a window, James-Bond-style, steal a fast car, and drive up the hard shoulder or on the Bus Lane. With a roll of my eyes at the utter absurdity of that option, I glance back down at the now-crumpled piece of paper in my hand.
And see that there are more words.
Damn, how could I possibly have missed that before?! Hastily, un-crumple the paper and bring it up for inspection.
You have twenty-four hours. Get to Windsor Castle, and they have a hope. Stay where you are, and they will be killed. Do not dawdle.
Bring no one with you, or their deaths will be sooner, and more painful.
Well, that ruled out option number two: security. Normally, I might have scoffed at the threat, but I was not willing to gamble on Bella's life. That was something that I could not—would not—ever do.
There had to be something else. Public transport was awful. The car would mean taking people with me, because apparently, I needed a chauffer,
With a heavy heart, I realise that I'm left with no other option that the ridiculous plan I came up with before. Stealing a car probably would not be a problem—I had grown up with Emmett, after all—and as long as I got a fast one, I could reach there in an hour or so. Depending on the traffic. And it wouldn't exactly be stealing—I'd leave enough money to cover a new car, and insurance. My moral side argues on feebly, but I choose to ignore it. The owner of the car would be fine—a car was just a lump of metal with a price tag attached. But Bella? And their children? They were worth that. In fact, they were worth more than that—they were priceless, after all. What was half a million pounds, either way?
I step out of the elevator as soon as the doors are open, and escape through the less-grand entrance onto Arlington Street. It's not crowded, for once, and I run along the street, thankful. The few people that are here disperse very conveniently, and I am left alone. There are expensive cars parked here, because of the hotel. I see a Bugatti Veyron—that'll do. It's fast. Taking a note of the number plate—I'll have the money sent to the address later—I pick the lock with ease and open the door, half expectant of an alarm. But apparently, the British are far less paranoid than the Americans would be. I climb inside, and prise the panel from the dashboard. This is illegal—but for Bella, I'll do it. I press to wires together, the way my little brother taught me, and almost jump as the car comes to life, the dashboard lighting up. I check the fuel gauge, and to my delight, it's almost full. I pull the car into gear, and back out of the space, feeling very conspicuous—but then it must be impossible to feel inconspicuous in a royal blue Bugatti Veyron.
It's fast. Very fast, as I dodge and weave through the crowds of cars. They seem to move aside as I speed through them. Perhaps it's awe of the car. It certainly stands out, among the fords, and the BMWs.
The journey still seemed long, though. Too long. I was agitated the whole way, worrying about my family. What was happening to them? Where were they? Was this a trick, or were they really there? I was still only maybe halfway across the city centre, and I had to make it out of the city into Windsor. This car was fast, but would it be fast enough? Would I reach them in time?
I had 24 hours, but I had a feeling that this was not the end of this twisted game these people were playing. How far would it go? How long would it be before someone close to me was hurt, or worse?
Inwardly, I cursed. What had made me even go into politics in the first place? Why couldn't I have just stayed in a normal, safe job?
I wished I had a justifiable reason. But, as I raced across London in a stolen car, towards a possible kidnapping situation, I found that I did not.