Thank you once more to my lovely readers – you really turn the somewhat solitary process of writing into such a great interactive experience. It makes me feel like a storyteller rather than someone just typing away at my laptop!
Queens, Knights, and Pawns
When they made their way into the dark, cavernous, and abandoned concrete structure that Sherlock had selected on a reconnaissance trip for its resemblance to the insurgent's compound (which he'd scouted the night before that), he was gratified to see that many of his instructions had already been completed, or were at least in process. The large central room resembled a film set, which was in fact its essential function for the day; bright halogen lamps had been set up around the chamber and their thick cords crisscrossed the chipped concrete floor to connect to a chugging generator. Various men in dark kurtas were milling about the area like extras, and a sleek digital camcorder stood incongruously on a tripod on one end of the room. He even faintly smiled when he saw a LuAZ-1302, and his smile widened to an appreciative grin when he realised a fraction of a second later that it was, in fact, the exact same vehicle that had driven him to safety the night before. Captain Mazari must have done some reconnaissance which showed quick thinking in the aftermath of The Woman's extraction. . . he had to admit that he was mildly impressed with his attention to details.
Sherlock identified the man from across the chamber, looking much more in his element than he was behind a camera and obviously giving orders and details to the other men, who were clearly under-ranking agents. Sherlock briefly wondered what Mazari had told them, and a frown creased his brow at the crucial but unknown variables they represented. He would have preferred to involve as few people as possible—ideally he would just include himself, Caldwell, and Irene Adler—if for nothing else than containment purposes for when Mycroft inevitably came sniffing around.
He never granted any credence to grandiose conspiracy theories, the main reason (one of many, of course, besides the obvious fact that they were utter rubbish) being that such theories always involved vast numbers of people in various capacities. But since people were, as a rule, idiots, he simply did not find it credible that everyone hypothetically involved would be able to remain discrete. It simply wasn't feasible; more people always equaled an exponentially greater security threat. Someone, some time, would slip up somehow, and he was loath to risk it himself.
And yet he always strove for accuracy and exactitude in everything he did, and in this case absolute precision was more essential than ever before. And so in the interest of the video's authenticity, regrettably but necessarily more people needed to be included in his own conspiracy plot.
Leaving Irene's side, he strode over to Mazari and the man nodded in acknowledgement and shook his hand firmly, apparently holding no grudges over the dark purple bruise that had bloomed across the bridge of his nose from Sherlock's head butt the previous evening.
"Mr. Sigerson," he greeted briskly, acknowledging the alias with a slight inflection. He continued in accented but fluent English: "A pleasure to meet you again, under difference circumstances."
"Quite," said Sherlock flashing a genial half-smile, but eager to dispense with formalities and begin the process.
The Captain nodded briefly again, interpreting Sherlock's mood accurately, and gestured to his colleagues who straightened to attention, awaiting his instruction. They seemed willing enough, he noted, his eyes sweeping over them as he recited to himself: two malleable and eager-to-please rookies, a sharpshooter, a martial arts training instructor, a transport driver, and a technician. There were no outward signs of reservation or mistrust, and by all appearances they seemed rather compliant. That morning, Caldwell had reported that Mazari had carefully selected those to entrust with the mission, and Sherlock now felt somewhat assured that his criteria had been satisfactory. Still, he hated to rely on anyone besides himself, let alone this number of people.
As Sherlock took over operations, coaching the insurgent stand-ins on how he wanted them to behave, consulting occasionally with Mazari for authenticity, and reviewing a translation of the prepared statement that one of them men was to read before the 'execution', everything else fell away and he became completely engrossed in his preparations. Like a child racing gleefully between 'home-base' and the schoolyard during a game of tag, he darted back and forth from the scene of action and the camera's viewfinder to check the angles and ensure that his vision for the final recording would be logistically possible and as seamless as possible. Catch me if you can, Mycroft, he chuckled to himself, and halfway through one of his rounds he became aware that he was grinning widely.
He mused smugly that somehow he had overcome the immense distraction of sex and sentiment to transition back to the work—he was disciplined enough after all, and that was extraordinarily reassuring and affirming. He smirked at himself; to be fair, retrieving breakfast hardly qualified as a challenging task needing his full attention, and so naturally the far more diverting subject of sex had pushed forward. But when it came to a duty that truly required focus and the entirety of his concentration, he was wholly capable of prioritising.
He'd always thought that he couldn't maintain who he was, do what he did, if he succumbed to base desires and trivial human diversions. He'd spent years cultivating his 'bad for brainwork' list, and sex and sentiment had been at the very top, followed by a copious number of items. And yet apparently the strength of his focus was proportional to the challenge before him; if he needed to be single-minded and fully engaged, he could be.
His grin flashed wider, but almost as soon as the realisation entered his mind he purged it with a slight shake of his head. It wouldn't do to be distracted by congratulating himself for not being distracted. Nonetheless, he was gratified that he was capable of switching gears so (apparently) seamlessly, and his personal self-estimation increased even moreso.
Admittedly ironically, at the thought of Irene he allowed himself a brief inquiring glance in her direction, and he spotted her standing stiffly in the corridor, her arms crossed and an inscrutable expression on her face. The combination of her very fine attire made shabby from the duration of her imprisonment, the impatient tension in her limbs, and the haughty way she held her head, imbued her with the fractured dignity of a deposed queen.
He supposed that if he were inclined towards metaphor he would contend that in a sense, she was. She was someone with a powerful will and strong personality, used to making her own agenda decisions and plotting her own strategies, yet for weeks she had been stripped of any autonomy whatsoever, and now she was relegated to the sidelines as someone else took over the reins. Moreover, it concerned something as essential as the future course of her life. Sherlock knew that as genuinely grateful as she may be to him for saving her life when she had been unable to do so on her own, she was now feeling as impatient, impotent, and frustrated as he would be if the roles were reversed. That awareness infused his work with additional weight, and he re-immersed himself into the task before him.
He beckoned to the driver waiting just behind The Woman, and the man rolled the wheeled stainless steel locker to Sherlock, who popped the metal clasps with relish, savouring the fact that science and physiological chemistry were universal and constant, no matter where in the world he happened to be. He knew that while the others might find this part of the process distasteful, it was entirely his area, and he found himself anticipating the challenge.
The body had come out of rigor mortis before he'd even procured it, and the previous morning Sherlock had administered an additional combination of joint massage and shots of a pH neutralising agent, which further increased the flexibility and suppleness of the muscles and ligaments. As the SSG agents looked on with a collection of blankly passive, interested, and mildly disgusted expressions, he and Mr. Jarwar lifted the chador-robed and shroud-hooded body from the container, and then, with the driver's assistance, Sherlock began to manipulate it into a kneeling position. Not for the first time during this trip, he wished that it were John who was by his side, struggling to keep his arms around the cadaver as it listed one way and then the other. But John couldn't and wouldn't ever know about this—for his own protection.
And for the fact that although he trusted John with his life, Sherlock didn't necessarily trust him to hide this lie from his brother should Mycroft ever run it by John to appraise his reaction, which was something Sherlock could easily imagine him doing for the sake of thoroughness. It wasn't that Sherlock thought that John was incapable of deception, it was just that Mycroft was unsurpassedly skilled at seeing through most pretense. As far as he was aware, only Sherlock had ever been able to trick him, and he hardly got away with every attempt at it. Which is why this has to be flawless, he thought.
Sherlock finally rocked back onto his heels, a mild sheen of sweat on his brow, but a grimly pleased expression on his face. He had succeeded for the most part, although he had to use a length of rope to fasten the hands together behind the back (no matter, he would just bind Irene similarly) and the head wouldn't remain upright. That didn't pose a problem, either, though; one of the "insurgents" could simply pull Irene forward by the hair, and then when they made the switch he would continue to hold the body's head forward by the hair as well. It would be a logical move if dealing the blow to the cervical vertebrae—simple.
He'd have swung the blade himself without qualm, save for the fact that Mycroft would know him in an instant if Sherlock made a personal appearance in the video, and Captain Mazari was out of the question as well. He couldn't risk being recognised by other members of the Lashkar-e-Taiba group when the footage was released. Nor by Mycroft either, for that matter, since the elder Holmes was bound to interview him.
Sherlock surveyed his work, reviewing the figure with the same level of scepticism and minute attention to detail that he knew his brother would utilise, and he was conditionally satisfied. The rest was up to her.
In what he realised was an emergent pattern, the thought of The Woman immediately sent his eyes flicking over to where she'd been watching, but the doorway was empty and a brief but thorough scan around the room confirmed that she was not anywhere inside.
Without a word of explanation to the others he jumped lithely to his feet and strode to the doorway then beyond, before finally breaking out of the cool, dim gloom and into the bright desert sunlight, which caused him to momentarily stagger back a bit. Squinting and putting up a hand to block out the dazzling rays, he found her as soon as his light eyes had partially adjusted to the brightness.
She was leaning against the side of the building smoking, posing as if she were on a boardwalk in some Mediterranean resort town rather than the shambolic and crumbling pile that currently hosted them, and when he came out she looked over at him coolly, then returned to the Dunhill without comment. His hand immediately flew to his trouser pocket and to his astonishment the packet was short by yet another cigarette. When, and more importantly, how had she managed that? he thought in amazement.
"Enjoying that?" he asked more as a declarative observation, leaning up against the wall next to her and draping his hands in his pockets.
He glanced over at her and was abruptly hit by a sense of warmth he had previously only affiliated with John, although this felt more layered and complex, and he knew he was experiencing the effects of his newly-discovered sentiment. And yet for the moment he didn't quell the feeling, but let it expand within him. He was already in a somewhat good-humoured mood from the smooth way operations were unfolding inside, and moreover, he felt much more benevolent towards her and the situation between them now that he knew he could multitask, and that the circumstances weren't necessarily as dire as he'd believed that morning.
"Immensely," she answered, drawing in the smoke slowly between lips that held only the very faintest trace of a wry smile. She tapped the end then looked over to him, meeting his eyes. "Much more than I'm enjoying watching you choreograph my execution, I have to say. You know, I've dabbled in plenty of varieties of kink, but snuff films have never made it onto that list." She paused then offered him the cigarette, which he accepted.
"I know it may be difficult to experience that again," he told her, trying to determine her mood, "but I've been over it and over it, and if Mycroft doesn't have your body he's going to need some other type of proof. It's the only way."
"That's not difficult," she contradicted evenly, after he'd inhaled then passed the Dunhill back to her, and they'd stood next to each other in silence for a moment. "I feel conflicted. I know the effort and consideration that you've put into all of this and in one sense I'm grateful, but I detest passivity. And as I'm sure you can imagine, I'm not used to being the one being told what to do."
She handed the cigarette back to him again, and he concealed a small smile; he had actually been correct in his earlier assessment of her mood. She was still more of an enigma than anyone else he'd ever met, but perhaps he was becoming better at reading her due to increased familiarity.
"Yes. . . I can understand that," he said somewhat awkwardly, but honestly.
Suddenly she cut a glare at him and straightened her posture. "Oh stop condescending to me," she said impatiently, finally showing a spark of emotion. "It only adds insult to injury, and you don't need to manipulate me into doing what you want."
Or perhaps not, he blinked in surprise. Manipulate her? For once, he hadn't actually been thinking in such a cynical way. Ironically it seemed that it was when his empathy was somewhat sincere that he couldn't pull it off, he thought, slightly chagrined. Although, he admitted to himself, he hadn't exactly been a paragon of consideration that morning. And now isn't the time to discuss my shift in perspective.
Having gleaned this insight, he immediately recovered, and rather than admit that he'd been speaking earnestly, he lowered his tone. "Good, because it is the only way. Of course, if you'd prefer to take matters into your own hands. . ."
"And spoil all your fun?" she said dryly.
"Well it would be excessively foolish and rash, of course, and without access to my resources you'd have no chance at all," he said, looking away from her with narrowed eyes, under the pretense of scanning the outskirts of the property. "You'd probably be dead within another week. But I wouldn't try to stop you, should you decide that you value your self-sovereignty more than your life." He wondered briefly if the blunt words were also lies, and a part of him answered that of course they were—and for more reasons than that her departure would undermine all his careful planning.
She grunted a soft chuckle at his statement and nodded, before taking one last pull of the Dunhill and then dropping it to the dusty ground. The mood between them seemed to relax. "As I said, I'm conflicted. I know you're right, but it doesn't mean I have to like it."
He studied her profile again, and out of his feelings of warmth grew that other unfamiliar, aching emotion he'd felt early in the morning when she'd temporarily let the mask fall. Tenderness, he thought, striving as ever for clarity through classification. Concern. He wanted to touch her, forge some type of physical connection, but this time he suppressed that particular desire with some effort. This was a time for work, he reasserted to himself, and the only way to balance both his sentiment and his operation—without one costing the other—was to set and adhere to strict boundaries.
So instead he said, "This is only for a few more days. Then it's all up to you."
"A few more days?" she repeated, her perfectly arched brow raising. "Are you going to tell me what's going to take that long?"
"Yes, but not now," he replied, anxious to return to the others now that he sensed his focus wavering dangerously again. "We need to get started on this. Are you ready?"
She sighed and her crossed arms tightened. "This is exactly what I was talking about."
"I know," he said, and she nodded as though he'd apologised, which in a sense perhaps he had. He turned away from her to go back inside, but he suddenly felt her hand on his arm, firm and insistent.
"Just one more thing before we return," she said, and before he could fully face her again she had grabbed his lapels in both hands and was pressing her body against his so that he stumbled back slightly and hit the wall. Automatically his hands flew to her waist to steady his balance, and then she was raising herself onto her toes and her lips were on his, hard and defiant. She tilted her head and opened her mouth to his, her tongue demanding and then gaining entrance, before her hands lifted from his coat to each side of his face, grasping locks of his hair and pulling him further into her commanding kiss. But before he could respond in any kind—whether it was to push her away or (likelier) pull her closer—she had drawn back and there was already a foot of distance between the two of them. He felt winded and slightly stunned, and after a moment he abruptly shut his mouth when he became aware that his jaw was still hanging open.
"I just wanted to do one thing of my own volition. . ." she smirked from over her shoulder as she walked around him and down the corridor.
Perhaps at one point Sherlock would have resented the snatched kiss and its potential to derail his focus, as he had resented (albeit for different reasons) the few kisses that had been pressed on him in his youth. But he had, after all, been desiring contact with her too, so instead it left him feeling energised in the same way he felt after making a particularly insightful connection during a case, or getting a result that took him closer to proving his hypothesis during an experiment. Like those situations, her kiss was indicative a greater whole, and though he couldn't afford to further analyse the nature of that 'whole' at the moment, at a cursory level it left him feeling invigorated. He tabled the concept for later consideration.
More importantly and pertinently, it seemed to have (at least temporarily) softened Irene and made her much more amenable and pliant to his instruction when they returned, and so even though the skin on his lips tingled slightly and he sensed his mind starting to wander away from this chiaroscuro chamber out to that sundrenched entrance, he wasn't irritated. Nonetheless. . .
As a mental exercise, he quickly ran through the elements by their atomic numbers, prime numbers only, backwards. Lawrencium-mendelevium-berkelium-actinium-bismuth- gold-tantalum. . . he began intoning to himself in one fluid stream, and when he concluded the list of twenty-seven with helium sixteen seconds later, he felt poised and in control once more.
The actual filming progressed smoothly, with Sherlock taking a very active role between each take—articulating expressively and stepping into each man's role to actually demonstrate how he wanted him to behave—and Mazari served as assistant director, adding additional details to improve the legitimacy of the video where relevant. As Sherlock continued to accept the man's confident and steadfast help, he mused that as prepared as he thought he had been to do this on his own, the captain was an auspicious and invaluable resource. And that Caldwell must not be quite the imbecile he seemed, if he were able to secure his assistance.
Mazari's agents were equally useful, despite the fact that the only parts of their covered faces he could see, their eyes, reflected total bemusement in response to everything Sherlock said and did. Nonetheless, they followed his directions, and their cooperation (and discretion) were the only characteristics which at all concerned him.
And as for The Woman. . . Sherlock thought, observing the tense figure on her knees. She was proving excellent in her leading role: stoic and yet vulnerable in a black chador again (though the small voice in his head—John's voice, as always—reminded him that she had undergone this actual scenario less than twenty-four hours previously, and so it wasn't acting). Yet although she was slightly trembling, she remained indomitable throughout it all, including when the sharpshooter agent 'playing' the executioner shoved a hood over her head and then roughly jerked her head forward by her hair. At this point Sherlock finally stilled, a nauseated feeling settling in his lower abdomen and his lips tight across his teeth, and he had to admire her fortitude and strength. For the first time, it struck him that she was actually brave, not just impudently audacious.
Even when they had exchanged the living, breathing woman for her cadaver counterpart, and the sharpshooter had struck the shrouded head from the body with a powerful and brutal blow from a large talwar sword, she'd barely flinched beside him, despite Sherlock's intimate awareness that she'd had traumatic nightmares about the same-such fate only hours before. His hand reached of its own accord towards her, but it seemed that she detected the motion in her peripheral vision, because she slid one step away from him, looking forward with hard eyes and pursed lips. He let it drop to his side again, but the desire to touch her again still remained, as well as a lingering curiosity.
With one part of his attention he watched the action before him play out on the camera's screen, and with another portion he assessed her. Though admittedly his own behaviour had varied over the course of the morning, he doubted her actions were motivated by the same reasons, and hers seemed to vary by the minute. At one moment she was clinging to him in a demanding kiss and at the next, she didn't even want to accept a simple touch.
He ran through all the possibilities that occurred to him. (1.) Does she still think that I'm acting condescending? (2.) Does she only want physical interaction when she is able to initiate it herself, since it is the one factor she can actually control at this point? (3) She stated that she's conflicted about this process; is the duality of her coldness and capriciousness reflective of that? (4) Have I lost her confidence after the way I behaved earlier? (5) A combination of all or some of the above? (6) Something else entirely. . .? But what.
He scrutinised her stiff and unyielding exterior closely, but could not determine a satisfactory answer. Studying her wasn't like solving problems in chemistry or mathematics with their rules and constants; it was more like approaching one of the 'soft sciences' like political theory or economics, with endlessly debatable variables, patterns, and trends that could never be definitively proven or disproven, only argued more or less persuasively. And he had never been particularly competent at those subjects.
Pausing his analysis, he reverted his attention to the demands of her so-called 'snuff video', which at that point called for the creation of blood splatters that would accurately reflect the decapitation of someone with an active cardiovascular system. With momentary merriment, he strategically scattered vials of contraband O- along the floor and across the clothing of the SSG men, before returning behind the camera and filming the final indoors portion, when the "insurgents" were to hold the head aloft triumphantly. But then, to his frustration, he had to reprimand the technician and half of the rookie set for acting unsuitably repulsed and they were forced to re-film the penultimate scene; he wanted to wrap it up as quickly as possible and get Irene away from this reincarnation of her murder scene. He may not be able to fully read or understand her, but despite her stoicism and refusal to appear affected by both the implied and real carnage, and contrary to what she'd originally said, he could at least ascertain that the situation had begun to take its toll on her. And to his increasingly uncomfortable realisation, her distress elicited an alarming sympathetic response in him.
Scratch that, it was more than uncomfortable or alarming, it was damn near terrifying.
In Pavlovian response to any reference to The Woman, his eyes darted sideways towards her once more, checking her reaction in a way he'd never sought out anyone else's, not even John's. Her face was starkly pale with small flushed dots on each cheek, which made her elegant features stand out even more, and her eyes looked large and intense in her face. But she remained unmoving and rigid, staring transfixed at the scene before her.
Then, when he announced that it was time to film the burning of the body, she seemed to break from her reverie, and she turned on her heel without a word and headed towards front exit, her posture rigid and her hands clenched. He didn't see her again until they had finally concluded all the shots he wanted of the pyre almost two hours later, when he found her outside the front of the structure, back in her own clothes and the black fabric of the chador crumpled in a pile several feet from her feet. He visualised her peeling it off of herself in abject disgust the moment she'd passed out of view, and that image combined with her pinched, set face, made him quicken his pace towards her, and cup her elbow in his hand. "Are you all right?" he asked at once automatically.
She stared up at him, and for a moment her eyes seemed to shine, but she blinked and the moment was gone; the mask was fully in place again and she was apparently no longer willing to show any vulnerability in front him. Of course he couldn't be certain, but he thought that perhaps his awkward and insensitive actions of that morning had undone what had grown between them in the night and early dawn, and once more he had a pang of regret that he was the man that he was.
"How are you going to make that look realistic?" she asked, pointedly ignoring his question, as he had already realised she would. "I don't think Mycroft Holmes will buy it if one moment it's my figure, and then there's some pretext for cutting away or obscuring 'me' before the actual beheading. No matter how imaginative the segue, it's still something out of the first year of film school."
Sherlock's brows briefly creased at her disparaging words, and even more so from her acidic tone, but he replied, "Of course he wouldn't, but it's going to go through a rigorous editing process before Mazari releases online via the same means that the LeT would use. There won't be any segue."
"Don't tell me you're relying on someone here to edit the footage?" she rejoined sharply.
Sherlock scoffed and shook his head. "I know a man in London and I'll email him the digital files. He does very competent work; he won some sort of award a few years ago, supposedly prestigious. . . The Biffa, or Batta. . ? Not relevant. Anyway, he—"
"The Bafta?"
Sherlock quirked his mouth to the side as a noncommittal shrug; this too he had deleted, if he had ever really taken note of it in the first place. He suspected it was the latter.
"Well, that is slightly more reassuring," she said, a bit grudgingly to Sherlock's ears.
"As I said, he does very competent work," he repeated, momentarily stung that she would consider the commendation of some frivolous awarding body more valid than his own estimation, which was certain to be more discerning.
"And let me guess, he owes you a favour," she continued, a very small but seemingly genuine smile appearing on her lips.
"No," Sherlock answered, warming to that smile, as meagre as it was. He hesitated, then, sensing that he probably needed to make some sort of concession after his earlier callousness, he admitted, "He and I shared a room when Mycroft and DI Lestrade from the MPS press-ganged me into a narcotics rehabilitation program. He's assisted me with a few cases since then."
He observed her eyebrows flick upwards at his confession, but otherwise her face was impassive.
"His skills have been quite useful. . ." he continued, eyeing her face closely for, what, validation? Forgiveness? "It's remarkable how many people will confess when confronted with 'video proof' of their crimes, and you can also usually—not always, but almost—conclude that those who don't are innocent," he said blithely, low albeit slightly forced laughter in his voice. "He's dreadfully boring, one of those sanctimonious sobers, but quite useful."
He waited again, but she only nodded in a distracted way, and before he could say anything else, Mazari was approaching them, and Sherlock sighed in irritation at the interruption, though he repressed his reaction with effort. The man had been a very valuable contribution to Sherlock's project so far, and he would continue to be, when Mycroft inevitably dropped by.
"The men have cleaned everything up, but you can clear the rest of the premises to your satisfaction if you'd like; we're heading out," he informed Sherlock. "I can expect the file from you shortly?"
Sherlock nodded briskly. "I'll email you the final copy, but remember: wait at least 24 hours before releasing it after that. I need to be back in London by the time the people looking for Ms. Adler make the connection."
The man nodded again, then looked into Sherlock's eyes and shook his hand solidly, before turning to Irene. She stood, and with what Sherlock realised was envy, he watched as she clasped the man's hands in both of hers, and thanked him for helping to save her life with an emotion-tightened voice and moist eyes. He suspected the sentiment was genuine as well, and he knew it was because Mazari was that simpler man. He was like John, and Sherlock never could be.
Back in the vehicle an hour later, after he had quickly ducked his head under the seat to confirm that the bundle of his coat was still in place, his mental processes finally became unencumbered by any serious thoughts of strategy or planning. The rest of the plan was simple and mundane; all the work required in its facilitation had been completed weeks ago. Now it was only a matter of Mr. Jarwar conveying them to the Karachi Ports, so that they could board the cargo ship that was to be their vessel away from the place, and head into international waters under their alternate identities.
That meant that he was free to turn his substantial brain-power onto the situation between The Woman and himself, and consider without interruption what it was that he even wanted, and whether what he wanted was necessarily the best course of action—but then, what was the 'best' course of action, and why, and how significant was the discrepancy between what he wanted (if he could even discern that) and what he should do?
He groaned internally, overwhelmed in ways that he never felt during even the most complex of his past cases. During those times he was challenged, yes, but he knew that with focus and perseverance he would be able to solve the mystery; he never felt unequal to the task or inadequate, as he did now. How had he felt so confident and assured in dealing with this issue only several hours prior? he wondered incredulously. Now he sensed himself shying away from such thoughts when he didn't have the luxury of a complicated, work-oriented challenge off which to balance them, and he understood that he'd had it backwards. It wasn't that sentiment was presently a dangerous distraction to his work, it was that the work had been a welcome distraction from this damnable sentiment.
In fact, he was so overcome with uncertainty that he didn't immediately notice that they were barreling down the wrong, though parallel, road until they had made significant progress along its course, and it took him yet another moment to focus his gaze and realise that his sense that something was awry related to exogenous rather than endogenous circumstances.
His eyes narrowed. "Why are we taking this route?" he demanded abruptly. "This is not the most direct way to the ports. We discussed this, I wanted to take the RCD Highway all the way back from NH-25. This road simply travels parallel and then rejoins, but at the cost of some miles. It's a waste of our time."
Jarwar caught his eye in the rearview mirror and nodded. "Yes, but this road joins the Makran Coastal Highway much sooner, Mr. Sigerson, and that is the route I am taking."
Sherlock tsked then sighed in frustration. "Mr. Jarwar, the Makran Coastal Highway goes in the opposite direction of the ports."
"Yes. It does, sir," the driver confirmed, lifting his gaze off the road again to look into Sherlock's eyes in the reflection.
"Sherlock. . ." Irene murmured, her voice coloured with a tone of warning and her fingertips pressing onto his thigh, just as pangs of alarm began to resound in Sherlock's head.
But though he lurched forward with arms outstretched almost simultaneous to their shared realisation of danger, the articulated gate that separated the cabin of the vehicle from the container space crashed shut. His open palms slammed against the flat metal sheet uselessly, a split second too late, and his attempts to shove the gate up were futile. It was locked, and they were trapped.
Immediately he reached under the seat to check the bundle, and his suspicion was confirmed at once. The AK-47 was no longer concealed within his coat.
"I knew it," Sherlock snarled more to himself than Irene as he straightened, white-lipped and furious. "There will always be someone involved in a conspiracy who spoils everything!"