During the car ride, Andrew's thoughts were flying all over the place.
Where were they taking him?
Were they terrorists? Al-Qaeda? IRA?
Was it going to be a repeat of the London Underground attacks a few years ago?
How was he going to contact Rhiannon?
How was he going to contact his mother?
Who was going to take care of Mum if he… did not make it?
And most of all – Why him?
Andrew felt his hands grow cold and clammy, his mouth grew dry. It felt as if his senses were heightened. He became very aware of his surroundings – the hum of the engine, the steady breathing of Michael in the driver's seat, the whooshing of the traffic outside…
Andrew knew that his body was preparing him for "flight or fight". He considered his options: Flight would be risky as they could detonate his vest at any moment; fighting would be… well. No one, if they were in their right mind, went up against a taller man with a gun.
The car stopped. Andrew's phone buzzed. A text:
"YOU HAVE ARRIVED."
As Andrew was about to get out of the car, he tried one last tactic. He turned to Michael and said, "Please. You've got to help me. My mum… My girlfriend… Please. Help me. I didn't do anything."
Michael did not turn to face him. "Neither did I," he replied cryptically. Then he pointed the gun to Andrew's forehead.
Andrew tumbled out of the car.
The cold air hit Andrew in the face, clearing his mind a little. He touched his face and found that it was stained with tears. As he took in his surroundings – the giant neon advertisements, the whizzing of the traffic, the patter and bustle of the pedestrians – he felt his stomach tighten again.
Piccadilly Circus. The heart of London.
These bastards were going to strike hard.
His phone buzzed: "SETTLED IN YET? GOOD. TAKE OUT THE OTHER MOBILE. THERE IS ONLY ONE NUMBER SAVED IN THERE. CALL IT."
Andrew, in a brief spurt of reckless courage, decided to text back: "WHAT IF I DON'T?"
A minute later: "YOU HAVE SOMETHING ON YOUR SHIRT."
Andrew looked down to see a red laser spot just over his heart. "Shit," he muttered, feeling his blood run cold. So that's the way they were playing it… Refuse, and you get shot (and probably blown up anyway). Agree, and there was the high probability of you getting blown up.
Now it began.
Andrew felt his breathing grow shallow as he reached for the second mobile phone. He dialed the number listed in there and waited.
A text: "ASK FOR SHERLOCK HOLMES."
The phone rang twice before a woman answered. "Sergeant Sally Donovan."
The police! Why would his kidnappers be directing him to the police? Did they want to get caught? Was this some sort of real-life game of cops versus robbers? The resemblance to that innocent childhood game made Andrew shiver.
"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes," Andrew said. Could she hear the fear in his voice? Should he tell her what was going on?
"Oh." A note of displeasure in her voice. Was Sherlock Holmes another criminal in police custody? Were they bargaining for his release? "Hang on."
"YOU WILL SAY THESE WORDS – AND ONLY THESE WORDS – VERY CAREFULLY. MISS OR MISPRONOUNCE A WORD AND YOU WILL GO OFF. HAPPY READING!"
Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God.
A man's voice: "Hello?"
Andrew raised his phone to eye-level, feeling his breathing grow heavy. The words on the screen were tiny and almost painful to read in this situation. Andrew swallowed and began reading it word by word in a robotic, steady manner:
"It's okay – that you've gone – to – the police."
"Who is this? Is this you again?"
"But don't – rely on them. Clever you – guessing about Carl Powers. I – never liked – him. Carl laughed at – me – so – I stopped him – laughing."
Oh God. He had laughed at Mr. Morgenstern just now. Maybe they saw the text he'd sent Rhiannon, calling Mr. Morgenstern an idiot. Maybe they chose him because of that text. Oh God oh God.
The man – or Sherlock Holmes, Andrew presumed – replied in a rather sardonic tone of voice, "So you've stolen another voice, I presume?"
A new text. Andrew opened it as fast as his trembling fingers allowed him to: "This – is about you – and me."
"Who are you? What's that noise?"
Another text: "That's the sounds of life – Sherlock. But don't – worry – I can soon – fix that."
Oh God.
"You solved – my last puzzle – in nine hours. This time – you have – eight."
A new text: "HANG UP."
Andrew disconnected the line and dropped the phone back in his pocket again. He longed to collapse and cry, but the sniper's laser was still trained on him. Andrew was afraid any sudden movement might set the sniper off. A mere sneeze from Andrew might set the sniper off, for all he knew.
Eight hours. Eight hours to save Andrew and that Sherlock Holmes character had taken nine to save the last one. Eight hours to live. Eight hours eight hours eight hours. Eight hours left on this beautiful, this mad, this terrifying, this amazing earth, and Andrew was forced to stand in one spot within a hair's breadth of death.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to be sitting on his sofa, listening to his mum make something for supper. He wanted to have a Bud in one hand, his other holding Rhiannon's hand. He wanted so much.
"TIME IS TICKING. EIGHT HOURS ISN'T LONG. YOU SHOULD BE AT HOME WITH YOUR MOTHER AND GIRLFRIEND, SHOULDN'T YOU?"
Could they read his mind? Andrew longed to throw the phone onto the ground. It was the only way he could vent his anger and frustration against his unseen abductor. However, the phone buzzed again.
"YOU CAN CALL ONE PERSON. ONE WRONG WORD AND YOU'LL BE LIGHTING UP THIS PLACE BRIGHTER THAN A SUPERNOVA. I HOPE YOU DON'T MIND IF I LISTEN IN. I'M VERY SENTIMENTAL."
Andrew didn't hesitate. He dialed Rhiannon's number. It rang three times before she picked up.
"I knew you'd be late!" she exclaimed without so much as a "hello". "What's your excuse this time, Andrew? I swear, I'm going to find that boss of yours and pound his skull in."
Hearing the sound of her voice – her strong Midlands accent, her fiery temper – brought tears to Andrew's eyes and a smile to his face.
"Oh God," he said, "you really don't want to be doing that."
"To hell with your job," she replied. "So, where are you? How long will you be? I'm sitting in the restaurant looking like an idiot. The breadsticks and water can only last me so long, you know. God, I feel like a prisoner."
Andrew imagined his abductor laughing at Rhiannon's unintentionally ironic statement.
"Don't wait for me, Rhian," he said. "Just go ahead and order something. The ribs. You like the ribs, don't you? Have a plate on me. Two, if you want."
"Are you all right? Your voice sounds rather stuffed up. Have you caught a cold, Andrew?"
"No! No, I'm just fine. Don't worry about me, yeah?" He cleared his throat.
"Are you crying? Why are you crying? I'm sorry I was harsh. Don't cry." She sounded genuinely apologetic. "Sorry about what I said 'bout your job. I'm sorry I got mad at you."
"It's not you, Rhiannon," said Andrew. "I love you just the way you are. D'you hear me? I love you, Rhiannon. I love, love, love, love you. Please believe that."
"I love you, too, Andrew." She sounded bewildered by his sudden declaration of love for her. "Andrew, what's going on? Are you on something?"
Come to Piccadilly! he wanted to shout into the phone. I want to see you one last time. I have eight hours to live and I want to see you, Rhiannon.
He was listening. The sniper's laser was still dancing on his chest, a naughty little firefly.
"Nothing," he lied, holding back more tears. "I'm feeling… mushy, that's all. Feeling bad that I'm missing dinner. Listen," he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, "if I'm really late just wait for me at my home, yeah? My mum will be there, or else you know where to find the key."
At least someone will be with Mum when they bring her the news.
"All right." To his relief, Rhiannon decided not to probe any more. "I'll see you later, Andrew. I love you."
"I love you, Rhiannon. More than life."
She hung up. Andrew stood there listening to the dial tone for a little while when another text came in.
"THAT WAS SWEET. I ALWAYS LIKE COUPLES IN LOVE."
Andrew punched into the phone: "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?"
There was no reply.
Andrew felt like he was an empty, hollow shell. All the pedestrians around him did not seem to notice him. No one looked into his tear-stained face. No one saw the little red light on his chest. No one asked him if something was wrong. No one realized how close they came to what might've been the end of their lives.
Ignorance was truly bliss.
Author's Note: Second chapter... I'm having serious insecurities. It's been so long since I've published a piece of fanfiction, and I wasn't very good before. Argh. Please review.