Dead Line Read Online Free

was aiming at him. The Ruger Redhawk had a barrel length approximating eight inches. Stainless-steel finish. Hardwood grips. Capacity for six rounds. The guy had fired three already. But it would only take one .44 slug to bring Trent’s curiosity to an end.
    The bodyguard stepped close and patted Trent down fast, feeling around his waist and torso, lingering on his empty shoulder holster. He checked Trent’s jeans as far as his ankles, then straightened and spun him round by the shoulder. He jammed the Ruger in the hollow behind Trent’s ear, delved a hand inside his front trouser pocket and yanked free his wallet.
    ‘You’re bleeding,’ Trent told him. ‘Near your eye.’
    The bodyguard smeared the cut with the dirtied cuff of his shirt. ‘You were outside the Opéra,’ he said. ‘You were watching us.’
    Trent didn’t respond. He studied the guy over the looming muzzle of the Ruger.
    ‘You followed us,’ he went on. ‘I saw your car as soon as we hit the tunnel.’
    Still Trent didn’t speak.
    ‘You work with those men?’
    Trent shook his head. Slow and steady. ‘You saw me shoot at them.’
    ‘So maybe you were firing blank rounds?’
    ‘How about you put my Beretta against your temple? Satisfy your curiosity.’
    The guy grunted and flipped open Trent’s wallet. He slid out his driver’s licence with his thumb. Squinted at the pixelated image and the details in the sketchy dark.
    ‘I’d like to put my hands down,’ Trent said.
    It was a few degrees cooler up on the rise. A gentle breeze lifted the denim of his shirt. The sweat that had filmed his body was starting to dry and evaporate. Goosebumps were sprouting on the back of his wrists and at the base of his neck.
    The Mercedes’s engine was still running. The hum and burble of the large diesel unit disturbed the stillness all around.
    ‘My hands?’ Trent said again.
    The guy backed away and motioned consent with his Ruger. Trent lowered his arms and plucked pellets of grit from his palms. His mind was spinning with a wild centrifugal force.
    ‘Take a look at my business card,’ he said.
    The guy grunted again but he removed a small ivory card from a sleeve cut into the wallet. He read over the information he found there. Raised an eyebrow.
    ‘I can help you,’ Trent told him.
    The bodyguard sniffed, then flipped Trent’s wallet closed. He stashed it inside his ruined jacket.
    He said, ‘Maybe you already helped your friends in the ski masks.’
    ‘You don’t believe that.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘It would be a really dumb thing to believe.’
    The sound of a door opening interrupted them. They looked over towards the Mercedes. It was canted to the right, the front wing crumpled and deformed. The nearside headlamp was out. The remaining lamp probed blindly at the stones and shrubs by the edge of the road.
    Stephanie Moreau staggered towards the rear of the luxury car, leaning on the bodywork for support like a drunk teetering along a bar, ephemeral in the fog of exhaust fumes. For just an instant, something about her silhouette or the way she moved reminded Trent of Aimée, and it felt as if a trap door had opened in the ground beneath him. Then the vaporous gases cleared from around her, the apparition faltered, and Stephanie peered at Trent’s Peugeot with bleary, tear-stained eyes. Her silver dress was rucked up on one side, exposing a pale, lean thigh and a grazed knee.
    ‘Alain?’ Her voice was shrill. ‘What happened? Where’s Jérôme?’
    ‘He’s been taken,’ the bodyguard replied, gravel in his throat. His attention remained fixed on Trent. ‘This man says he can assist us.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    The question hung in the air. Insects buzzed Trent’s face. He could smell something leaking from one of the cars. Coolant, maybe.
    ‘Tell her,’ Alain said.
    ‘I’m a consultant.’ Trent spoke loud enough for them both to hear. ‘I advise people in kidnap and ransom situations. A colleague at my firm sold your husband a K &