Want You Dead Read Free Page A

to think clearly, to work his way out of the situation.
    He was trying to figure out where he was and how long he had been here – and why the hell this had happened to him. Mistaken identity? Or had his assailant taken his keys and was now robbing his house? Or worse, going after his beloved children, Dane and Ben?
    Jesus, what the hell must Red be thinking? She was at home waiting for him to pick her up. If he could only phone her . . . But his phone was in his trouser pocket and he was unable to move his hands to get to it.
    He occasionally heard a vehicle passing, and guessed he had to be somewhere near a country road. They were becoming less and less frequent, which indicated it was getting later. Whoever had done this to him knew about bindings; he was unable to move his legs or his arms, nor spit the gag out of his mouth, and he was suffering painful cramps. Nor did he know – and this frightened him a lot – how airtight the boot was. He was just aware that the faster he breathed, the more oxygen he would use up. He had to stay calm. Sooner or later someone would rescue him. He had to make sure his air lasted.
    His mouth was parched and he had long since given up trying to cry for help, which made him choke on the gag, held tightly in place by some kind of tape which felt as if it was wound all the way around his head.
    For Chrissake, there had to be a sharp object in here somewhere, surely? Something he could rub against and use to saw through his bindings? He nudged closer to his golf bag, heard the clubs rattle, and slid his arm bindings up against the edge of one of the irons. But each time he tried, the club just spun around without traction.
    Help me, please, someone.
    He heard the roar of a car, and the swish of tyres on the wet road. Hope rose in him. Then the sound receding into the distance.
    Someone stop, please!
    He heard the roar of another engine. The swish of passing tyres, then the squeal of brakes. Yes! Oh God, yes, thank you!
    Moments later he felt a blast of cold air as the boot lid raised. A blinding light in his eyes. And his joy was short-lived.
    ‘Nice to see you again, my friend,’ said a suave male voice from behind the light. ‘Sorry to have kept you, I’ve been a bit tied up. But not as much as you, eh?’
    Karl heard the sound of something metal striking the ground, then a liquid sloshing around. He could suddenly smell petrol.
    Terror swirled through him.
    ‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’ the suave voice asked.
    Karl grunted.
    ‘Do you have any painkillers on you?’
    Karl shook his head.
    ‘Are you sure? None anywhere in your car? You’re a doctor, surely you must have some?’
    Karl was silent, trembling. Trying to figure out what the hell this was all about.
    ‘You see, doctor, they’re for you, not for me. You’d be better off taking some. With what’s about to happen to you. Please understand this is not your fault, and I’m not a sadist – I don’t want to see you in agony, that’s why the painkillers.’
    Karl felt himself being lifted, clumsily, out of the boot, carried a short distance, then dumped down on wet grass. Then he heard the slam of his boot lid closing. ‘I’m going to need you to write a note, Karl, if that’s okay with you?’
    He said nothing, squinting against the bright light of the torch.
    ‘It’s a goodbye note. I’ll free your right arm so you can write it – are you right-handed?’
    The doctor continued to stare, blinking, into the beam. He was close to throwing up. The next moment, there was a searing pain on his face as the tape was ripped away. Then the gag was tugged out of his mouth.
    ‘That better?’ his captor asked.
    ‘Who the hell are you? I think you’ve got the wrong person. I’m Dr Karl Murphy,’ he pleaded.
    ‘I know who you are. If you promise not to do anything silly, I’ll free your writing arm. Left or right?’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Now we’re making progress!’
    Karl Murphy saw the glint of a knife blade,