Page 51 of The Final Vow (Washington Poe #7)

Poe felt like he’d walked into a spy movie.

One of the good ones like Bond or Bourne.

Nothing with Steven Seagal. He didn’t think he was in immediate danger.

He’d been handcuffed to the rear and his legs had been tied together, but no one had hit him.

No one had said anything silly, like ‘You’re getting too close to the truth.

’ His phone had been taken from him, but he didn’t think it had been thrown out of the window. No one was manically laughing.

But other than not being in immediate danger, Poe didn’t have a clue what was happening. He’d clearly been abducted, but the men who had grabbed him were well practised. They’d done it before. That meant law enforcement or military. And they weren’t talking, not even to each other. Disciplined.

The van took a few turns, and when it did someone held his shoulders so he wouldn’t topple over. After what felt like fifteen minutes but was probably closer to five, the road straightened and the van sped up.

As soon as it did his hood was ripped off, a camera was pointed at his face and his picture was taken. The man with the camera, a burly six-footer who looked stronger than Popeye, checked the screen then nodded at the man at Poe’s side. He was hooded again.

And still no one had said anything. It wasn’t until the van started to slow and turn again, a good twenty minutes after his picture had been taken, that someone spoke.

‘ETA, five minutes.’

‘Does anyone fancy boiling an egg?’ Poe said.

No one laughed.

Poe started counting Mississippis. When he got to three hundred, the van stopped.

He felt fresh air on his neck. Someone had opened a window.

He heard muffled chatter – sounded as though credentials were being checked – then something being raised or lowered.

Some sort of checkpoint. The van moved forward again.

Then it stopped and the engine was turned off.

The door opened and he was helped to his feet.

His leg restraints were loosened but not removed.

He was guided out of the van and on to the ground.

The echo of his boots made it sound like he was inside, but in a large building.

Someone held his shoulder and pushed him forward.

Shuffling and hooded, like he was the Elephant Man, Poe started walking.

The echo faded. Carpet, not tiles.

He was pushed into a room and made to sit in an uncomfortable chair. His leg restraints were removed. So were his handcuffs. Poe brought his hands round to his front and rubbed his wrists. Flexed his fists. Tried to get the blood moving again. His hood was removed.

He was in an interrogation room. He was seated on the perp’s side, the side with the eyebolt on the table.

He put his hands next to it, expecting to be secured.

Instead, the men who’d brought him in left the room.

One of them returned with a bottle of still water.

Poe opened and drained it. Getting abducted by the state was thirsty work.

He checked his watch. He’d been in their custody for forty minutes and still no one had said who they were or what they were doing.

Poe got up and stretched his legs. He checked the door.

It was locked. He felt like banging on it and shouting about having rights.

He thought whoever was watching him through the dome camera stuck to the ceiling would find that funny.

After another hour someone brought him a sandwich and a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Part of a Tesco meal deal. Poe ate the crisps but left the sandwich unopened. It was tuna. An hour later he opened it. Half an hour after that, he ate it.

He wondered where Uncle Bertie was. He hoped he wasn’t still in the pub. He’d be rat-arsed by now if he was.

And an hour after that a tall gangly man walked in. He took the seat opposite and sighed.

‘You really are the most bothersome man, Sergeant Poe,’ Alastor Locke said.