James

Despite the cold, my heated face streams sweat which soaks down my neck and into my clothes.

Slow down, Man…

You can’t sprint for a mile…

I drop to a trot and my heartbeat decelerates to something more sustainable. The banging behind my ears subsides.

Don’t panic…

The kidnappers may say Don’t be late, but their priority is the money.

Irony slaps me around the cheeks. Here I am, in an area I wouldn’t normally consider walking at night, certainly not alone. And I’m running through it, toting a bag containing a cool million in cash.

The steady rhythm of my jogging sets a metronome ticking in my head, clearing my thoughts.

How fast is a jog?

Six miles an hour?

So, I should cover my mile in the ten minutes I have.

Calm down…

Nonetheless, I find myself counting paces; eating up distance with each one…

They must be watching me…

Where are they watching from?

A parked car?

alley I pass, where they

Could be anywhere.

me… Waverly Moorings… A series of berths alongside the river. Once an attractive place for pleasure boats and day-trippers; now derelict, the jetties and piers rotted and

me; an attractive name for the edge of the more reputable parts of town. As the name suggests, it consists of four blocks of houses and shops

trees, up-lit by floodlights set in grassy lawns. The fountain, also floodlit, dances and sparkles by the central Christmas tree which stands tall, proclaiming Goodwill To

I can think of one

drop, hands resting on knees

For what?

pace, scanning

in

“James?”

arrived, Ross, but

did the message say,

aloud. “Corner of

western side of the square.

Stupid… Stupid…

right. I’ll go

down, James. Keep your thinking

don’t reply. He’s right, but

line of houses; handsome red-bricks built on

Still nothing.

my breathing tightens again as I look for whatever the next contact

Doorways…

Store windows…

A mailbox…

Nothing…

would they make

bubble inside me. My watch tells me I’m two minutes over

be watching

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