Lost Souls (James Quinn Book 2), page 1
LOST SOULS
JAMES QUINN
BOOK 2
D.P. JOHNSON
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Lost Souls is the second novel in the James Quinn series. It follows on from Stolen Lives, where the story really begins. Although Lost Souls can be enjoyed on its own I would recommend that you read Stolen Lives at some point to fully understand the history between the main characters.
In my novels I always try to use factual locations, but to better suit the plot I sometimes take the liberty of creating a few fictitious establishments and localities. I hope you don’t mind too much.
And talking of fact and fiction, Lost Souls was written at a time when extensive COVID-19 restrictions were in place. I believe fiction should be an escape, so I banished the pandemic from the book.
For Grandad
In loving memory
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CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
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Also by D.P. Johnson
ONE
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
It all happened so quickly, she could barely take it in.
One minute, Urtė had been asleep in the back seat, dreaming happy dreams about the new life awaiting them at their journey’s end in London. The next minute, a hulking man snatched her from the car and bundled her, kicking and screaming, into a waiting van.
He threw her down, slamming her spine-first onto the bare, ribbed metal floor. Pain rippled through her. He climbed inside and slammed the door, shutting out the driving rain.
As she struggled to a sitting position, Urtė registered the presence of two more men in the van. One moved to stand over her and shoved her hard in the chest, sending her head crashing to the floor.
He tore strips of tape from a reel; bound her hands and ankles, then gagged her mouth.
The cold, humid air was laced with the stinking fusion of sweat, beer and cannabis.
One of her abductors banged on the solid partition with his fist, and in response, the driver beyond crunched the van into gear and set off.
The interior light went out, and Urtė lay there, squirming and groaning in the dark. She felt every bump and dip on the rough, winding road. She heard the dull drone of the engine; the throb of rock music; the metallic drumbeat of rain.
The men, seated on the bench in the back, swigged beer, one can after another, discarding their empties on the floor. They were acting as if she wasn’t even there, laughing and joking. Urtė couldn’t be sure where they were from, only that it was somewhere in the East, like her. She recognised a few words, but not enough to discern their conversations. Maybe that was for the best.
Even though it was pitch black, she closed her eyes and tried to process her predicament. Where were they taking her? Why had they separated her from Rūta? What was going to happen to her? Would she ever see her again?
Every so often, the light would come back on. At first, it terrified her, until Urtė realised they needed the light to play their card games.
Each time the light came on, it would take a few moments for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she would furtively study her abductors’ features. There might come a time, she prayed, when she had to describe them to the police.
The guy who had hustled her into the van had sharp features and deep set eyes. One of his canine teeth was missing, so she named him Gappy. The second was heavier set with a round face. He had a habit of blinking, so, of course, in her mind, he was Blinky. The third guy intrigued her the most. He was much younger; smaller; quieter. She didn’t need to invent a name for him because Gappy and Blinky did that for her. They called him Shortcake.
Shortcake would look away whenever he noticed her looking at him, which meant Urtė could study him for longer. She soon learned that he wasn’t drinking his beer as quickly as the others and that he made little contribution to the banter. Indeed, the jokes were often at his expense. He would laugh, but it was obviously forced.
It was when the light came on for perhaps the fourth or fifth time that things escalated.
Her eyes had barely adjusted when Gappy moved from the bench to squat astride her. He gripped her chin and ripped the tape from her mouth, then he squeezed her lips apart to pour a vile, bitter liquid inside. It immediately hit the back of her throat, making her gag. She spat it out, and he slapped her hard about the cheek. Blinky moved to grip her by the hair, yanking back her head so that Gappy could try again with the liquid. She had no choice but to swallow.
They moved back to the bench. Blinky shouted something to Shortcake and slapped his back.
Shortcake rose reluctantly to stand over her, hunched under the low roof.
Gappy and Blinky thumped their thighs and chanted.
As the chanting became more frenzied, Shortcake fumbled with his belt. His hands shook so much that she was surprised when he managed to unbuckle himself. His trousers and boxers dropped to his ankles. Embarrassed hands shielded his groin.
‘No, please!’ she pleaded, trying to engage his eyes. But he wouldn’t look at her.
The van went over a hard bump and Shortcake’s head crunched into the tin roof. His hands shot up to brace himself, exposing his limp penis.
Gappy and Blinky roared with laughter.
Her efforts to kick out were hopeless.
Whatever drug they’d made her drink was starting to take effect. It was like she was physically separating from her body; like she was floating up to the ceiling to look down with a detached interest.
Shortcake was banished to the corner. Gappy took his place and pulled down her denims; her panties. Untethered her ankles.
Later, much later, Urtė would look back on the journey almost as if she were remembering a dream. Strangely, the primary emotion conjured by the recollection was never pain or humiliation or fear. It was pity. Pity for Shortcake cowering in the corner, his head bowed, elbows on his knees, palms pressed to his ears. What was his story? Why was he there? Was it some kind of initiation test? A rite of passage? She would never find out, but she would never forget him.
Overcome by the effects of the liquid, she soon lost track of time and place, only registering that it was dark and that it was no longer raining when the van finally stopped and the rear door burst open.
Gappy and Blinky took her by the upper arms and dragged her from the van. Shortcake and the driver remained inside.
Urtė looked about her. A dilapidated old fuel station. In the distance, she could hear the dull roar of traffic and saw a trail of lights. A motorway, she guessed.
Her legs were so weak, the men practically carried her towards another vehicle—a black Mercedes. Two huge men emerged from the vehicle, one carrying a sports bag. They were so alike that they had to be brothers.
The brother without the bag swaggered towards her. He regarded her like a farmer inspecting a specimen at a cattle market, probing every inch of her with his dark eyes. Eventually, his mouth split into a grin. He turned to his brother and gave him a nod. The brother opened the bag and brought out bundles of cash, which he handed to Blinky.
It was much later when Urtė discovered how much they’d paid for her.
Twenty thousand pounds.
TWO
ONE YEAR AGO
Think of the money, she told herself yet again. Think of what you can spend it on. A new outfit? Perfume? More make-up? A girl can never have too much make-up…
A sliver of sunlight burst through the flimsy bedroom curtains, jolting her from her thoughts. She closed her eyes and savoured the glorious warmth on her face.
A heatwave in autumn. What a treat.
Beneath her, Simon writhed and groaned.
Alexia smiled coolly
Of course, he was lying about the name. This man wasn’t called “Simon”. Not that she cared. Her real name wasn’t “Alexia”, either.
They’d been acquainted for twenty minutes at most. The first time they’d met was when he’d opened the door and invited her into his elegant Notting Hill mews house. He was not an unattractive man, she supposed. Mid fifties. Reasonably trim. A typical English gentleman: posh accent; foppish fringe; a gold sovereign ring on his pinky finger. And so effortlessly superior.
Now, as he lay trapped beneath her in his dotted silk boxers, fighting for breath, she was the one enjoying superiority.
How long had it been? Thirty seconds? Sixty? Evgeni had told her that most people lose consciousness after two minutes without oxygen. Or was it three? No matter. The job would soon be done.
Her mind started to drift again, and she wondered if she’d have time to squeeze in a trip to Harvey Nichols afterwards. She had her eye on a gorgeous Vivienne Westwood handbag: black leather; gold orb; matching purse. Beautiful. Window shopping only, of course.
No, she’d head straight home. She couldn’t risk upsetting Evgeni twice in one week.
Her thoughts lurched back to the present as Simon let out a muffled howl and arched his back, throwing her off kilter.
As she clambered back astride him, Alexia noticed his cheeks were threaded with tiny purple blood vessels. Are they new?
His cold blue eyes bulged and bore into hers.
Probably time, then.
She took a firm pinch of one corner of the silver tape covering his mouth and nostrils, closed her eyes and pulled hard. The awful ripping noise sent a cold shiver through her. She cautiously opened one eye to ensure his skin was still intact. No damage. Despite appearances, she was no sadist. She was just doing what she was paid to do.
While Simon gasped and spluttered and fought for breath, she lowered her head until her lips were almost touching his and calmly asked again, ‘Where are the blueprints?’
He said nothing, so she slapped his cheek with the back of her hand—and again, harder, for effect. ‘I said, where are the blueprints?’
Fighting between laboured breaths, he stammered, ‘I shan’t tell you … I won’t … I will never betray … my country!’
Alexia swallowed an urge to smile at the way he pronounced the letter “r” as “w”. She had to stay focused on the job; to see it through to completion. ‘You have five seconds,’ she sneered in an exaggerated Slavic accent.
Simon shook his head furiously. ‘No!’
‘One … two … three …’
‘Never!’
‘Four …’
‘Go to hell, bitch!’
‘Five!’
Simon squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his head away in anticipation of dread.
Alexia reached to the other side of the bed and slid her hand under the pillow. Her fingers scrabbled around, trying to locate the gun.
It wasn’t there.
She cast her eyes around the bedroom in blind panic. Where could she have left it? She could be such a scatterbrain sometimes!
Simon half-opened one eye, then his head snapped back to face her.
She brazenly chanced a smile, but he saw through it.
‘Whatever is it, woman?’ he demanded huffily.
THREE
The ensuite! She’d left it in the damned ensuite!
‘I’m so sorry, I’ve forgotten the gun. I will get it. Give me a minute.’
Alexia scrambled off him, off the bed, and made for the ensuite, her killer heels sinking noiselessly into the deep pile carpet.
‘Eyes!’ the client barked.
She stopped in her tracks. ‘What?’
‘The tape, woman!’
‘Yes, of course. Sorry.’ She hurried back to blindfold him, pressing down the edges of the tape to ensure there were no gaps.
‘And stop saying sorry, for Christ’s sake! What kind of Russian assassin ever apologises?’
I don’t know, she wanted to say. This domination shit is Roxie’s speciality. I’m just filling in for her while she’s sick.
But Alexia couldn’t tell the truth, or betray her inexperience. So, channelling her best dominatrix voice, she commanded, ‘Quiet!’
The client’s mouth split into a smile. ‘Better.’
She dashed to the ensuite, closing the louvred door quietly behind her, threw back her head and took a deep breath. She knew that if she messed up this gig, she could lose Andric and Evgeni their best paying client. Then there would be hell to pay. She exhaled slowly. Panic wouldn’t help anyone.
Calmer now, she knelt to the floor and raked through her tote bag, quickly locating the grip of the gun amongst her everyday clothes. God, she longed to get out of Roxie’s ridiculous catsuit! It was making her clammy and itchy, and it was completely the wrong size. Roxie had the figure of a supermodel: tall and slim, small-breasted, whereas Alexia was busty and curvaceous.
She pulled out the gun, Evgeni’s pride and joy. She couldn’t quite believe he’d entrusted her with it. Alexia had never handled a gun before; had never wanted to. Why had the client insisted on it being real? She would have been so much more at ease with a fake.
She was panicking again, her hand trembling.
At least the weapon wasn’t loaded. All she had to do was go back out there and get the dirty rich pervert back in the zone; whip him into a sado-erotic frenzy. She would tease him with the gun for a few moments—perhaps run the cold metal over his hairy nipples, press it into his sweaty groin—then shunt the barrel into his mouth and lean across to whisper “hasta la vista” into his ear. And then … Click.
Simple. Five hundred quid in crisp new fifties, thank you very much.
‘What are you doing, woman? Where are you? Don’t you know how busy I am!’ The client’s bellow made her jump.
Alexia leapt to her feet and turned to grab the door handle.
Without warning, a loud, banging noise made her pause. She peered through the slats to see the bedroom door burst open. A man dressed in dark clothing entered the room. He wore a balaclava and held a gun. Alexia’s gut lurched. What the hell was happening?
She held her breath.
The intruder stole a quick look around the room, then edged towards the bed, pointing his weapon at the client.
