Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [81]
“Excuse me, mate,” he said. “We’ve got a delivery for Packard Street. You wouldn’t know where it is, would you?”
Alex shook his head. “There’s no Packard Street around here.”
“Are you sure? That’s what it says here.” The man held out the clipboard, inviting Alex to take a look.
It was the empty van that alerted him.
The doors of the van were open, and if they were making a delivery to an address in Chelsea, why was there nothing inside?
Alex jerked back, but it was already too late. The two men had maneuvered Alex between them so that they were perfectly placed, one of them in front of him, one of them behind. He heard the clipboard hit the sidewalk. It was just a prop. They didn’t need it anymore.
One of the men grabbed him by the throat. Alex twisted around, trying to break free. At the same time, he saw something that sent a chill up his spine. The second deliveryman had produced a hypodermic syringe. They weren’t here to kill him. They were here to take him. The van was for him.
Alex put everything he had been taught into action. He knew that it would be almost impossible even for two grown men to drag him into the van . . . unless they made contact with the needle. That was what he had to avoid. So he didn’t waste any energy trying to break free of the neck lock. It was too strong anyway. Instead, he used the man’s own strength against him, levering himself back, raising both legs off the ground and lashing out. The man with the syringe had been looking for somewhere to plant it, and with a smile of satisfaction, Alex saw the soles of his shoes smash into it, breaking it against the man’s chest. If they’d been planning to knock him out, they could forget it. Now it would be twice as hard to make him disappear.
So far, no more than about ten seconds had passed since the attack had begun, and Alex knew that time was on his side. The streets of Chelsea might be quiet, but it was eight thirty in the morning and people would be on their way to work. He couldn’t call for help. He was still being strangled. But someone would see what was happening. They had to.
Sure enough, a figure turned the corner and Alex was overjoyed to see the blue-and-silver uniform of a policeman. Alex felt the man behind him loosen his grip as the policeman ran forward, and he gratefully sucked in air.
“What’s going on here?” the policeman demanded.
“They . . . ,” Alex began, and stopped as he felt something stab him in the back, just above his waist. A second needle! The man who had been holding him must have taken it out of his pocket. But surely . . .
The policeman wasn’t doing anything, and even as the strength drained out of him and his legs buckled, Alex understood. The policeman wasn’t any more real than the deliverymen had been. They were all in it together. Alex had been tricked and there was nothing he could do as whatever drug had been pumped into him coursed through his system. He saw the street tilt and then turn sideways and knew that the only reason he wasn’t lying flat on the sidewalk was because the deliverymen had caught him and were carrying him into the van.
He was angry with himself. Only a few minutes ago, Jack had been accusing him. He could have died at Elm’s Cross and she would have never known what had happened to him. He had promised her it would never happen again. And yet it already had. In a few hours, the school would report him missing. She would think he had betrayed her again. If he died, he would never be able to tell her the truth.
This was all his fault. He shouldn’t have gone to the film studio. He should never have gotten involved with Desmond McCain in the first place. He wished he could call Jack and tell her. But it was too late. Barely conscious, already unable to struggle, he was bundled into the back of the van. He didn’t even hear the doors slam shut.
Alex opened his eyes.
Someone was doing something