The Hit-and-Run Man Read online

He watched her walk away from him until she had disappeared from sight at the entrance. There was no way he could know he would never see her again.

  A tinge of anxiety infiltrated the happiness that had filled his day as the minutes ticked by without her return. It was just at the moment he decided to go in search of her that the shadow fell across him. He experienced an instant tingle of apprehension, a sudden chill deep inside. There was no reason why he should have felt threatened by the outline blotting out the sun, casting its dark reflection over him, yet he was overcome by an unnerving sense of hostility. Suddenly he was filled with a great sense of foreboding.

  Swivelling around, Greenfield looked up at two men, both smartly dressed in dark suits and ties despite the midday heat.

  “You must come with us now.”

  It was the slightly taller, slightly younger of the two, who spoke in good, clear English, with only the slightest trace of a European accent. There was no sign anywhere of Julie.

  “I'm sorry, I'm not sure I heard you right,” replied Greenfield, though he was sure he had.

  “I said you are to come with us now.”

  Greenfield rose hesitantly from the chair. “That's out of the question. I really think you must have mistaken me for someone else. That must be it, a case of mistaken identity.”

  “There is no mistake.”

  “I don't know who you are. Are you the police? Have I done something wrong? I really must insist on some sort of explanation or identification, otherwise your request is an impossible one. I don't know you or see any reason why I should go anywhere with you.”

  The man reached inside his jacket and in the next instant Greenfield found the muzzle of an automatic pistol pressing against his ribcage. Greenfield felt the bubbles of sweat break out on his brow as the man said, “I think this is reason enough.”

  Greenfield was unable to conceal the look of sheer terror at the sight of the gun pushing against his body. This was madness. What had happened to his idyllic dream? Only minutes before the beautiful Julie, the oh-so-beautiful Julie, had been holding on to his arm, pressing her achingly desirable body against him as they walked. Julie. Jesus Christ, what about Julie?

  “The young lady I was with,” he spluttered, “what have you done with her? You haven't harmed her?”

  “Of course not,” replied the man with the gun. “She is a valuable member of the firm, but her job is done now.”

  The words made no sense to Greenfield. A member of what firm? What was this job she had done? Who were these people who now held him at gunpoint?

  The man with the gun grew impatient. “Please do not make a scene, Mr. Greenfield. It is in your best interests to walk quietly to the car waiting for us beyond the entrance. Act normally, as though you are leaving with friends.”

  Greenfield knew he had little choice, leaving the bar area without further protest, unable to argue with the gun pressed into his back. The second man, who had said nothing, stayed close in an attempt to conceal the pistol from view as much as possible. It was inconceivable that nobody sitting at the other tables had seen the weapon, but, if they had, they chose to ignore it.

  As he walked shakily across the cobblestones towards the entrance, the two men kept so close behind him they trod more than once on his heels. Greenfield struggled to find some reason in what was happening. The fact that his name had been used ruled out any lingering possibility of mistaken identity or that this was a random encounter. There had obviously been some measure of pre-planning. But to what end? It had all the appearances of a kidnapping, yet if they knew his name they must know enough about him to be aware he could not raise a large ransom. Whilst being comfortably off, he could hardly be described as a rich man, certainly nowhere near wealthy enough to make all the effort going into this worthwhile.

  And what of Julie? He could no longer blind himself to her involvement. Now he knew the truth of what the past twenty-four hours or so had been about. There could be no doubt she had set him up.

  As they reached the car, a large dark blue saloon with blacked out windows, the man with the gun partly opened the rear door. A driver was already in position, drumming his fingers impatiently on the top of the steering wheel.

  The original nine-stone weakling, Howard Greenfield had always considered himself a physical coward. Even as a boy in school, he had been too frightened to stand up for himself against playground bullies. His shying away from the more adventurous of his contemporaries' playtime pursuits led to him being shunned, so becoming something of a loner. Over the years he had never ceased to marvel at the bravery of ordinary people plunged by circumstances into dangerous situations, sure that in a similar predicament his reaction would be the exact opposite. Until now it had never been put to the test.

  Yet fear can be the strangest of motivators. The dividing line between fear and courage is so thin as to become often indistinguishable. So it was with Greenfield. There was a sudden ominous feeling of finality about getting into the car, a cutting off of all hope that provoked an instinctive reaction he would have been incapable of planning in advance.

  Putting his hand on the partly open car door, as if to get in, he swung it open with all the force he could muster, hitting the gunman full in the crotch with the wide, shaped outside edge. Taken completely by surprise, the man screamed out as intense pain shot up his body, bringing him helplessly to his knees.

  Greenfield ran, driving his legs forward with every ounce of strength and energy he could wring from his out-of-condition body. With no knowledge of the area, he could concentrate only on heading in a downhill direction towards the city. A swift backward glance after twenty paces or so told him the pursuit had only just begun, the silent man and the car driver taking up the chase. Vital seconds had been gained by the unexpectedness of his action, together with their indecision over whether Greenfield or their fallen comrade was the greater priority. The injured man was still down on his haunches, rocking to and fro, gasping with pain. His gun lay on the ground beside him.

  While realising the pursuers would be similarly armed, Greenfield reckoned that whatever their purpose, he would not fulfil it as a corpse. The gamble paid off. No shots were fired. Perhaps they did not feel the need, for they were younger as well as fitter, so were gaining rapidly.

  Greenfield knew he had to get off the road. His suddenly overworked heart seemed about to explode, pounding against the ribcage as though trying to break through. Desperate gulps of air failed to provide his lungs with an adequate supply of oxygen, so that his breathing became heavy and extremely laboured. There was no way he could outrun these two men in a straight race. His only chance was in the bushes and trees carpeting the fields that fell downhill away from the road.

  The fence was too high for him to scale in one movement. He tried and failed, banging his legs painfully, as the two men came closer and closer. Sweat ran down his face like water, dropping freely from the tip of his nose and chin. With one almighty, supreme effort, spawned more by sheer determination than anything else, he heaved himself up into a sitting position on top of the wall before swinging his legs to throw himself over to the other side. He never hit the ground he was expecting. Instead, he carried on falling, buffeted by thick-stemmed bushes, angry thorns snatching at his clothes and flesh. The fall seemed endless, an uncontrollable plunge into a bottomless pit. In truth, it was only seconds before he came to rest some twenty feet below the level of the road side of the fence.

  There was an overwhelming urge to stay where he was, lying on his back, his eyes closed, resting his aching legs, easing the frightening pounding of his heart. The temptation had to be forced from his mind, as he summoned the will-power to drag himself to his feet. There was no choice. He had to go on.

  No broken bones seemed to have resulted from the tumble, the bushes that had bruised and scratched him on the way down also serving to break the fall. But scarcely had he hauled himself to his feet when the two men behind him, younger and more agile, scaled the wall in one mov
ement, only to meet the same unexpected fate. Greenfield once more set off at a run as they hurtled downwards, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to grab hold of the bushes that abused them, until crashing to the ground in a tangled heap. Mercifully, he had regained vital seconds he thought he had lost.

  The trees were a last hope. Amongst the trees it was cooler and darker, the large, leaf-filled branches filtering the piercing rays of the sun. Greenfield decided to carry out a zigzag manoeuvre, hoping to cause his pursuers some moments of indecision as to his movements, so gaining valuable seconds.

  The ploy met with some success, but it was impossible to shake off the men completely and it was rapidly becoming a question of how much longer he could keep going. His rubbery legs, now devoid of any sense or feeling, seemed strangely remote, as though not really part of his body at all. Only the natural will to survive carried him forward.

  Suddenly the trees ended and he found himself on a path. Without the woodland cover it was over. There was no running left in him. Hands on knees, head bent forward gasping for breath, he resigned himself to there being no escape from the two men chasing him. What more could he have done?

  The noise hit him all of a sudden. It must have been there since he cleared the trees, but failed to register with his mentally and physically exhausted body. But it was clear and unmistakable – the persistent drone of traffic.

  One final effort was needed, one final demand on a body that had already given so much more than he had any right to ask. Teeth gritted, he dragged himself along the path as it skirted the trees until it turned to run alongside an embankment. The two men were already on the path behind him as he scrambled desperately up the grassy bank, emerging between the horizontal poles of a tubular fence, in a serious state of disrepair, onto the pavement alongside a road throbbing with the roar of traffic.

  Greenfield couldn't believe his luck when he saw the taxi. Rushing forward to flag it down, his weakened, exhausted body lost its balance, so that he stumbled into the road, bringing the yellow and black cab to a sudden halt amid the squealing of brakes. Ignoring the angry gesticulations of the driver, he yanked open the rear door and threw himself onto the back seat, at the same time screaming, “Hotel Husa Presidente. Rápido! Rápido!”

  The taxi driver glowered at him, making no attempt to move, looking him up and down with great suspicion. It was really little wonder. What a mess he must have looked, his face flushed and scratched, hardly able to control his breathing, his shirt, torn with some buttons ripped off, sticking to flesh drenched in sweat.

  A quick sideways glance revealed the pursuers coming through the fence onto the pavement. It was going to be too late. They were here, only feet away from him.

  “Rápido! Rápido!”

  The desperate urgency of Greenfield's pleas finally had an effect. With the two men in pursuit reaching out for the rear door, the driver, shrugging his shoulders in despair while muttering incomprehensibly in Spanish, rammed the taxi in gear, before pulling back into the traffic without so much as a glance in the rear-view mirror.

  Greenfield rested his head against the back of the seat, taking deep breaths, trying to regain some composure. For the moment he was safe, but it was certain there was no time to lose. If these people, whoever they were, knew his identity and had gone to such lengths to apprehend him, there could be little doubt they knew where he was staying. Thinking about it now, the whole of the past twenty-four hours seemed unreal, like a short segment of his life that strangely didn't belong to him. If only he could detach it and jettison it, to be lost forever. What a fool he had been. What was it about a man's ego that allowed a beautiful woman to blind him to reality? Julie was so lovely, stunningly so. In truth, there was no way he could have created such an impression on her that she would have wanted him so desperately to commit adultery within a few hours of first meeting him. He had never had that effect on women in his younger days, so he certainly wasn't going to have it now, with a girl probably not that much more than half his age. Yet it had all seemed so plausible. His awakened ego had made him believe only what he wanted to believe. Until now he had not for a second considered the reality of it all.

  Julie had weaved a web and dragged him in so easily, as the mythological sirens had lured hapless sailors on to deadly rocks. But for what reason? Greenfield had no intention of staying around to find out. The city held great danger for him now. He would pack his bags, get out to the airport and catch the first flight out on which he could secure a seat, no matter what its destination. Anywhere in the world, it didn't matter. His only interest was to get out of Barcelona.

  The journey back to the hotel took less than a quarter of an hour, though it seemed longer. Jumping out of the taxi, Greenfield threw some notes at the driver worth far more than the fare, not stopping to collect his change, as he hurried inside the building. Ignoring the reception clerk's obvious look of disapproval at his appearance, he collected his room key and stepped quickly into the waiting lift, which took him up to the third floor.

  Once inside the room, he slammed the door shut and locked it. Suddenly he was trembling, his whole body shaking from head to foot. Unable to control it, he leaned back against the door, his eyes closed. He saw nothing of the figure that had been lurking behind the door, or the pistol barrel that crashed down on the back of his head. There was only a flash of searing pain, then nothing. He never remembered hitting the floor.

  Chapter Five

  It started as a distant speck of light. He was rushing upwards, being propelled up from the dark bottom of a deep, narrow well at such incredible speed that the speck of light in an instant became a wide opening, which he burst through with a jolt severe enough to make him cry out. Howard Greenfield had regained consciousness.

  To start with his mind was a blank. What was he doing here, lying fully-clothed on a small, single bed in a tiny room so unfamiliar to him? Then, as his brain began to function again, so the memories came back, coming together unevenly in a whirlpool of confusion. There was Julie, so beautiful with her big, blue eyes, who had given him new life, albeit for only a very short time. Even now he could close his eyes and still feel her touch. Yet it was madness, for were not the other visions that swirled about in his head her doing, the gun pressed against his ribs, the desperate, panic-ridden flight, the supposed safety of his hotel room., then nothing; until now.

  He wasn't prepared for the wave of pain that careered through his head as he hauled himself up into the sitting position. Hands gripped tightly on the edge of the bed, he sat for several seconds, head hung down, eyes tightly closed, allowing the pain to settle and subside, though it eased only slightly. Putting his hand tentatively to the back of his head, he could feel the lump just behind his ear and the dried blood still matted in his hair. Now he knew why he could remember nothing after slamming shut the door of his hotel room.

  What light there was coming into the small room in which he now found himself came from a tiny, upright window in the wall opposite the bed. The effort involved in dragging himself across was hardly worth it as the limited view revealed only an area of lawn and one or two trees. He was obviously high up, possibly in what was once a servant's quarters in a large, old house.

  A key rattled noisily in the door lock. Pushing open the door, an elderly man, slightly stooped, with hardly any hair on top in contrast to a straggly, greying beard, shuffled inside.

  “Ah, Mr. Greenfield, you are awake,” he said in English, barely discernible through the heavy accent. He spoke convivially, like a butler greeting a house guest, which irritated Greenfield. “How are you feeling now?”

  “Bloody terrible, as someone who has had their skull battered would expect to feel,” Greenfield stormed back. “Now who's going to tell me what I'm doing here? I demand to know what the hell is going on.”

  “You will know very soon now, I would think,” said the old man, retreating with an infuriating smile, locking the door behind him.

  Five minutes later the door o
pened again. This time a friendly smile, however false, would have been welcome. Greenfield felt his stomach knot as the man he had poleaxed at the Pueblo Español walked into the room. There was no mistaking the cold look of anger and hatred in his eye. This was a man who craved vengeance. Behind him was his partner, the man of no words, who had led the chase when Greenfield had fled. This time there was nowhere to run. He was at their mercy.

  “Believe me Mr. Greenfield, there is nothing I would like better than to tear you apart limb by limb,” said the man whom Greenfield had last seen down on his knees in the road. “Unfortunately, I am forbidden to do so. Now you must come with us.”

  The two men parted to allow Greenfield to walk apprehensively between them, expecting any moment to feel the savage impact of a clenched fist, but it never came. Pushed and prodded down narrow, wooden steps, Greenfield came out on a landing. It was indeed a house of some grandeur, with thick pile carpets and ornately decorated ceilings. After descending a wide, curved marble staircase, the bemused advertising executive was ushered along another carpeted corridor into a large drawing room. The armchairs and settee looked to be genuine antique and there was a beautiful, old, marble fireplace that was obviously no longer used. His escorts closed the door and stood against it, facing forward as though on guard. Greenfield turned to look at them, his face pleading for an explanation, but they remained tight-lipped, staring blankly at him.

  Another man entered the room by a door at the far end. Around forty, Greenfield felt, also immaculately turned out, but his elegantly-tailored grey suit together with matching tie, complemented by the thin-rimmed glasses and scattered streaks of grey in his carefully groomed hair, gave him a look of distinction the others couldn't match.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Greenfield, my name is Richards, John Richards. It's not my real name, of course, but it will suffice for the purpose of this discussion.” There was a definite American accent. “I hope your head is not too painful.”