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A BMW 5-Series flew by me. A few years earlier, I would have chased after the car. As soon as I got my licence at seventeen, I trawled the streets looking for a street race. Oddly, ever since I’d gotten into motorsport, I’d lost the desire for it. No street race could ever emulate the raw adrenaline rush of a motor race.

I followed the BMW off the Windsor Relief Road. By the time I turned on to Maidenhead Road, my speedy friend was long gone.

Just as I drew level with the entrance to Windsor Racecourse, a bang rocked my car. The steering wheel turned to lead in my hands and pulled to the left. It was a blowout. I knew it without even having to get out. I let the car go where it wanted to go and pulled over. I climbed out and prodded the flat tyre with my foot. I’d had the car less than twenty-four hours and I’d already picked up a flat. It was the icing on a very shitty day.

Something stuck from the tyre and I jerked it free. It was an eight-inch length of laminate flooring with nails hammered into it. Obviously, someone thought it was funny to shred people’s tyres.

‘Wankers,’ I murmured.

I looked back down the road. Three more nail strips sat in a row in the roadway. I gathered them up. No one else deserved my luck tonight.

Headlights from the opposite direction lit me up. The BMW that had passed me a few minutes earlier stopped next to me. The driver, a middle-aged guy in a suit, leaned out of his window.

‘You all right?’

‘Puncture.’ I held up the nail strips. ‘Somebody left these out.’

‘Some people are real shitheads. I’ll give you a hand changing the wheel.’

‘Nah, it’s OK. I live a couple of streets away. I’ll change it in the morning.’

‘Don’t be daft. You drive anywhere and you’ll shred the tyre and ruin the rim. It’s not worth it. We can have the spare on in ten minutes.’

He was right, so I nodded.

The BMW driver pulled over while I tossed the nail strips in the boot and dragged out the spare tyre.

My good Samaritan jogged across the empty street. ‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Aidy Westlake.’

‘I’m Dominic Crichlow.’

He put out his hand. I went to shake it, but as I extended my hand, Crichlow ignored it and pressed something against my stomach. I heard a click-click sound before electricity coursed through me. Every muscle in my body clenched. My jaw slammed shut, my hands balled into fists, my back arched and my neck snapped back. I tried to pull away, but I remained frozen until I finally gave out and collapsed to the tarmac.

Feeling leaked back into me. I tried moving, but my body still vibrated to the stun gun’s tune.

Crichlow rolled me on to my back and taped my hands together in front of me. He produced a hood from his suit jacket pocket and pulled it over my head.

‘Stop! You don’t have to do this. You want the car? Take it.’

‘Sorry about this, Aidy, but it has to be done.’

He wrapped his arms around my neck, cutting my breath off. I kicked out, but the strength hadn’t returned to my legs. The sound of my blood pumping roared inside my head. I fought for breath, but the air in my lungs turned sour and burned. My grip on consciousness melted, then I saw blackness darker than the inside of the hood.

Lap Four

Abump in the road woke me as my head bounced off the carpeted floorboard. The hood was still on and my wrists were still duct taped. The world was moving underneath me. I was in the BMW’s boot.

My body ached and I still felt on the verge of throwing up, but the stun gun’s jolt had helped me wise up. It was a shame I hadn’t seen through Crichlow’s little stunt. It was obvious that he’d set the nail strips for me to drive over since his car hadn’t been affected and he had no reason to come back my way. Not that it mattered anymore. He’d gotten what he wanted — me. Now, what did he have planned for me?

I listened. The engine revved at a constant speed. I felt no rapid acceleration or deceleration. We were on either the motorway or a dual carriageway travelling fast away from my home and safety.

It was hot under the hood. The thing was sodden from my breathing. He’d taped my hands in front of me, so it wasn’t hard to tug the hood off. It was a relief to breathe unhindered and the rolling nausea and pounding headache eased. I didn’t know if breathing through the hood or Crichlow’s Vulcan death grip had caused the symptoms, but I felt a hell of a lot better with the hood off. I let out an involuntary groan of relief.

‘You alive in there?’ Crichlow said. ‘Almost there.’

What the hell was going on? How had the best day of my life descended into this mess? I didn’t bother him with my questions. I knew they wouldn’t be answered.

The BMW slowed. It turned right and we left the road for uneven ground judging by the choppy ride. Dirt and gravel peppered the underside of the vehicle.

The 5-Series rolled to a halt. My heart quickened when the engine stopped. This was it, whatever it was.

‘Aidy, do you have the hood on?’ Crichlow asked. ‘It’s important that you don’t know where you are.’

Unless we were somewhere near famous landmarks, I wouldn’t know where I’d been taken, but I didn’t bother arguing the point and pulled the hood back on. ‘It’s on.’

Crichlow popped the boot and pulled me from the car. His hands fell on my shoulders. ‘I’m going to guide you. Just walk and I’ll steer you.’

The whine of a door sliding back told me I was somewhere industrial. I went forward and my footfalls rang out on a concrete floor. It took a couple of seconds before the echo of my footfalls came back to me. This building was big.

The door drew back behind me and Crichlow tugged the hood off. We were alone in a disused factory.

Crichlow removed a flick knife. I stiffened at the sight of the four-inch blade. He flashed a hint of a smile at my fear before cutting the tape around my wrists. I peeled it off.

A bank of fluorescent tubes lit up a portion of the factory. Disabled and derelict machinery stood silently in the shadows and debris covered the floor. A tubular steel chair with a cracked wooden back sat under the lights.

A stocky man, around fifty, with blond hair emerged from the shadows. Just like Crichlow, he was dressed in a suit. ‘Come have a seat, Aidy.’

Crichlow gave me a gentle shove and escorted me to the chair. I sat and it creaked under my weight.

‘Do you know who I am?’

I shook my head.

‘I’m Andrew Gates, Jason’s brother.’

Oh, shit. An unstable family member. Just what I needed.

‘From your expression, I see that my name means something to you.’

I shook my head. ‘Until now, I didn’t know Jason Gates had a brother. In fact, until a few hours ago I didn’t even know Jason.’

‘OK, a quick history lesson,’ Andrew Gates said. ‘I’m a very wealthy man. I earned it the nasty way — from loan sharking — which didn’t exactly endear me to my family. No one wants a monster for a son. My baby brother was different. He loved me, regardless of who I was and what I did. I changed my way of life for him. For the last ten years, I’ve been a reputable property developer. Until tonight.’ He palmed away a tear. ‘What I once was, I am again. Stand up.’

I put my hands out. ‘Look, I didn’t know your brother.’

Gates moved in.

‘I just found him. Beyond that, I don’t know anything.’

‘You heard the boss,’ Crichlow barked. ‘Stand up!’

Before I could, he jerked the chair out from under me and sent it clattering off into the distance. Gates yanked me up off the ground and before I could say a word, he drove a fist into my stomach. The impact moved something inside me and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to throw up or shit myself. I slithered through Crichlow’s grasp, collapsing on to my knees.