Critical Error

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Finally, thought Sam, as a hand clamped over his mouth and the cold steel of the blade pressed into his throat, he was getting somewhere.

“You ask too many questions, my friend!” offered the knifeman. His foul breath hung heavily as he pinned Sam to the small bed.

The Arab use of the word ‘friend’ was not lost on Sam. He had heard them come for him, clumsy, poorly trained. About the only thing they had got right was the timing. At 4 a.m., Sam would have been in a deep sleep had he not expected his visitors.

Sam tried to answer but the hand remained clamped over his mouth.

“Let him speak,” came a different voice from the doorway, calm and authoritative.

The boss, thought Sam.

The knifeman removed his hand from Sam’s mouth but pushed the blade harder against his neck.

“Just trying to find my girlfriend,” choked Sam as the knife pressed on his Adam’s apple. “She went missing about a week ago,” he struggled but persevered. “Perhaps you can help me.”

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