Lost and Found

  Lost and Found

  Mark Ayre

  The first six Adam and Eve thrillers are dedicated to my daughter, who turned one while I was writing them, and my wife, who did not.

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  To sign up for the Mark Ayre Reader’s Group and get your free copy of Hide and Seek, book one in a trilogy of gripping supernatural suspense novels, visit: markay.re/freehideandseek

  Contents

  By Mark Ayre

  Lost and Found

  Grab Your Free Thriller Novel

  Author’s Note

  Have You Read?

  The Adam and Eve Thrillers

  The Hide and Seek Trilogy

  The James Perry mysteries

  Standalone

  About the Author

  By Mark Ayre

  The Adam and Eve Thrillers:

  Fire and Smoke

  Lost and Found

  Cat and Mouse

  Lock and Key

  Cloak and Shield

  Hope in Hell

  The Adam and Eve boxset: All Six Thrillers

  The Hide and Seek Trilogy

  Hide and Seek

  Count to Ten

  Ready or Not (October 2020)

  The James Perry Mysteries

  The Black Sheep’s Shadow

  All Your Secrets

  Standalone

  Poor Choices

  Lost and Found

  Donnelly checked his hair in the café’s glass front (perfect, as ever) and stepped inside. The jangling bell above the door reminded him of ancient independent bookstores, the kind of which his useless father had loved.

  The place was near empty. One couple in the corner, an elderly man by the window. He checked and disregarded both in a manner of seconds.

  At his arrival, the plain woman behind the counter tried to hide her smile.

  “Back so soon?”

  “Yesterday’s visit proved the rumours: this place has the tastiest buns, the most delicious coffee, and the friendliest staff in town. How could I stay away?”

  The waitress blushed. How pathetic.

  “Same again?” she asked. “Double espresso and a croissant; no butter, no jam.”

  “Perfection.”

  He took a table in the corner, from which he could see the door. On the Formica top, he lay his phone, on each knee he placed a gun, laying over them a napkin. Because the weapon bulges were potentially noticeable, he pulled in his chair, pressing his toned stomach against the table.

  The waitress rushed to bring his food and drink. In her presence, he sampled both.

  “Delicious, thank you.”

  Until she had departed, he managed not to scrunch his nose. Like last night, the coffee was bitter and the croissant stale, more like plasterboard than pastry. Under the waitress’s watchful eye, he finished both. Partway through the following black coffee, his phone rang. There was no number. Before he answered, he knew who was calling.

  “Hello, boss. How’s it going?”

  The tone was not one he would have risked in the boss’s company. He did not fancy acquiring a hole in the chest he had worked so hard to sculpt.

  “Donnelly.” From his tone, the boss might have been drinking take out coffee from the cafe.

  “That’s me,” he said. It was clear the boss was stuck. His anger preventing him from continuing.

  “I’m a little surprised to get hold of you,” he said.

  “Oh?” said Donnelly. “Why would that be?”

  “I asked you to help Caldwell capture the twins, yet Caldwell was killed yesterday along with the entire pickup team. I thought you would have been with her.”

  Donnelly sipped his coffee, buying time so as not to say something he might regret. The boss was in a state. Yet another failed mission and, this time, his best agent had died to boot. He had to tread carefully.

  “I did as you asked, sir,” he said. “I offered my services, but Caldwell’s never liked me. I was there to help secure the twins’ but right after she sent me away, along with the rest of her guys and gals. I assume you’ve spoken to them?”

  “Some.” It was apparent his jaw was clenched. Donnelly smiled and finished his coffee.

  “I warned her we should go together, in case things got hairy, but she was immovable. You know what she’s like. Was like. Headstrong.”

  The boss said nothing. Down the line came heavy, angry breathing. Donnelly caught the waitress’s attention and pointed at his empty mug. Paired with his most charming smile, she jumped to his request.

  “Sir, you must be frustrated, but this isn’t over. Caldwell made some poor decisions, but I can rectify her mistakes. I assume I’m still okay to try?”

  “I suppose you’d like a location?”

  The waitress arrived and placed the mug before him. Mouthing a “Thank you,” he picked up the cup and took a sip before responding.

  “Sir, we found them plenty of times before this new asset.”

  “Are you saying you don’t need a location?”

  “That’s right, sir,” said Donnelly. “I want you to relax, try not to worry. Before the day’s out, the twins will be in your care. You have my word.”

  “Your words mean nothing. Give me action.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  “I’d better.”

  Never having been one for goodbyes, the boss hung up. The bell above the door jangled and Donnelly raised his hand in greeting.

  “Hey, great to see you both. Come, take a seat.”

  Sliding his phone into his pocket and checking the guns were secure on his knees, he smiled as Adam and Eve approached, dropping opposite him at the table.

  Though Donnelly had always proved to be an efficient, even exceptional agent, Francis ended the call with little hope that his man would capture the twins.

  Caldwell had been his best. If she couldn’t succeed when the twins were fatigued from an attack three days previously and not expecting another, no one could. No human, anyway.

  Donnelly was welcome to try, but Francis was already formulating his new plot. It involved corner-cutting and barrels of cash, but that was okay. Money was no object, and corner-cutting was fine so long as the ends justified the means. Which they would.

  He started his laptop. His report would detail their new path. Many times, he had written how, with his latest plan, they would to capture the twins. This was different. Their new asset changed everything. Made this new plan possible. He only wished he had thought of it before sending in Caldwell. The twins might not have killed her.

  The regret, he shook off. Sentimentality was unbecoming, pointless. Caldwell was the best agent he had ever had, but no one was irreplaceable. Anyway, he was now convinced the battle would be won, not by one outstanding agent, but the faceless masses.

  His grandchildren were obsessed with that movie A Bug’s Life. More than once they had insisted, he watch it with them. He had believed he was only pretending, for their sakes, to pay attention. He had absorbed more than he had thought.

  The film’s climax he recalled with ease—the puny ants overthrowing the powerful grasshoppers purely by strength of numbers.

  Using a kids’ film as his guide, Francis would achieve the goal that had eluded he and others for nearly three decades.

  His outdated laptop took an age to boot up. He was only inputting his password when there was a knock at his study door.

  “What?”

  The door opened. Reynolds appeared.

  “There’s someone here for you, sir.”

  “I don’t want to be disturbed. Get rid of them.”

  “If you wish, sir. But…”

  “But what?”

  “It’s Miss Sachs, sir.”

  Though her arrival was not Reynolds
’ fault; though Francis tried never to shoot the messenger, he felt intense anger towards his butler. As though Sandra Sachs had materialized at the door only when Reynolds spoke her name. Over several seconds, Francis collected himself.

  “Fine. Show her in here.”

  As Reynolds left, Francis slammed his laptop and threw it in a drawer before crossing his study.

  Study was not a grand enough word. It was as large as were many one-bedroom flats. His vast, wood desk took up one corner; four sofas sat in a box around a coffee table in the room’s centre. Around the walls, aside from his desk, there were bookshelves, a fireplace, a minibar, and four grand windows looking onto his sprawling lawns.

  It was favourite room in the house.

  At the mini bar, he poured himself a whisky, downed it in one, and poured another. As he was screwing on the cap the door opened and Reynolds announced Miss Sachs.

  “Sandra,” Francis said, extending his arms as he crossed the room, kissing her cheek. “Lovely to see you, are you well?”

  Her look suggested he dispense with the false pleasantries. He kept the smile.

  “Leave us, Reynolds.” He turned his back on Sandra and returned to the bar. “I was just making myself a drink when you arrived. Can I get you anything?”

  “Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

  Francis’ jaw tightened. He was having his favourite whiskey. Hundreds of pounds a bottle. He was already annoyed she had inspired him to down some. Now she would have him waste a glass simply because it was what he was having.

  Though his back was to her, he held his fake smile hostage as he unscrewed the precious vintage and poured another dose into a second crystal tumbler. Resisting the urge to gulp his down again, he returned to the sofas and placed the drinks on the table. Sitting, he gestured to the seat opposite, and she duly sat.

  “So,” he said. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “I doubt it’s a pleasure Francis and I’d be surprised if it were unexpected,” she said. “The twins have escaped again. Your favourite is dead. I’m here to offer my support.”

  Francis tutted. “Then I’m sorry to say you’ve had a wasted trip. As you arrived, I was beginning my report. I have a plan. We’re going to get them.”

  “Another plan, you mean.”

  Determined to be polite, Francis held the smile. His face was beginning to ache. He worried he might shatter the expensive tumbler in his grip.

  “The landscape has changed. As well you know.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “That’s why I’m here. If I caught you before you wasted time on a new report, all the better.”

  “Wasted?” He was almost speechless. Even one word was a struggle.

  “I fear your plan will involve using our new asset to send wave after wave of agents after the twins until they succumb.”

  “What would be wrong with that?” he snapped. Somehow, he was still smiling.

  “Well, quite frankly, it’s idiotic.”

  Reaching for the tumbler, she took her first sip of his whiskey. It was not her insult which drove him past the point of cordiality; rather her look of repulsion as she swallowed.

  “Don’t speak to me like that,” he said. “You are not my boss, and this is my home. You will show me some respect.”

  “You’re not thinking,” Sandra said, putting down the whiskey. “This isn’t some thriller where the agents are in endless supply. We must find these people somewhere. It’s not about money. It’s about resource. Henrich’s team are dead; half of Caldwell’s have threatened to quit having seen what the twins can do. They’ll have to be killed. There isn’t a magic agent tree from which we can pluck at will, you know?”

  Francis had had enough.

  “Get out,” he said. “I’ll not listen to this. I’ll not have you muscle in on my operation. The new plan—”

  “Has already been decided,” said Sandra. She rose, and now it was she who smiled. The smile was not forced. “Look on the bright side, at least you won’t have to waste your time writing that report.”

  She moved around the sofas and towards the door.

  Francis dropped his drink to the table. He heard the tumbler thump to the floor and his precious whiskey cover the carpet as he followed Sandra. He did not look back.

  Two steps from the door, he grabbed her elbow and yanked.

  “You don’t decide,” he said. “I decide. Forget the report, if you want. It’s already begun. I have a man on the twins’ tails as we speak.”

  Sandra smirked.

  “You’re a fool.”

  Francis felt the colour drain from his face. Over the years he’d had many people killed. Never had he ended a life with his bare hands.

  He could do it.

  She was in his home. They would never find a body. He wouldn’t see the inside of a cell.

  There were people more frightening than the police. Punishments more severe than prison.

  He would not kill her. Probably.

  “You don’t want to talk to me like that,” he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Your man isn’t on the twin’s tail,” she said. “He’s already with them. Moreover, Donnelly isn’t your man.”

  She yanked her elbow free.

  “He’s mine, and he’s going to get the twins exactly where I want them.”

  Predictably, the sister, Eve, started talking immediately upon sitting down.

  “What do you want? You’d better give a good answer cause I’m in the mood to cause some damage.”

  She was restless, practically bouncing in her seat. The brother, Adam, was still as stone. His arms folded across his chest, his eyes fixed on Donnelly. Creepy. How could these two, born of the same parents, having shared the same womb and survived the same life on the run, be so different?

  Luckily, he had already practised his charming smile that morning. He shone it at Eve while holding a hand up to the waitress.

  “You’ll be wanting coffee, I guess? How about something sweet? I can honestly say I’ve never tasted anything worse. Still, might perk you up.”

  “Are you trying to piss me off?” said Eve. Donnelly guessed she was hungover. Luckily, before she smashed his head, the waitress arrived. To her, Donnelly said, “one black coffee for the lady and—” he looked at Adam. “I’m guessing you’re what, a coconut latte kind of guy?”

  “Flat white.”

  “Surprising.” He returned to the waitress. “A flat white and three of your delicious croissants.”

  “They’re honestly vile,” he said when she was out of earshot. “I’d rather eat drying cement. Alas, there’s none around.”

  “I’ve got something you can eat,” said Eve.

  “I think that’s supposed to be a threat,” said Donnelly. “Honestly, to me, it’s just coming across as sexual.”

  “Okay, I’m killing him,” Eve said to Adam.

  Donnelly chuckled. “I work for the people who have been trying to capture you your whole lives.”

  They stared. Donnelly had expected shock; the twins’ expressions were hard to read. Didn’t matter. They were enticed by what he had to offer, or they wouldn’t be here. He grinned.

  “You’re wondering why I helped you escape Caldwell, no doubt?” he said. “Other than because I want to sleep with Eve.”

  She said, “I will kill you.”

  “I want out,” he said, as though she hadn’t threatened him. “I’ve been working for these bastards long enough. They’re evil. I don’t want to be part of it anymore.”

  Eve looked at her brother, who never took his eyes from Donnelly. She fingered a napkin as she considered what to say.

  “If that’s true,” she said. “Why not just leave? Why save us and put your life at risk? Why meet us now when you’d be better off fleeing the country.”

  “Simple,” he said, and simultaneously pulled the triggers of both his guns.

  When Sandra was gone, Francis returned to the sofas. For over a
minute, he stared at his spilt whiskey, then he collected Sandra’s tumbler and hurled it at the wall.

  He was no longer in his prime. The glass was sturdy. It hit the wall with a thunk and came to the ground with a thud. It didn’t shatter.

  Leaving his spilt tumbler, he took a third from the cabinet behind the minibar and returned to the sofa with it and the bottle of whiskey. He poured and finished another glass before calling for Reynolds. He was halfway through the glass after that when his butler arrived.

  His long-time manservant’s eyes went straight to the spillage.

  “I’ll have someone clean it up immediately.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Francis.

  He took a couple more swigs of whiskey. Another glass almost gone. He remembered Sandra’s tumbler hitting the wall but not smashing. He wished he had used it to bash in her skull. At the thought, he smiled; then grimaced when he remembered she was gone, his chance had passed.

  “Sir?”

  Francis glanced at his butler. For a few seconds, he wondered why the gormless idiot was there. Then he remembered calling him. Francis nodded as though making him wait was all part of the plan.

  Pointing to the drinks cabinet, he said, “Grab a glass. Share a drink with me.”

  In all their years together, it had never taken Reynolds more than a split second to respond to an order. This request was so peculiar, for several moments he was frozen to the spot.

  “Now,” said Francis.

  Gathering himself, Reynolds nodded and rushed to get a glass, pretending this was just like being asked to bring breakfast or answer the door.

  He almost fainted when his employer poured him a glass and gestured to a seat.

  Somehow, Reynolds managed to sit, though his legs appeared to be made from single pieces of iron.