George Thomas woke up and felt a stab of real fear shoot through his body. He had some kind of blindfold on, though he wasn’t gagged or duct-taped. He was clearly in deep shit. The question was why? He racked his brain to come up with anyone who might have wanted him outed and could think of no one. All right, he had fucked Micky Biggs over but that didn’t warrant this, surely? He had not seen Micky as that serious a problem. He was, after all, a loner, old Micky.

George felt dry-mouthed and realised he had been drugged. He could not move his arms or his legs; he was certainly well tied up, wherever the fuck he was. His mounting panic only added to his anger at not being able to see who was fucking holding him. He could hear a door opening and someone moving around; it sounded like he was in a fucking dungeon or something. He took a few sniffs and he could smell dampness and mildew. This was not making him feel any better about his situation; in fact he could feel himself starting to panic.

Someone took hold of his hand and he felt a fingernail being removed with what he could only assume was a pair of pliers and he screamed at the shock and the fear of what was happening. Whoever it was did not say a single word. That frightened him more than anything.

‘Tell me who you are, you coward! You fucking cunt!’

Whoever had him trussed up was not saying a word, but George could hear him humming quietly to himself between bouts of extreme violence. This was a nightmare, except he was more than aware that he was wide awake and this was only just starting. He swore to himself there and then that if he survived, he would hunt this cunt down and pay him back tenfold. It was all that kept him going.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six

Ray was impressed by the man he was dealing with. He was screaming all right, but he was also cursing and threatening retribution. Most people begged for mercy or offered to double what he was being paid so he would leave them alone. He had a grudging admiration for George Thomas. But a deal was a deal.

He was hot and sweating so he left the man and made his way up from the cellar to the small kitchen above. He had bought this place for a song, and it was perfect for what he needed. A tumbledown old farmhouse and twenty-five acres of arable land, worth fuck-all in the present climate. Still, there was a chance it might change. If he ever got planning permission this lot would be worth the national debt. Whatever happened, it was perfect for his little earner.