Oh. I blacked out again. This is bad. My wrist feels damp . . . think I'm bleeding again.

They got my phone. I don't have a ward. If I'm lucky Mo or Angleton got my messages and they know I'm in trouble. (If Angleton finds my phone I'll be in trouble. How much trouble? How much do you think—running classified software on an unauthorized system?) How long will it take them to figure out I'm missing? What time is it, anyway? How long have the Goatfuckers had me? Hey, why am I scrunching up—

Fuck. I hate roundabouts.

When I'm mayor of London I'm going to require all cars to have transparent boot lids, on pain of—on pain of pain. So what if you can't leave your shopping in the car while it's parked? Fuck 'em, why won't they think of the kidnap victims? Oof. That was a bad one.

Where are they . . . where are they taking me?

To see the mummy. Dust from the mummy's tomb, ha-ha. A line of bandage-wrapped can-can dancers high-kick in the gallery of dreams. Brotherhood of the Black Pharaoh: how strange . . .

Whoa. We've stopped. Engine running—traffic lights, damn it. Maybe that means we're on a main road? Pull yourself together, Bob: Observe, Orient, Decide, Act, rinse, spin, repeat . . .

I'm facing forward, arms handcuffed behind my back. If there's an emergency child latch in here, it'll be behind me. Chance of grabbing it: effectively nil, might be a different story if my right arm wasn't fucked. Inventory of useful shiny occult tools: zero. Inventory of weapons: zero, unless you count my head. Give 'em head-butt . . .

Ow, fuck. Speed bump, traffic planners, red-hot pincers, you know the drill. It's stiflingly hot and noisy in here, and it smells bad. They won't get my blood out of the carpet in a hurry, hah! Forensics'll have a field day if ... if ...

Oh. For a moment there I was hanging on that pole, staring out across the gray wasteland towards a distant pyramid. There's an eye in the pyramid, but it's sleeping. I'm terrified that it's going to open and see me . . .

They're taking me somewhere specific. When they get there and open the boot of this car, I'll be in the open for a while. That's when I'm going to have to make my run. Won't get a second chance. Observe, Orient, Decide . . .

Boris sent me on a course on evasion and escape a couple of years back, after the mess on Saint Martin. Said it might come in handy sometime—I thought it was only going to be useful for keeping out of Human Resources' sights, but you never know. Trouble is, ninety-nine percent of the game lies in not getting caught in the first place. Once the bad guys get their claws into you everything gets a lot harder.