At first, Amber Dalton thought the drumming sound was coming from outside, but when she drew herself up from the hard mattress, she realised it was in her own head. Darkness wrapped itself around her like a thick blanket. She couldn’t make out any walls or see the outlines of bedroom furniture. Her forehead throbbed so much it made her wince. He’d doped her.
Amber wondered if he had raped her while she’d been unconscious. She dropped her hands to her thighs, then hesitated as she felt unfamiliar rough material beneath her fingertips. She’d been wearing her short, pleated, black skirt. Her best friend, Sam, called it her ‘foxy skirt’. ‘It makes men’s tongues fall out of their mouths,’ Sam had said. ‘You’ve got great legs. Team it with a silk shirt, and you’ve got a winning combination.’ The lousy son of a bitch had removed her clothes and she was wearing a garment that smelt of antiseptic. She tugged at it and felt it give behind her. She wriggled about, running her hand down her backside and feeling the flesh of her buttocks. It was open at the back, tied with strings in a few places. It was a hospital gown.
A flash of pain in her forehead made her cry out. She seemed to be in hospital, but why? She hadn’t been involved in an accident. She turned her head left and right to see if she was injured. This couldn’t be a hospital ward. It didn’t smell like a hospital. The bed was pushed into a corner of the room and she felt the wall on her right. Under the tips of her fingers she could feel the raised flock of the wallpaper. Her bedroom had wallpaper – flowers and swirls that she and her mother had chosen together. Amber would often trace the patterns while lying in bed wishing she didn’t have to go to school.
Amber had a desperate urge to call for her mother and cry on her scrawny shoulder. Her mother wasn’t exactly the maternal type, but right now Amber wanted nothing more than to be sat on the comfy sofa, listening to her mother tell her off for being such a stupid cow.
She sat on the edge of the bed, her head spinning as she felt for a bedside table and a light. Her splayed fingers discovered nothing but air. She pushed up onto her feet, bare soles touching cold floorboards, and began crabbing along the wall, seeking a light switch, each step cautious in case she trod on a sharp object. She found a wooden surround – a doorframe – and traced her fingers to the handle and turned it. The door remained resolutely shut. She tugged with both hands, tiny uh-uh-uh noises escaping her as her panic grew, and she questioned why she was in a locked room. She fumbled in vain for a switch. She needed to see where she was and work out how to escape. She would have to venture further and hope she didn’t stumble over any furniture.
Fingers outstretched, she searched the space, arms waving up and down and sweeping the area in front of her. The room appeared at first to be empty apart from the bed. She met another wall and, resting her back against it, caught her ragged breath, which was coming in tortured, frightened gasps. Now disorientated, nauseous and confused, she dropped to her knees and shuffled on all fours, hoping to find the bed once more. Instead, she banged her knee on the sharp edge of a piece of furniture and cried out. She could not understand what was happening. Blood trickled down her head. She touched it and wondered if she had actually been involved in some sort of accident. That would explain the situation. She was in a hospital and needed to rest. She began to mumble, ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’ There was no other explanation, she reasoned.
‘Nurse,’ she croaked, her voice no more than a faint whisper. ‘Nurse,’ she called, louder. Her voice sounded strange and hollow. The pain had started afresh in her forehead, stripping her mind of all other thoughts. She needed painkillers. ‘Nurse!’ The sound of her own desperation frightened her. She had to be in hospital. She couldn’t be anywhere else. Her temples drummed and the sound of her own heartbeat filled the room. She lifted her arms again and found the wall. Pushing against it, she located the door again and tugged without hope on the handle. Exhausted now with the effort, she stumbled against the bed and slumped onto it.
She touched her head with her fingertips. The slight pressure was too much to bear. A sound, a cross between a moan and a scream, escaped her dry lips. It was a nightmare. That was it. She was asleep. When she was smaller, she had suffered a recurring dream about a stranger, in which she would enter her bedroom and spot a dark outline through the window. The banging would make her jump, and in that instant she would know that the man standing the other side of the glass was coming to kill her. She would be rooted to the spot, eyes fixed on the door handle, which would gradually move down. The door, which was nearly always locked, would open inch by inch. The man was coming to get her. A large carving knife would be pushed through the opening and a screaming Amber would wake up under her bed. Her mother would rush in and cajole her from her hiding place, and then sit with her, stroking her hair and making soothing noises. This must be one of those realistic nightmares, and she would soon awaken to the sounds of the television blaring downstairs and her mum yelling it was time to get up and go to school.
She wanted to wake up more than anything. This blackness and the intense silence was scaring her rigid. ‘Mum!’ she shouted. ‘Help me!’
She held her breath but the thrumming in her temples obliterated any other sound, then she heard it – a soft squeak.
‘Hello?’ She regretted calling out. An icy chill filled her veins. There was a slight shuffling of feet then silence once again. Somebody was already inside the room but they weren’t answering her, and that was even scarier. She had nothing to defend herself with. Sliding to the floor, Amber wriggled under the bed and curled up, fist in her mouth as she had often done as a child.
Briefly, a shaft of light illuminated the floor, making her blink rapidly. Amber saw a pair of trainers. They belonged to him. He had been wearing them when he answered the door. It all seemed a lifetime ago. She had stood on the doorstep, brimming with confidence, shaking her mane of dark hair in a flirty fashion and pouting her full lips, knowing he wanted her. She couldn’t remember much more. The inviting sitting room with a huge leather sofa… the lights so low she could barely see his face… the sensual smell of him… the glass of champagne waiting for her on the table. His whispered words, ‘Make yourself comfortable, drink the champagne and I’ll be back in a minute to refill your glass.’ The bubbles ascended in tiny circles and exploded into her mouth as she sipped it, pretending she often drank champagne. The memory of tumbling from the sofa, sliding helplessly onto the carpet… a dark shadow laughing… then oblivion. Her shoulders began to shake with fear as she tried to suppress sobs. They threatened to erupt and give away her hiding hole. Go away. Please go away. Please leave me alone. The light went out and the room was once again plunged into darkness.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you are.’
She tried to swallow the fear rising in her throat.
‘I know where you are, Amber. Come out now.’
Her entire body trembled. She repeated the mantra in her head. Go away. Go away. Go away. A sudden rush of air and a puff of stale breath. He had dropped down to the floor.
‘I can see you,’ he whispered.
Her keening became louder and louder. His voice lost its playfulness. ‘Come out or I’ll drag you out by your hair.’ The last two words came out louder and higher in tone.
Amber couldn’t move. Instinct made her retreat from his hands. There was a growl and the bed was lifted clean away. She curled into a tight ball and squealed as he yanked on her hair, dragging her head backwards until she thought her scalp would pull away from her face. Pain like knives dragging down her forehead made her gasp.
‘Not so cocksure now, are you, Amber?’
The honeyed voice that she had found so attractive, now made her cringe. It sounded so false.
‘Oh dear, you seem to have made a puddle.’
She felt the urine trickle down her leg. His voice began to fade and she felt a warmth as a numbness began to take over her head. Nothing seemed real any more. Now the voice sounded like her mother’s.
‘I ought to rub your nose in it. That’s what they do to naughty little bitches.’
She collapsed onto the floor at his feet.
‘Get up, Amber.’
She tried to stand, her legs unwilling to cooperate, her back aching and her heart hammering. She fell towards the wall, put out her hands and steadied herself. She swallowed the lump in her throat and faced him.
‘What do you want?’ Her words barely more than a squeak.
‘Not anything you have to offer,’ he hissed.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘So many questions. Aren’t you the inquisitive schoolgirl?’
A light snapped on. His hands shot out and grabbed her shoulders. She yelped as he turned her around so she faced a mirror. Her bottom lip dropped and her eyes filled. The girl in the mirror no longer looked like a sexy, flirtatious woman. She looked like a sixteen-year-old frightened schoolgirl. Her mascara, so carefully applied for him, was now streaked under her eyes like a tragic clown’s. Her hair, matted with blood, had stuck to her head and her cheeks were stained brown-red. Carved into her forehead was a word that made her gasp loudly.
Behind her, with night-vision goggles covering most of his face, he grinned, a smile that made Amber scream and pull away. She beat at him, hands flapping in fear.
He turned off the torch and the room fell into complete darkness again and she fell against the wall.
‘It’s too late, Amber. You’re mine now.’
DI Tom Shearer tipped several coloured sweets directly into his mouth, then offered the packet to PC Anna Shamash. She pulled a face and shook her head.
‘Please yourself,’ he mumbled, popping the remainder into his mouth, screwing up the packet and chewing noisily. The aroma of fruit chews filled the Porsche. Anna stared out across the dark buildings towards the mammoth Amazon distribution warehouse in the distance. She had read it was the size of eleven football pitches and stored every item you could possibly think of. She wondered how many of the thousand-plus employees were currently buzzing around the shelves like demented bees, stowing, picking, packing and shipping the hundreds of thousands of items that they moved every single day, at this ungodly hour. At least they weren’t crammed in next to Tom Shearer, staking out a self-storage facility in Rugeley. She would happily swap with any of them at the moment.
Tom picked at the gap between his front teeth with a fingernail, extracted a piece of green sweet and sucked on the sticky substance. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Never seen anyone get bits stuck in their teeth before?’
Anna turned her head away. It had been a long night. She was still annoyed she’d drawn the short straw and got stuck with Shearer in his cramped, boy-racer Porsche. He wasn’t good company at the best of times and his car was an embarrassment. They all joked about it at the station, coming out with hackneyed quips about cars compensating for penis size. ‘Here, Anna, what’s the difference between a porcupine and a Porsche?’ She had shrugged. ‘On a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside.’ David Marker had almost choked on his cheese roll at that one. Anna wished David was sitting in the car instead of her. It was most uncomfortable. Shearer had insisted on bringing it, claiming it would be the last car any criminals would expect a policeman to be using.
‘If they spot us, they’ll assume we’re a couple making out.’
Anna had cringed at that thought. He was old enough to be her father and twice the curmudgeon.
Four giant power station cooling towers loomed beside them, each surface decorated with red lights to warn aircraft of their presence. The iconic towers that had been part of the Rugeley skyline for decades were now out of commission and would eventually be demolished. She peered into the moonlit sky and watched a couple of clouds skit across. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped. She rubbed some feeling back into her hands.
‘You want the heating put back on?’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’ She sat on her hands to warm them. There was no point in starting the engine and drawing attention to the car. They’d been parked on the verge next to the towers and opposite the self-storage warehouse for hours. One of the pool cars was in position by the roundabout entrance into the Towers Business Park, the other at the far end of the road, by the entrance to the Amazon distribution centre and near the all-night McDonald’s. Anna’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since teatime, when she’d only had a few minutes to grab a sandwich. She could murder a hamburger. She wondered if vegetarian Mitz had nipped in and bought anything while they were waiting. He had been sympathetic when he learnt she was on the stakeout in Shearer’s car.
‘An entire night spent in Shearer’s babe magnet with the old man himself. I can’t think of much worse, other than a night in a pool car with Gareth Murray.’
Gareth, one of the newest recruits, was incredibly overzealous. It would be like being in a car with an excited puppy. At least Shearer wasn’t a big talker. If his car was a babe magnet, it must only attract rather dim ones, she mused. She shifted uncomfortably in the low sports seat and knocked her knees against the dashboard for the umpteenth time that night. Outside, the self-storage unit remained in darkness. The information received had been so promising. Drug dealers were supposed to let themselves into the warehouse and collect several kilos of top-quality heroin hidden in one of the units. At approximately fifty grand a kilo, it promised to be an outstanding haul, and would garner recognition for all of the team. Shearer wanted it so badly; the smell of determination mingled with his aftershave and permeated the entire car. It was no secret Shearer was ambitious. He wanted to further his own career, and a successful result tonight would help him on his way to promotion. This annoyed Anna. In her opinion, Robyn should be here with them, not Shearer. Robyn deserved the same opportunities as Shearer.
They’d all been pumped up when they arrived and spread out some eight hours ago. That initial enthusiasm had waned. So far, it had been a wasted night. She wondered what her mutt, Razzle, was up to. Probably asleep on her bed, which was where she should be. She stifled a yawn. Shearer would only make some comment if he spotted her struggling to stay awake.
He sighed and flicked through a few radio stations before settling on Heart FM and began singing along to Queen. Anna raised a dark, well-groomed eyebrow.
‘Don’t look so surprised. This is my era. Best music ever came out of the eighties,’ he said.
‘There were some good artists but I prefer today’s music.’
‘You would. You’re a good few generations younger than me. You can’t be much older than my son.’
‘I’m twenty-five.’
‘Really? You look about twelve.’ His mouth curved upwards, making him look more attractive. ‘That’s it for compliments. I just ran out of my daily quota.’
He whistled along to the music for a while, then sat bolt upright. ‘Movement.’
Anna peered out of the car window and saw what he had noticed. A figure in a hoodie was making its way along the cycle pathway. Anna held her breath. The man loped past them, neither veering off nor looking in their direction.
‘Just a jogger,’ she said.
Shearer checked his watch. ‘It’s five forty. Bit early to be out running on a Monday morning in January, especially when it’s two below freezing out there.’
‘They change shift at Amazon in twenty minutes. Maybe he’s headed there to work.’
Shearer nodded. ‘Yeah. Possible. Mad jogging in this weather, but possible.’
He drummed his fingers and Anna wanted to slap his hand. He leant forward and rubbed the steamed-up window with his sleeve, watching the man making his way past the distribution centre at a steady pace.
‘I’ve had enough of this. Units one and two, anything?’
Sergeant Mitz Patel’s voice came back over the radio. ‘Negative. Nothing apart from a huge tabby cat that hawked up a half-digested mouse in front of McDonald’s half an hour ago.’
‘Nothing, guv.’ PC David Marker, sitting with Sergeant Matt Higham, sounded his usual calm self.
‘Hang on. The jogger’s returning.’ Anna sank further into the passenger seat to avoid detection. ‘He’s going to spot us.’
‘Don’t move,’ said Shearer, his eyes trained on the man outside.
She banged her elbow on the gearstick and grimaced. ‘I can’t. I’m too big for this car. I think I need the next size up.’
He gave her a wry grin, then pulled a face. ‘Blast. He’s stopped. He’s doing up a shoelace.’ A crease appeared on Shearer’s forehead. ‘He’s talking to someone. He must be on a hands-free mobile. This doesn’t feel right. Shit! He’s moving towards the housing estate. Unit one, he’s headed in your direction. Apprehend him and check him out. He might have nothing to do with this but I’m taking no chances.’
They continued staring at the self-storage warehouse. Car headlights approached them. The traffic would begin to build up as the shift workers left the distribution centre. A black Audi drove past them, headlights on full beam, making Anna shut her eyes. Shearer grumbled beside her. ‘I have a horrible feeling this is going to go belly up.’
No sooner had he spoken than Matt shouted over the radio, ‘Guv, a black Audi’s pulled up and the suspect’s jumped into it, registration oscar, bravo, six, six.’ The radio crackled loudly. ‘It’s headed in the direction of Rugeley town centre. We’re in pursuit. I repeat, in pursuit.’
Tom weighed up his options. ‘Unit two, we’re going in. Can’t wait any longer.’
He flung open the door and marched across to the warehouse, puffing out small clouds of air. Anna followed. Cold air like freezing fingers grabbed at her cheeks. Shearer was right. Nobody would be jogging in these temperatures. The man had to be linked to the gang. She hoped Matt and David had caught them. Mitz and Gareth arrived clad in stab vests and huddled like dark beetles in front of the huge metal shutters.
‘Remind us which units we’re looking for?’ Shearer stamped his feet on the frosty ground and scowled.
‘Numbers 127, 128 or 129. The source wasn’t sure which one the gang was using.’
Tom let out a hiss of annoyance. ‘He also claimed the gang would drop off more gear, and since it’s now almost six and there’s no sign of them, I’d say he was pretty bloody unreliable. Still, we have to give it a go.’
Gareth Murray spoke up. ‘Do we need the Enforcer for this, guv?’
‘For crying out loud, of course not. The owner won’t thank us for destroying their property with a battering ram. You watch too much television. I have the entry code. The battering ram is for the storage units. We haven’t got keys for those. Don’t they teach you anything about using common sense at police school these days?’ Shearer punched in some numbers on a panel beside the shutters and waited. Anna threw Mitz a look. He shrugged. Shearer was in one of his lousy moods. They’d better find these drugs or he’d be impossible to work with. The mechanism whirred into action and the shutters lifted with a squeal. They slipped inside. Shearer flicked a switch and strip lighting spluttered into life, revealing the enormity of the place. Storage units, accessed by roll-up metal doors, flanked corridor after corridor.
Gareth’s mouth flapped open. ‘Crikey, how many units are there here?’
Mitz glanced about. ‘Several hundred. Some are the size of walk-in closets and others as big as two-car garages. The owners charge per size and you can store just about anything in here. The renters have twenty-four-hour access to this place and each unit is lockable. They can request individual door alarms too.’
Shearer growled at Mitz. ‘Enough chatter. Find the units. You take 127; Anna, 128, and I’ll go through 129. Murray – stay outside and keep watch.’
They followed behind Shearer in single file, their footsteps echoing in the vast space. They could still hear the sound of cars passing on the road outside. The shift changeover had begun. Shearer’s radio crackled.
‘Lost the car, guv. Put out a call on it. Got the suspect. He was tossed out onto the road. He’s okay. We’re taking him in for questioning.’
Shearer kicked at a nearby shutter. The explosive sound resonated down the corridor.
‘Sod it. Okay. Keep me informed. See you at the station.’
The trio continued searching for the units, finally stopping outside the rolled shutters. ‘Padlocked, as we suspected. We’ll need these.’ Mitz lifted the bolt cutters he’d been carrying and cut through the padlocks on unit 129.
‘What the fuck?’ Shearer’s mouth dropped open as he gazed into the unit. A huge Dalek stared back at him, its massive form filling the entire space. ‘First person to say “exterminate” gets my full wrath. Don’t even think it.’ A Cyberman’s costume was propped next to the Dalek, and behind it, against the far wall, stood a slightly tatty Tardis, clearly used as a prop in a show.
Mitz swivelled around in the space, avoiding the armour-clad Dalek. ‘I doubt there are any drugs in here.’
‘I think someone was on drugs when they bought this lot,’ mumbled Shearer, flicking through Doctor Who magazines. ‘I’d better check it out thoroughly.’
‘You can climb inside the Dalek,’ Mitz said.
Shearer’s eyebrow raised high. ‘How do you know that?’
‘There was one exactly like it on the news a while back. Fetched a load of money. The news presenter drove it about on television.’
Shearer smiled humorously. ‘I think I’ll try and resist driving it about the warehouse, tempting though it seems. Go on. Check the other units. I’ll deal with weirdo world here.’
Mitz opened the unit next door for Anna. It was empty compared to the first one. Over a hundred shoeboxes were stacked on the floor. On one wall was a mirror and in front of it a red carpet.
‘Somebody likes stylish shoes,’ said Mitz as Anna unpacked the first box and extracted very expensive high-heeled Louboutin shoes. He pulled out his notebook and checked his information. The Dalek unit is rented by Julian Fisher and this unit, oh, it’s rented by Jeremy Gubbins.’
Anna held up a pair of sparkly silver stilettos. ‘Looks like Mr Gubbins has a shoe fetish. Shame, none are my size. Maybe they’re stolen goods. Or his wife rented the unit in his name and puts them here for safe keeping. Oh well, better check each box. There might be drugs hidden in them.’ She dug into the inside of a pair of glittering red stilettos with cold fingers, checking for packets of drugs. Judging by the number of boxes, it was going to be a long job.
Mitz left Anna in the unit and broke into the third unit. The light wasn’t working in this one. Inside it was dark, in spite of the strip lighting outside. He directed his torch beam around to see it was empty apart from a large wooden trunk, the sort used as luggage, at the far end of the room. Holding the torch in his teeth, he attempted to break open the padlock.
‘Anna, could you come in here a minute and hold the torch?’
She appeared at the door. ‘Lucky you. Only one box. I’ll be all morning opening that lot.’
‘Can you shine the light on it while I get it open, and then I’ll give you a hand?’
Their long shadows danced against the tin walls as Mitz dropped to his knees and struggled to remove the padlock from the trunk. The clasp wouldn’t give at first, but he teased and prised until it finally lifted away with a satisfying clunk. He tugged at the heavy lid which remained resolutely shut. Anna joined him and together they sought leverage, and with grunts, eased it off then pushed it back on its hinges with relieved sighs.
‘That was way more difficult than I expected.’
An earthy, cheesy aroma rose to greet them as they peered in. The trunk contained sheets.
‘Oh please don’t tell me we went to all that effort for a trunk of bed linen.’
Mitz removed the first sheet: cheap cream cotton that had been neatly folded. Under it were more sheets, haphazardly thrown in.
Mitz felt the sheets. ‘There’s something under this one.’
Anna wrinkled her nose. ‘Smells like rancid butter.’
A palpable frisson of excitement passed between them as he lifted the material in anticipation of revealing the stash of heroin. Anna shone the beam into the trunk and gasped. There were no bags of drugs under the sheet. Wrapped in plastic, arms folded across its ribcage, was a body.
Robyn dug deep. She pushed into the sprint, feeling the warm pull on her quads and anticipating the relief she’d experience when she reached the end. She ignored the mild burning of lactic acid and flew along on autopilot, air rushing in and out of her lungs.
Her mind was not on running. She couldn’t shake the irritation hanging over her like a noxious cloud. Tom Shearer was out for promotion. Ever since the new detective chief inspector, Richard Flint, had arrived at the station, Tom had been toadying around the man. She suspected Shearer had talked Flint into letting him take over the drugs case, even though the informant who called the station had spoken to her, not Shearer. She replayed the conversation she’d had with the DCI.
‘You were not singled out by the informant, DI Carter, you merely happened to be there when the phone rang. DI Shearer has more experience with such cases. He was involved on several busts with Derbyshire Police.’ For a moment she yearned for Louisa Mulholland to be sitting in the chair and not the ginger-haired man, whose face was so smooth and plump that he looked like an overgrown schoolboy. His manner was brusque, but unlike Louisa, he would not look Robyn in the eye, instead focusing on some speck to the left of her. ‘I’d prefer you to deal with Stephen Hobbs. There’s been a burglary at one of his shops. A range of expensive mobiles have been taken.’
Stephen Hobbs was a high-profile entrepreneur with a chain of mobile phone shops. He was well known for his charity work and held an annual charity ball at his estate, attended by some of the UK’s best-known movers, shakers and celebrities. No doubt Flint wanted to ensure Hobbs received the police’s full assistance to further his own ends.
Rankled more by his condescending tone than his words, Robyn argued her corner. ‘I agree DI Shearer has more experience in this field, sir, but it’ll be a catch-twenty-two situation if you don’t allow me to lead this investigation. I’ll never get the necessary experience and you will always pass drug-related cases to him.’
Flint’s thin lips disappeared into his face.
‘I won’t let you down. The informant, Freddy, is calling me back with the dates and times of their movements.’
Flint took a noisy, deep breath and spoke as if she were a simpleton. ‘DI Carter, I can assure you that you won’t be passed over in the future, but when a large amount of heroin like this is involved, it’s logical to put my most experienced officer on the case. I refuse to discuss the matter any further. If you want to take it up with the super, go ahead, but I can assure you he is behind my decision.’
She had wanted to argue further but it would have been pointless. DCI Flint’s mind was made up. To be fair to Tom, he hadn’t gloated. However, it should be her at the storage warehouse, not him.
Around her, faces contorted with exertion and soles slapping on treadmills drowned out the pumping beat of ‘Eye of the Tiger’. Her friend Tricia wasn’t among the regulars. If she had been, they’d have buddied-up and matched each other pace for pace. As it was, with her mind elsewhere, Robyn had set off too quickly and was paying the price. Her legs felt heavy and her heart was beating too fast. She urged herself on, the room a blur, her focus only on the rhythm of her breathing. Her vest stuck to her back, and beads of sweat dripped into her eyes, stinging and blinding her. She wouldn’t break stride to wipe them away. She was too close to the finish. The treadmill’s screen showed one hundred metres remaining. She drove her legs into the speeding treadmill, feeling a pull at the top of her thigh but ignoring it, and pounded the last few paces, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The pain intensified, like a knife burrowing into her hip. She swallowed a cry and decreased the speed rapidly to a halt before limping off.
‘Hey, you okay?’ Jay, the gym manager came across.
‘Just a strain. I’ll be fine. Need to stretch it. I wasn’t concentrating. I had a bad day at work.’
‘I know those days. If you need a massage, shout out. Kath is free. She’ll sort you. Try icing it.’
‘Cheers. I’ll be fine.’
Robyn attempted some gentle stretching. She was now not only annoyed with Flint and Shearer, but with herself. With several marathons and triathlons behind her, she knew better than to let emotions distract her when training. She hobbled in. . .
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