Mike Dixon

left hand and probed with the numbed right. There was a
faint click. The lock disengaged and the grill swung open.
The sound of rap reverberated in her ears. It echoed down
the maze of passageways and she guessed Footsie was holed
up somewhere in the dark recesses of the complex. She was
determined to get him; but first she had to warn Humphrey.
There was a public telephone booth on the main highway.
She sprinted back to it and found a young woman inside.
„Get out! This is important!‟
The girl stared back in stunned silence and was ejected.
Janet dialed the Hansen number. When no one answered
she phoned Humphrey‟s mobile. A long wait followed and a
voice said the phone was either disconnected or out of range.
Janet left the booth and ran back the way she‟d come.
There wasn‟t a moment to lose. The prison psychiatrist
had described Footsie as a dangerous psychopath. There was
no limit to what he might do and one of her friends was there
… she didn‟t know who.
The music was still playing when she got back. It echoed
down the musty corridors and, for the first time in her life,
Janet was thankful for the sound of rap. It would lead her to
her to her target. Footsie wouldn‟t stand a chance. Her arms
might be out of action but there was nothing wrong with her
legs.
She pushed open the iron grill and groped her along rust-
ing shelves towards a chink of light that got brighter as the
rap got louder. An open door beckoned. The rap was turned
to full volume. There was no way the ugly man would hear
her. She reached the door and charged in, screaming at the
top of her voice, geared for a flying kick to the throat.
But her target wasn‟t positioned for that sort of blow.
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