The Merchant's Coin PART 8 Stewart could hear the muffled voices of the police outside and wondered how he would explain his story. After all, the Art Director and the attacker needed a motive. Which was to get the blueprint and find the location of a painting, Stewart guessed. “I can’t believe your father just left us here,” said Mrs. T, bumping her head slightly as the van jolted to a start. “Well,” said Stewart, trying to think of something to say. “You don’t want the bad guys to get their hands on it.” “I don’t want to go to jail for the rest of my #life either, Stewart.” “Once Dad explains his side of the story, everything will be fine. It’s three words against one, they’re never going to believe the Director… whow!” The police van slammed on the breaks sending Stewart and Mrs. T sailing into wall of the driver’s compartment. “What the hell..." “Watch where you’re going out there!” Mrs. T yelled, banging her fist against the wall of the driver’s compartment. Four suppressed noises went off in quick succession, fwip fwip… fwip fwip. They resembled a cat sneezing. Putting his ear to the cold metal Stewart could hear the driver’s side door opening. “Something’s wrong.” Stewart whispered. His heart started beating hard as he followed the sounds of footsteps until they stopped at the back of the van. Both Stewart and Mrs. T pressed their backs against the cold metal. Bracing themselves for whatever was on the other side of the door. A metallic click came from the door lock and they were flung open. Light from outside flooded into the blackness of the van. Stewart narrowed his dark accustomed eyes trying to focus. A large figure climbed inside and grabbed Mrs. T by the hair. “Let her go!” Stewart shouted, trying to pull the man off but he was too strong. The man’s vice like grip crushed Stewart’s bicep muscle against the bone as he was dragged out kicking. The figure walked them both over to a blacked out Sedan that blocked the road in front of the police van. Pushing them urgently into the back seats. Stewart looked around to get his bearings; but all he could see was the side of two buildings. They must be up a side road just off George Square. A route the police regularly used for short cuts to the station. Twisting around in the cream leather seats, Stewart looked out the rear window. The shadowy figure was a man with a muscular build. Clad in black, with military webbing and a silenced pistol strapped to his right hip. The man wore a small yellow circle with a black line straight through the centre on his left cuff. “What are they doing?” Mrs. T said, her voice shaking as she glanced over her shoulder. The man was pulling the limp body of the police driver from the van. Dragging him across the pavement before throwing him in the trunk. Stewart could only stare as he felt the back suspension go down slightly from the weight of the body. “Stewart,” Mrs. T said, trying to encourage him to sit back down in the car seat, when a second man appeared. A policeman! Stewart’s shoulders sank with relief. Then he noticed it. The policeman was an exact lookalike of the dead police driver in the trunk. Same features, same lanky build, same birthmark. Stewarts jaw dropped. He couldn’t look away as the policeman climbed into the van and began wiping up traces of blood from the dashboard.