Bait

By Robert Harris

MURDER IS JUST THE BEGINNING…

 

FBI Agent Ryan Gunn has killed for his country, stared death in the face on numerous occasions, and survived being hit by multiple pieces of shrapnel from a roadside IED in Afghanistan, but all of these things pale in comparison to being faced with his latest major challenge – becoming a father for the first time.

 

Ryan has promised his wife that he won't let his unpredictable and secretive job with Unit-9 stop him from witnessing the birth of his son, but he has to complete just one more quick assignment in Denver before he can take his scheduled vacation days.

 

Unfortunately, nothing goes according to plan, and Ryan soon finds himself embroiled in a deadly battle with a ruthless and vindictive psycho-killer who'll stop at nothing to get what he wants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Harris
• Release date: Oct 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224377930

Book preview

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PROLOGUE

Unit-9…

One

Serial killers have existed in one form or another since the dawn of man, so they’re hardly a new phenomenon, but as far as this particular story is concerned, none were as important as the infamous Zodiac Killer.

The aforementioned Zodiac first surfaced in the late 1960s. He operated within northern California until the early 1970s and is known to have killed five people and injured two others. Though, he claimed to have killed as many as thirty-seven victims in taunting letters that he sent to various local press outlets throughout the Bay Area; letters in which he also named himself as the Zodiac.

The Zodiac Killer was never actually caught, but then, that hardly makes him special. Jack the Ripper terrorized the Whitechapel area of London much earlier in the late 1880s and he was also never apprehended by the authorities.

And the truth be told, the Zodiac Killer is only important to this story in as much as he was the serial killer du jour at the same time that an idealistic young man was starting his career within the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And it’s really the young man that’s the key to the beginning of this story, or at least what he eventually accomplished – which will soon become apparent.

The Zodiac Killer was just the tip of the serial killer iceberg, however, and soon the 1970s became a golden era for some of America’s most notorious serial killers.

Men like:

Ted Bundy

Richard Berkowitz aka Son of Sam

John Wayne Gacy

Edmund Kemper aka The Co-ed Killer

The Hillside Stranglers

Dean Corll aka The Candy Man

Wayne Williams

Paul John Knowles aka The Casanova Killer

Patrick Kearney

William Bonin

Randall Woodfield aka The I-5 Killer and The I-5 Bandit

Randy Steven Kraft

The Doodler

Though, perhaps the term bloody era would be more appropriate.

And the above list doesn’t even take into account some of the other well-known serial killers who started killing in the 1970s but weren’t actually caught until much, much later in the early 1990s – men such as Dennis Rader aka The BTK Killer and Jeffrey Dahmer.

Now, through his work as a technical analyst, our idealistic young FBI recruit saw all these monsters come and go, as well as the fans and copycats that they generated in their bloody wake, and he began wondering if this disturbing time in American history was simply just the beginning of a far bloodier and far more destructive future.

He feared that even more terrible and horrific fiends were coming over the horizon, and it didn’t take him long to find his proof in a readily available sea of statistics.

The homicide rates were rising sharply, but that wasn’t the real problem. The actual problem was the measurable increase in suicides and accidental deaths. The spikes were small, barely noticeable blips on the mortality radar, and nothing to be seemingly overly worried about, but our principled FBI analyst was concerned, though.

He was so alarmed in fact that he began drilling down into all the available stats that were now being generated countrywide by all forms of law enforcement. And it was his persistent digging that led him to conclude that something extremely sinister was indeed happening.

There was something ungodly lurking in the shadows; something preying on the innocent and unsuspecting. A new breed of serial killer was evolving – one that was highly intelligent, one that didn’t want any attention, one that didn’t want to get caught, and one that definitely didn’t want to ever stop killing.

So our conscientious analyst decided that something had to be done, and quickly.

Two

By now it was the early 1980s and our young technical analyst was much older and wiser and had risen within the ranks of the FBI to become extremely well-respected within his particular field.

He had gained some powerful friends inside the Bureau, who themselves had very influential allies within other agencies and all forms of government; significant supporters that our analyst would need when he pitched his controversial idea for battling the new wave of serial killers that he firmly believed were slowly and secretly gaining momentum throughout the country.

So our analyst pulled together all of his statistical findings, double- and triple-checked his work, and called for a meeting with a group of carefully selected people who would have the power and the authority to act on his proposal, should they see fit to do so.

He showed the group the stats he’d compiled – even delving into a few unusual closed case files to further emphasize his point – and explained how he’d come to the terrible realization that for every serial killer the FBI were actively hunting there were at least a dozen more who were plying their trade unnoticed, and possibly more than a dozen.

And if that thought wasn’t chilling enough, our analyst also explained how he’d come to a further realization that a handful of these unknown serial killers might be skilled enough to never be discovered, which meant that they would be free to pursue a lifetime of killing without any legal repercussions whatsoever.

Now, given that a dedicated serial killer could easily rack up a body count of between twenty and fifty innocents in his or her lifetime, with the further realization that the more industrious of these killers might even reach triple digits, our analyst explained why he deemed it necessary to take some sort of preventative action in order to protect the American public from these elusive, murderous monsters.

He then went on to explain his idea for funding a secret group of FBI agents whose sole purpose would be to track down these serial killers and eliminate them by using any means that they saw fit, before said killers actually had a chance to decimate the ranks of the unwary public.

The group of power-players listened intently, carefully absorbed all the unsavory statistics and facts, and eventually came to the conclusion that our analyst was undoubtedly right. They then instantly backed his plan for a secret unit, agreed that the need for public safety far outweighed any of the moral and ethical ambiguities and legal issues that might arise should the unit’s existence and mandate ever be uncovered, and further agreed that protocols would be put in place that would ensure that the unit would be covertly funded out of the government’s Black Ops budget for as long as was required.

It was also agreed that further procedures would be established at the highest levels of government to ensure that the unit would receive help from any other government agency, as and when requested, to guarantee that it was always operating with the best weapons, equipment, training, and information that was available at the time.

Further agreements were then reached that the unit would only be staffed by suitable people who had been personally affected by serial killers, thus ensuring that the unit’s need for total secrecy would he upheld during its term of operation, and that the unit would be based in its own facility, far away from the prying eyes of the sprawling Quantico – or anyone else for that matter.

And finally, once it had been determined that nine was the maximum amount of people that could be secretly funded from the government’s Black Ops budget without raising any unwanted questions, the meeting was disbanded and our technical analyst was immediately tasked with creating Unit-9.

Three

Right from the very beginning, the logistics of running Unit-9 in a shroud of complete secrecy soon proved to be an impossible task. Its agents needed to travel around the country at the drop of a hat, and once they arrived at their destination, they needed access to equipment and vehicles that they obviously couldn’t carry with them or even budget for.

These issues, and many others like them, meant that an immediate re-think was required with regards to Unit-9’s operational parameters, in order to ensure that it didn’t sink before it’d had a chance to do some much-needed good.

To solve these problems, it was decided that Unit-9 would be affiliated with an FBI Field Office, and that it would produce detailed reports and profiles for any of the other FBI Field Offices that had active serial killers operating within their jurisdictions, whilst still continuing with its own secret mission to eliminate the worst of the serial killers that it could identify and hunt down.

But the question was: Which FBI Field Office should Unit-9 be associated with?

And the answer to that question turned out to be quite simple: Memphis.

The city of Memphis is situated in the far southwest corner of the state of Tennessee, on the banks of the river Mississippi, and is one of the five biggest transport hubs in the country.

And why is Memphis one of the five largest transport hubs in the country?

Because, although Mother Nature blessed Memphis with a prime riverfront location, it was FedEx’s farsighted decision to build its SuperHub in Memphis in 1973 that rapidly propelled the city to the forefront of America’s logistics centers.

And combine that with the city’s easy access to inland waterways, its intricate web of interstate and highway connections, its five Class One railroads, and its handy international airport, and it was easy to understand why it was deemed the perfect place for Unit-9 to relocate to.

So now that the appropriate FBI Field Office had been chosen, the only remaining issue was where to locate Unit-9’s new base of operations, as, for obvious reasons, they couldn’t be placed in the same building as the Memphis Field Office.

And it was the Memphis International Airport that held the answer to this particular problem.

A number of thriving hotels and motels were springing up just west of the airport, along Airways Boulevard, so the FBI acquired a small plot of land behind one of the hotels and built a secure server farm on it for the purposes of storing archived data; a server farm that would also contain a hidden suite of rooms to serve as the new operational base for Unit-9.

And now, thirty years later, our industrious technical analyst has long since retired from the FBI, but his secret legacy is still going strong.

Unit-9’s official mandate is still finding and profiling serial killers for the FBI’s Field Offices. However, unofficially, Unit-9 is still primarily tasked with tracking down and eliminating the worst of the serial killers that they feel will never be uncovered or caught via the more usual tried and tested methods of law enforcement.

And, unfortunately, it doesn’t appear that they’ll be quitting anytime soon.

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PART ONE

Patience Is Key…

Chapter 1

1st January 2012

Amy Anderson found herself all alone at the end of what had been a very quiet and somewhat eerie New Year’s Day and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

She still had the house, of course, the house which she had designed herself in the most microscopic detail. The house that was still exquisite, both in her mind and the minds of the many others who had fleetingly seen it recently during the holiday period and said so, but it wasn’t much to show for the last forty-five years of her life.

The house felt so large now to Amy with just her living in it. It wasn’t really all that big – barely 4000 square feet, not when you compared it to some of the other hilltop residences in the area that were running close to 9000 square feet and upwards. But the superb view of southern California and feeling like she was living at the top of the world more than made up for the relative lack of space.

Amy glanced around the softly-lit, white living room and realized for the first time that it looked more like an art gallery than an actual lived-in home.

It wasn’t all white. There was the odd splash of color here and there from a red scatter cushion or a well-chosen blue vase or an artsy black sculpture, as well as the few abstract paintings that clung to the sleek, white plaster walls. But the whole feel was far more antiseptic than homely, and God knows how many times the cream carpet had been steam cleaned to ensure that it matched its perfect, clinical surroundings.

The outside of the house was white as well, except for the vast areas of shiny glass. It was all smooth, white concrete with shady, overhanging flat roofs, built-in balconies, and wall-to-ceiling windows and sliding glass doors. And Amy could easily imagine what the realtor’s blurb would say if she was ever forced to sell her dream home:

Exceptional opportunity to purchase this trophy architectural designed contemporary two-storey hilltop house which was built in 1991 with museum quality throughout. A 4 bed/2.5 bath residence built around a decadent central courtyard connecting to a spacious rooftop patio lounge with its own large fire pit and astounding views of nearby Los Angeles. And not forgetting the semi-subterranean garage with enough space for four vehicles.

There were also one or two architectural flourishes that, whilst redundant to purpose, gave the house a very stylish and unique space-age look. But then, what was the point of being a trend-setting architect if you couldn’t live in something that was both special and visually different to all the other homes in the area.

Amy had personally designed and supervised the building of the house with mostly her own money, which explained why she was still residing in it and not her cheating, deadbeat ex-husband who had traded her in for a much younger model.

Bastard!

That wasn’t strictly true, though. Their split had been fairly amicable and her ex-husband Noah was far from a deadbeat, as he possessed much more money than she did, and always had done, which was why he was happy to leave her and the custom house in Acton and buy himself a ridiculously-priced penthouse apartment in Beverly Park, which was currently L.A.’s most affluent neighborhood.

Noah had traded her in for a much younger model, however, more than one if Amy was being honest, so that much was true. And his latest girlfriend was actually called Sapphire, if you could believe that!

And even now, a little over twelve months after they’d split, Amy still wondered why they hadn’t fought harder to keep their family unit together after twenty years of marriage.

Chapter 2

Amy and Noah had met straight out of college – the feisty, attractive architect and the handsome, laidback financier who were both on the fast track to going places at warp speed. They then dated for three years, whilst working 24/7/365 to build and shape their individual, glittering, hectic careers, before finally managing to squeeze in a small church wedding and a week’s honeymoon on the beautiful Turks and Caicos Islands in the Caribbean.

They had their first child a year later, in spite of being warned not to by all their friends until one or both of them was prepared to slow down a bit, which they didn’t. They had a daughter, named Jemma, who also turned out to be their only child, so perhaps their friends had been right all along.

Amy imagined that they’d have at least one of each – a boy and a girl. She also imagined that she and her daughter would be lifelong best friends, but the reality couldn’t be further from the truth. Jemma was a daddy’s girl, through-and-through, even though Noah had spent just as much time missing Jemma’s life as Amy had, so they’d never actually had the relationship that Amy had dreamt of during her pregnancy.

Maybe Noah had tried harder with Jemma during the brief moments that they were together. And perhaps Amy hadn’t tried hard enough to forge the relationship with her daughter that she had always dreamed of and expected. But maybe making the part-time nanny a fulltime nanny had been the real problem, especially as Jemma was probably still closer to her ex-nanny than her own flesh-and-blood mother.

Just the thought of it still stung Amy to her very core.

Jemma had just spent Christmas Day with Amy, as usual. And it had been painful, as usual, a real chore. They were just going through the motions for the sake of keeping up appearances, though, and because it was expected. And Amy knew that once Jemma left college and got a job, she would probably never see her again.

Amy had bought Jemma a new laptop for Christmas, as she had no idea what Jemma really wanted or needed, not that she’d actually thought to ask, and Noah had included Jemma and her best friend in a skiing trip that he was taking soon with his latest bimbo girlfriend who was barely much older than Jemma.

The four of them were going to Crans-sur-Sierre, which was a ski resort in the heart of the Swiss Alps, and it had been all that an excited Jemma had talked about on Christmas Day; that and the fact that she couldn’t wait to see her father on Boxing Day.

Amy couldn’t compete with Noah on the money front, or apparently the parenting front, and wondered why she’d even bothered to try by purchasing the most expensive laptop she could afford, as she knew that he would easily trump it with something much more lavish and thoughtful.

She’d had this idea of a perfect existence as a child, which seemed genuinely attainable, but then real life had gotten in the way and ruined the fairytale. And Amy still had all these happy memories of the early days with Noah and Jemma, but now wondered if they weren’t just a string of fictions fabricated by her own unhappy mind to trick her into believing that her life had been much better than it actually was.

And on top of that, there were the awful problems she was having at work, which just didn’t bear thinking about right now.

Amy couldn’t come up with any answers, though, so she shook off her hollow sadness and trudged upstairs to take a quick shower, which did little to change or improve her mood. Then she donned some faded pink sweats, wrapped a white towel around her damp, long blonde hair, and returned downstairs.

She intended to finish off what was left of the bottle of Conn Creek Cabernet Sauvignon from the Napa Valley that was cowering in the kitchen, whilst she also tried to finish reading Gone Girl, before finally swallowing an Ambien and hitting the sack.

But all that was going to have to wait as Amy reached the bottom of the stairs and realized that she was no longer alone.

Chapter 3

The armed intruder standing in the entrance to the living room smiled broadly and said, Hi, Amy. I really need your help.

Amy couldn’t believe this was happening to her, not on top of everything else. She tried to think if she’d secured the front door or not and whether or not she’d heard a vehicle pull up, while she also stared dumbly down the barrel of the large, imposing black handgun with its attached sound suppressor that the intruder was holding in his right hand. And this went on for quite a while before Amy finally forced herself to focus on the face of the man standing in front of her.

The dark-haired intruder was tall, much taller than Amy’s own five-feet-five-inches, and he had an impressive athletic build to go with his height. He was also annoyingly handsome, no more than thirty years old – if that, and had a trimmed beard and well-spaced, mischievous blue-gray eyes. He also looked like he would be more at home wearing an expensive tailored suit than the light-gray hoodie, jeans, and dirty-white sneakers that he was clothed in tonight.

You don’t know me, Amy, continued the intruder. If that’s what you’re wondering. But I still desperately need your help.

The intruder smiled again and Amy finally gathered her scattered wits.

She turned around and fled towards the kitchen, as her route to the front door was blocked by the grinning gunman, as was her route to the sliding glass doors in the lounge that led outside to the wraparound lawn edged by colorful flowerbeds, so Amy figured that her best chance of escape was to get outside through the back door in the kitchen, and to then run like hell until she came across some form of help.

It was a sensible plan, and definitely much smarter than running back upstairs and locking herself in the bedroom like some scatter-brained blonde in a horror movie who didn’t have more than three brain cells to rub together.

But the question still remained as to whether or not she was going to be fast enough on her dainty, size-six unshod feet to actually pull it off.

Chapter 4

The wooden back door at the end of the lengthy kitchen was painted white to match the color of the smooth, half-tiled walls and the expensive Italian floor tiles, but a creamy, warm white. And the top half of the locked door contained an intricate lattice of nine, tiny glass panes that offered a divided and tantalizing glimpse of the heavily-manicured lawn outside as Amy rushed towards her only chance of reaching some help.

However, the intruder had waited seven years for this moment and he wasn’t about to let it run away from him now. He stuffed his gun into the back of his waistband and used his greater speed and agility to quickly close the distance between himself and the fleeing Amy.

He loomed up behind her, snaked a muscly right arm around her neck, and grabbed her in a tight choke hold. Not that that stopped Amy from reaching out and desperately clawing for the glinting brass doorknob that was only a few inches away from her outstretched fingertips and still seemed to offer a slight chance of escape.

There was no chance though, not really, not now, and Amy’s much stronger opponent simply dragged her kicking and screaming through the kitchen and back into the living room.

He shoved her unceremoniously onto one of the white three-seater couches, wagged a latex-gloved finger at her, and chided, Now, that’s not very friendly of you, Amy. And you haven’t even let me explain why I need your help.

Amy stopped screaming, greedily gulped down some much-needed air, rubbed her throbbing neck and throat, and glared daggers at her confident attacker.

It’s for a very good cause, continued the intruder with a somewhat roguish grin.

Amy still didn’t feel like talking yet and carried on massaging her distressed throat.

The intruder continued smiling and added a little mock laugh. I guess it’s time to stop screwing around and get to the point.

Amy’s eyes darted towards the sliding glass doors that were only a tempting ten feet or so in front of her, but the intruder read her mind. He shifted his position slightly to his right, to block her path, and withdrew his pistol from the small of his back with his dominant right hand; which was his way of saying: "Don’t even think about it, sweetheart."

Amy thought better of it and demanded, What the fuck do you want?

I want you to write your own suicide note, Amy.

"What!?"

I want you to write your own suicide note.

Amy stared at the calm intruder in utter amazement and blurted, You’re insane!

The intruder frowned for a moment and retorted, I prefer to think of myself as eccentric. And besides, my parents had me tested when I was young and I passed with flying colors.

Amy thought about pinching herself, to see if this was some sort of bad dream or demented nightmare that she’d become trapped in, but she knew that she was wide awake.

You want me to write my own suicide note? she parroted.

Yes, please.

Why?

So the police will believe that you killed yourself, of course.

What?

This isn’t rocket science, Amy. I need you to write a suicide note and then hang yourself. And as I already mentioned, it’s for a really great cause.

Amy had heard enough of this lunacy. She sprang off of the couch and bolted for the kitchen again, but the intruder quickly pounced to his left, snagged hold of her with his empty left hand, and hurled her back onto the couch with some considerable force.

Chapter 5

With her second escape attempt thwarted before it had even barely begun, Amy started screaming frantically for help at the top of her lungs.

Screaming? Really? chided the intruder. You live all alone on a remote hilltop, Amy, who the fuck do you think is going to hear you?

The smug intruder had a valid point, but that didn’t stop Amy from continuing with her pleading and hysterical caterwauling.

Although he badly wanted to slap some sense into Amy, to shut her up, the intruder couldn’t afford to inflict any suspicious marks or bruises on her face or body, not if he wanted her death to be viewed as a genuine suicide as he’d planned, so he switched to Plan B.

He stuffed his gun back into the waistband of his jeans and said, I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.

Amy didn’t like the sound of that.

She immediately stopped yelling and enquired, What does that mean?

It means that if you don’t do as I ask, I’m going to hang you myself, forge your suicide note, then I’ll punish your family for your lack of cooperation and stunning shortsightedness.

Really? My ex-husband’s address is in the front of my day-planner if you want it.

Funny… The intruder reached into the large single pocket on the front of his hoodie and pulled out a folded color photograph. He unfolded it, showed it to Amy, and said, How about I kill your daughter, instead. And I won’t need to lookup Jemma’s address in your day-planner, as I already know exactly where she’s staying in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

The intruder’s tone was no longer playful. It had taken on a hard, menacing edge, and the malicious glint in his eyes just added to Amy’s absolute certainty that he wasn’t joking. She knew he was being deadly serious and that he would carry out his unthinkable, vile threat.

You must be so proud of having a daughter that’s studying political science at Harvard and has dreams of working in the White House, continued the intruder, matter-of-factly. And it’d be such a shame to cut short her young sophomore life and waste all that wonderful Ivy League potential.

Amy stared at the creased picture of her blonde daughter. It was a shot of Jemma leaving the accommodation that she shared with her best friend Cassandra. You . . . you can’t kill my daughter, she mumbled.

The intruder snorted. There’s no such word as can’t. He stuffed the picture back into the pocket of his gray hoodie and kept pushing to get what he wanted. You’ve spent the last nineteen years feeding Jemma, clothing her, protecting her, teaching her right from wrong, and a million other things. So do you really want to be the reason why all that hard work and effort goes to waste when I’m forced to put a bullet in her pretty little head?

Amy couldn’t even begin to imagine it, despite the chasm of distance that had grown between them over the years, and shook her head.

The intruder was rapidly running out of patience and pushed even harder to obtain Amy’s cooperation. Do you really want to be the reason why your ex-husband has to bury you and your daughter, Amy?

Amy shed a tear and couldn’t stop her voice from cracking. No.

Then you’ll write your suicide note and hang yourself, as requested?

"NO!"

The intruder couldn’t believe what he was hearing and shook his head. C’mon, Amy! You have to choose. You . . . or you and Jemma.

You’re insane!

I think we’ve already covered that, so stop stalling, grab yourself a pen and paper, and start writing.

Chapter 6

Amy found the intruder’s composed manner and self-assured belief that she was just going to capitulate to his ludicrous demands quite maddening.

She was also having trouble comprehending the notion of taking her own life, so she racked her brains and came up with a much better idea. Though, if she was being completely truthful with herself, it was more of a straw-grabbing desperation move than anything else.

If you leave now, she said, with all the confidence she could muster, I’ll forget this ever happened and I promise not to contact the police.

Really, Amy? mocked the intruder. You’re going with that now, are you?

Amy nodded, optimistically.

I gotta say, I’m disappointed. You’re an intelligent woman and the whole ‘leave and I won’t tell the police’ argument is such a cliché.

Amy stuck to her guns and said, Maybe so, but no one is ever going to believe that I killed myself.

Really? laughed the intruder.

He then explained precisely why it would work – because of her recent divorce, her fractious relationship with her estranged daughter, and most importantly of all, the well-documented problems that she was having at the successful architectural company which she’d help to found and build over the last twenty-three years.

Amy was having very severe creative differences with the firm’s biggest ever client who had recently commissioned a building to be designed and built in L.A. to house his new media company’s headquarters. She didn’t get on with said client, either personally or professionally, which was why he was pushing for her immediate removal from the company. And given the amount of prestige and money involved, her fellow partners were seriously considering it, rather than trying to find an amicable workaround that would suit all parties.

Amy looked shocked and asked, How the hell do you know all that stuff?

What? Do you think I just plucked your name out of the phonebook or something? The intruder slowly shook his head. I’ve been studying you, Amy, to make sure that you’re the perfect victim. Trust me. No one is going to have any trouble believing that you killed yourself.

Amy couldn’t believe what she was hearing, couldn’t believe that this was really happening to her.

Time was running out now, as it was crucial that Amy’s official time of death should be recorded on the first day of the month, so the intruder reached for her and declared, OK! Time’s up. Looks like it’s gonna be you and your daughter.

"Wait!" cried Amy.

The intruder was done waiting. He grabbed a fistful of Amy’s pink top with his right hand and, as she only weighed a buck ten, easily hauled her to her feet.

Amy knew that she was out of options now. She also knew that, in spite of the problems she and Jemma were currently having, she couldn’t let this maniac kill her daughter. Jemma was by far and away her greatest accomplishment, and she had to be saved, no matter what the personal cost.

"Wait! Please! I’ll do what you want, pleaded Amy. Just don’t hurt my daughter."

You better not be fucking with me, snarled the intruder, releasing his grip.

Amy’s bag was on a nearby lamp table, so she grabbed it and retrieved a piece of blank paper and a black, BIC ballpoint pen. She clicked the top of the pen to reveal the retractable point and reluctantly enquired, So, what do you want me to write?

The intruder smiled. I want you to write: ‘I’m sorry, but it’s all just got too much for me.’ And make sure you sign it at the bottom.

Amy did as she was instructed, then the intruder marched her up the stairs and into the master bedroom.

Grab a suitable belt and a bedsheet, he commanded.

Amy did as she was told again, grabbing a handmade black leather skinny dress belt and a fresh white bedsheet from one of the many bespoke fitted closets.

The intruder inspected the slim belt, checking it was fit for purpose, and motioned for Amy to leave the bedroom and join him at the top of the stairs.

I want you to fasten the belt tightly around your neck, he said, "then I want you to feed the bedsheet under the belt at the back of your neck