Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Chapter 95: Drew's Contingency Plan

Drew Donovan normally was not a fearful man.  A man could not be prone to fear if he worked for and betrayed the ISA and, then, turned around and worked for and betrayed Stefano DiMera.  But in the middle of the night following the departure of Roman Brady or John Black or whatever the hell he was calling himself, Drew Donovan was scared out of his mind.

"Get whatever we can carry, Geoffrey," he ordered, as he grabbed some old photographs that he kept in the bottom of a set of drawers.  Pictures of his parents and Shane, mostly.  "Don't worry too much about clothes," Drew said.  Clothes could be replaced and Shane had set up an emergency fund that Drew could tap for just this type of occasion.

Actually, this contingency plan had been in place since shortly after Drew set up house in Stratford.  The first plan had been for the contingency to be a house in Majorca.  There, Drew would fit in with plenty of British ex-patriots.  Then Shane changed the contingency to southern France.  Now it was Croatia, a small house in the city of Trogir that opened up to the Adriatic.  Not the worst place for a forced retirement.

"I don't understand what all the fuss is about," Geoffrey said, carrying the first of his suitcases into the sitting room.  "Why can't this wait until tomorrow, so I can arrange things at the pub?"

Drew crossed over and took his partner's hands.  "I know this is hard, Gorgeous, but if those bloody yanks were followed, we're not safe, not even for one bleedin' day."

Geoffrey hesitated.  "Ralph, you're scaring me."

"Good," Drew barked.  "You should be scared.  We've got to get out of England now."  Silently, Drew kicked himself.  He should have made Roman or John or whatever he was named wait.  Drew had seen how the man had handled himself against Stefano; he might have made a good ally for their escape.  Too late now, though.

Drew shoved the photographs into his overnight case and then ran to a desk in the corner of the room.  He searched it and pulled out the fake passports he and Shane had created for this occasion.  He opened one and handed it to Geoffrey.  "You're now Jacob Westerly the Third, and I'm. . . ."  Drew had to open his, because he had forgotten the name.  "Oh, that's right.  I'm Richard Erroll Flynn.  Mum always had a flair for the dramatic."

In his mind's eye, he remembered how Shane had rolled his eyes at the choice of name, but, as always, Shane had indulged Drew.  But then Shane had never really been able to refuse Drew anything.  Of course, "Big Brother" had also taken charge of bailing Drew out of pretty much every jam he had ever gotten into, and even blamed himself when Drew inevitably fell short of expectations.

"Big Brother," Drew thought.  The nickname should have been a joke, since Shane had been born only five minutes before Drew, but Shane had always played the part -- overprotective and quite overbearing.  Drew had to admit that those traits were sometimes a good to have.  For instance, they helped in establishing his current -- well, now-former -- identity, allowing him to escape an existence that involved moving every four months from one rat-infested apartment to another in places like Hamburg, Krakow and Rotterdam.  And it also helped when it came time to have a contingency plan just in case Stefano DiMera's cronies chose to follow two clueless Americans who decided to show up on Drew's doorstep.

Geoffrey had collected the second suitcase and carried it into the sitting room.  Drew scanned the room.  He saw nothing important that they had left behind.

"Very well," Drew said.  "Cheerio, old house.  It's been nice. . . ."  He gave Geoffrey a smile, hoping that would help buck up his lover's spirits.  For a fleeting moment, he regretted getting Geoffrey involved in his life, but then he dismissed the thought.  It had been a good fifteen years, and he knew Geoffrey did not regret his choice of staying with Drew after he revealed his true identity.

Drew grabbed a couple of their bags and opened the front door.  He stopped short as he found himself staring into the barrel of a .45 Magnum.

"Going somewhere, Mr. Donovan?" the possessor of the gun said in an American accent.  "An extended vacation, perhaps?"

Drew swallowed as the man motioned him forward, into the light rain.  Drew complied, and said, as if it were common for him to be facing a firearm.  "Sorry, old chap.  You've got the wrong man.  The name's Flynn.  You can check my passport.  It's right--"

"Don't move," Mr. Magnum said.  He smiled, flashing perfect white teeth.  Obviously caps, Drew thought, and then wondered why he could even think of such a thing at the moment.  The man continued to speak.  "It's fortunate for me that my boss isn't concerned about cases of mistaken identity."

"Um . . . yeah . . . ."  Drew, who was never at a loss for words, had to think a little.  "Look, mate, I know you think this is necessary, but look . . . I can pay you whatever Stefano is offering.  Seriously.  It's in a Swiss bank account."

Mr. Magnum laughed.  "Too bad that I don't work for Stefano DiMera."

Drew was momentarily stunned, but then he heard a new voice ask, "What should I do with the other queen?" That was when Drew realized that Mr. Magnum was not alone.

Mr. Magnum did not hesitate.  "Kill him."

"NO!" Drew cried as he turned back toward the house.  He was too late, as he heard the muffled puff of a silencer and the resulting sound of something large hitting the floor.  Drew never even reached the door.  Something struck him on the back of the head, knocking him to the ground.  As the entire world spun, Mr. Magnum stepped over him and pulled him up by the scruff of his neck, while someone placed his hands in handcuffs and slipped a hood over Drew's head.

"Let's go, Mr. Donovan.  My employer has been waiting a very long time to meet you."