"Arthur?" he said again, his voice small, the contentment in his stomach already curdling into a cold, acidic dread.
The static hissed back at him.
"ARTHUR!"
He snatched the phone from the desk, his hands shaking. He looked at the screen. The call was still connected.
"Arthur?!" he screamed, his voice cracking, the panic rising in his throat like bile.
The line went dead.
A primal, animalistic terror seized him. He didn't think. He didn't plan. He grabbed his keys, bolted from his office, and sprinted through the building, his footsteps echoing in the empty halls.
He took the stairs two at a time, bursting out into the car park, the bright, cheerful afternoon a grotesque mockery of the horror in his head. He jumped into his Audi, his hands fumbling, jamming the key into the ignition. His phone. He needed his phone. He opened the tracker app, the one he and Arthur shared for logistics.
Arthur's dot. It was on the M1 motorway, about twenty miles north. And it wasn't moving.
