“Today’s the day I give my karate demonstration!” I said. I had completely forgotten about it. The trouble was, I’d agreed to give the demonstration last June before school let out for the summer. The principal, Mr. Woodman, had asked if I’d do it, and I said sure, and he said save the date and I said okay-but I never wrote it down. I remembered it sometimes, and sometimes I forgot. Lately, I’d forgotten. I hadn’t even been practicing for it.
I felt the first breath of airy nervousness in my chest, and my little heart went pitty-pat. It wasn’t that I was unprepared. I practiced karate almost every day, and I was always ready to strut my stuff. And I knew I had a freshly washed gi and all the other materials I needed in my closet upstairs.
No, what made me nervous was that the demonstration was going to be given in first assembly. The entire eleventh grade would be watching. And the class officers- president, vice president, and treasurer-would be sitting, as always, in their official seats in the front row.
And the class vice president was Beth Summers. Who was so beautiful and so nice I can’t even talk about it.
CHAPTER FIVE
My Right Leg Karate. My karate demonstration. That’s what flashed into my mind as I strained against the straps that held me to the chair. So the last day I remembered wasn’t a completely ordinary day after all, was it? There was my karate demonstration with Beth Summers watching from the front row. Not that that explained anything. Not that it explained how I woke up scarred and burned and strapped to a chair with two men with orders to kill me about to walk through the door. But it did remind me of something. It forced a solid thought into my racing, panicking brain.
Karate. I was a black belt. I was a martial artist, a good one. I was trained to fight.
Now, okay, maybe you think that sounds funny. Maybe you think: how exactly was I going to fight when I was strapped to a chair that was bolted to the floor? How was I going to fight when all four of my weapons-both legs and both arms-were immobilized? How was I going to fight when the men ordered to kill me were right outside, were going to come through that door any second?
And I’ll admit: it didn’t look good. But as the thought of my martial arts training forced itself into my mind, another thought forced its way in as well. The Churchill Card.
My karate teacher-Sensei Mike-gave me the Churchill Card. He told me to fold it up and keep it in my wallet, and I always did and I always looked at it before I had to compete in a tournament or take an important test in school or do anything else where it came in handy. All it was was a 3 x 5 index card. Sensei Mike had written some words on it with a ballpoint pen. They were the words of Winston Churchill. Churchill was the prime minister of Great Britain during World
War II. When the Nazis had taken over most of Europe, when Hitler was trying to spread his evil, hateful, murderous philosophy all over the world, Churchill inspired the British to defend their little island. Hitler bombed them and bombed them, but, led by Churchill, the people endured and fought back and somehow held on until the United States came into the war to help them win.
This is what Churchill told them-this is what Sensei Mike had written on my card: Never give in, never give in, never, never, never, never -in nothing, great or small, large or petty- never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.
I didn’t know how I’d gotten here. I didn’t know how I had lain down one night in bed with a life full of school and homework and parents and friends and girls-and then awoken in this horrible room, in this searing pain, in this deadly danger. But I didn’t have time to figure it out now. Somehow it had happened. Somehow I was here. For some reason, they were coming to kill me. And with me strapped down like this, there was no question that my enemies-whoever they were-had overwhelming might on their side.
If ever there was a moment to remember the words on the Churchill Card, this was it.
Never give in. Which, in this case, meant I had to look for a way out. I had to still the panic flaming through me, and think. Think. It did no good to pull and yank against the straps. They’d never break. It did no good to try to slip free of them. They were tight. It did no good to scream. If there were anyone around to help me, they’d’ve come by now.
I had to think-and look around-look for another way.
I looked. It wasn’t easy. In my terror, I found it hard to get my eyes to keep still, to train them on things and take them in. I had to force myself to do it. I looked at my left wrist first. At the chair arm it was strapped to. Nothing. The strap was strong and secure. The metal of the chair was smooth. Same with my right wrist. My hand extended over the arm of the chair. I could open and close it into a fist. But there was nothing within reach, nothing I could get hold of.
What about my ankles? I had to lean forward in the chair as far as I could to get a look at the front of them, then lean over to the side to get another angle. On the left, it was the same as with my wrists. Nothing to see, nothing to use. A strap, a metal chair leg, a bolt holding the chair securely to the floor. Leaning forward to look at my right ankle, I saw more of the same. There was no way out.
My chest was getting tight. My stomach was turning sour. Tears of despair were blurring my vision.
Never give in, never, never, never, never.
I leaned over to the right to get the other angle on my strapped leg. And that’s when I saw it.
It wasn’t much. Just a rough spot in the chair leg. A little patch where the metal had maybe bumped into something, had somehow gotten scraped and damaged. The thing was, though, the rough spot was right above the strap on my ankle. And whatever had caused the damage had left a little ledge of metal sticking out above the scrape.
And it was sharp.
By lifting my foot, I could move the canvas strap on my right ankle against the sharp edge of the metal. I didn’t have a lot of leeway, a lot of room to move. I couldn’t actually cut through the canvas, but I might be able to wear a way through it if I had enough time.
I didn’t. My time was up. Just then, the door opened, and the two men came into the room.
My heart would’ve sunk when I saw them, except my heart had already sunk so low there was nowhere left for it to go. But these two-these men-you could see it in their eyes: they were the worst kind of enemies to have. Not even evil-just obedient to evil, just dead in their hearts and minds and following blindly whatever orders they were given. Right now, their orders were “Kill him”- that meant me. One look at them, and I knew no matter what I said, they would follow those orders to the end.
They were dressed just like I was. White shirts, black slacks. The one on the left was white, slovenly, with limp black hair hanging over idiot eyes and a chunky belly pushing tight against his belt. The one on the right was smaller, thinner. Brown-skinned and foreign-looking with a narrow, jutting face like a rat’s. He had a light in his dark eyes, a sort of breathless smile playing at the corner of his lips. He was excited, I could tell. He was looking forward to this. He liked hurting people. He liked watching them die.
The chunky thug closed the door behind him.
I looked at the two of them, too terrified to speak. I half expected them to just pull guns out and shoot me to death where I sat. They didn’t, though, not right off. They came toward me. They stood over me.
And all the while, I kept lifting and lowering my foot. I couldn’t look down-that would’ve given it away-so I couldn’t be sure I was still rubbing the canvas strap against the sharp little irregularity in the metal of the chair leg. But I hoped I was. And I hoped they wouldn’t notice. And I hoped the strap would start to tear. But I have to admit it: my hope wasn’t very strong.
The chunky thug smiled stupidly. He talked stupidly, too, in a thick, dull voice. I got the feeling that stupidly was pretty much the way he did everything.
“Okay, you dumb punk, you asked for it,” he said.
“That’s right,” said the rat-faced g
uy. His voice was light and breathless, excited like his eyes. He had an accent of some kind. “If you’d talked to us, maybe we could’ve helped you.”
I kept lifting and lowering my foot. Hoping they wouldn’t notice. Hoping the strap would tear. Never give in.
“Where am I?” I said. My own voice was hoarse and raspy. My throat hurt as if I’d been screaming. I probably had been. “Who are you? Where are my parents? Why are you doing this to me?”
Chunky and Rat Face looked at each other. Chunky shrugged. Rat Face laughed.
“‘Where am I?’” he mimicked me. “What do you think, we’re idiots? You think we’re gonna fall for that?”
“I mean it,” I said. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happening. Why are you doing this to me? I haven’t done anything to you.”
I lifted my foot up and down, up and down. Never give in.
Chunky stepped up close to the chair and looked down at me. “You’re still being smart with us?” he said. “Didn’t I show you what happens to smart punks? Didn’t you learn anything?”
“Come on, we oughta do this,” Rat Face told him nervously.
“I swear,” I said desperately. “The last thing I remember, I was at home, I was in bed. I swear.”
Anger surged into Chunky’s face. He grabbed the front of my shirt. He pulled back his fist.
“Say that again,” he said. “I dare you.”
I looked up at him. I didn’t say it again.
“Come on, come on, come on,” said Rat Face. “Prince is waiting. Let’s do this, let’s go.”
Chunky held me another second, his fist raised, daring me to speak. I didn’t. Finally, he smiled his stupid smile. He let go of my shirt front, pushing me back hard. He sneered down at me in triumph. Oh yeah, he was satisfied with himself, all right. He’d ordered me to shut up and frightened me into obeying him. He was a big tough guy, Chunky was. I’ll bet he could beat up almost anyone he happened to find strapped to a chair.
I moved my foot up and down. Never give in.
Chunky stepped back from me. Rat Face smiled with excitement. Was this it? Were they going to shoot me now?
No. Rat Face turned and moved to the white chest of drawers against the wall.
At that moment, I felt something. A little jolting movement. The strap. The strap on my ankle. I couldn’t look at it for fear of drawing their attention to it, but it felt as if it had given way, just a little bit. The metal must’ve cut into it-just a little bit-but enough so that now I could lift my foot maybe a quarter inch farther, drive it against the metal with just a little bit more force.
Rat Face opened the second drawer in the bureau. My breath caught as he reached in and took out a hypodermic syringe.
He looked over at me. He wanted to see the terror in my eyes. He did. I was terrified, all right. And he liked that. He liked seeing how scared I was.
“What are you going to do?” I said. The words just came out of me. It wasn’t as if I didn’t know.
Rat Face took a vial of some clear fluid out of the drawer. He was grinning openly now. Chunky was grinning too.
Rat Face held up the vial so I could see it. “You’re gonna like this stuff,” he said. “You know what this stuff does? It burns. Yeah. It’s, like, some kind of acid or something. I inject this into you and it burns right through you from the inside. Slow, slow, slow. I’ve seen guys scream for an hour before it killed them. Oh yeah. They scream and scream like you wouldn’t believe.”
I pretended to go wild with fear. I didn’t have to pretend much.
“I don’t know anything!” I shouted. “I don’t even know where I am!”
I pulled and thrashed against the straps-not really trying to break out, but just because it helped disguise the fact that I was bringing my right foot up harder and harder, and the strap-I could feel it!-the strap was giving way. The metal was cutting into it, deeper and deeper.
Chunky laughed to see my terror. “You should’ve talked when you had a chance, you dumb punk,” he said. “Look at you now.”
Rat Face brought the hypodermic needle to the top of the vial. He pushed it in and began to draw the clear liquid into the barrel of the syringe.
I leaned far forward in my chair, pretending to stomp my foot in rage so I could bring the strap up even harder against the metal.
“Please! Please!” I shouted. “You have to believe me! I don’t know you! I don’t know how I got here! I don’t know where I am!”
And on that last word, I felt the strap around my ankle break. I couldn’t be absolutely sure because I couldn’t look at it, but I thought I’d managed to cut it clean through. I tested it, moving my foot away from the chair leg just a little.
Yes. Yes. I’d done it. My right leg was free.
CHAPTER SIX
One Shot The timing was perfect. Rat Face and Chunky didn’t notice. Rat Face was too busy drawing the poison into his syringe, his eyes bright with anticipation of my agony and death. And Chunky was watching it, too, savoring the sight of the deadly liquid flowing into the glass barrel.
And now some faint, small, desperate little breath of hope drifted like a tendril of fresh air through the black reaches of my heart. I know: it was only my leg, one leg. The rest of me was still strapped tightly to the chair. But a martial artist has four weapons-two arms, two legs-and now one of my weapons was free. It was something. It was a chance. At least I wouldn’t have to die without a fight.
Never give in.
Now there is another saying Sensei Mike taught me. It was something he heard on a television show about the martial arts, an old show called Kung Fu. It was, he said, the first rule of a true martial artist, and it went like this: “Avoid rather than check; check rather than block; block rather than strike; strike rather than hurt; hurt rather than maim; maim rather than kill, for all life is precious.”
Turn the other cheek-that’s the way we say it in my church. If someone offends you, or tries to start a fight with you, turn the other cheek-try to make peace with him-walk away. Do anything you can rather than fight, rather than hurt someone. That’s what Sensei Mike taught me, and I believe in it 100 percent. I would never use the martial arts against someone if I didn’t have to. I would walk away from any fight I could, even if people called me a coward.
But turn the other cheek doesn’t mean let yourself be killed. It doesn’t mean let yourself be ruled by bullies, or stand by and do nothing when big guys are picking on little guys or when men are hurting women. I know my mother wouldn’t like to hear me say this, and I know some of my teachers wouldn’t like it either, but we have another saying in my church: the truth will set you free. And the truth is, there may come a time when even the most peaceful man alive has to fight or else something truly evil will happen.
For me, I knew that time had come.
I took a breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, relaxing my body. I figured I had one chance, one shot. I had to make it good.
Rat Face was finished. The syringe was full. He laid the vial down on the bureau. He was holding the syringe with the needle in the air. There was a droplet of clear liquid on the tip of the needle. He was watching it closely, warily. He didn’t want it to fall on him.
Chunky’s eyes were moving back and forth between the needle and me. He had a look of gleeful anticipation on his stupid face.
“Oh, boy,” he said. “This is gonna be so good.”
Rat Face grinned and came forward, holding the syringe, watching the syringe, walking slowly and carefully as if he were balancing on a rope. “Get ready, punk,” he said in his breathy voice. “You’re gonna be screaming like an opera singer in a minute.”
He came forward another step. I watched him, waited. I kept my body relaxed, breathing in, breathing out. Believe me, it wasn’t easy. I was so scared, I felt as if my throat was closing shut.
Rat Face carried the needle another step toward me and another. He was close enough now so that I could’ve lifted my free foo
t and kicked him-but he wasn’t where I wanted him to be. It had to be just right. I only had that one chance.
Rat Face came closer, holding the syringe up. He was just off to my right side. He was reaching for my right wrist with his left hand, ready to take hold of me, ready to inject the poison into me.
“All right, my friend,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “This’ll only hurt for about an hour. Then you’ll be dead.”
Chunky laughed stupidly at that. He was watching the whole thing like a kid watching fireworks.
Rat Face took another step. Perfect. He was right where I wanted him.
I snapped my leg up fast and hard, a lightning snap kick that flew up smack between Rat Face’s legs. I threw that kick with enough force so that it would’ve hit him in the chin if nothing had stopped it. But his groin stopped it. The kick landed with full force right where it hurts the most.
It happened so fast-it took them so completely by surprise-that Chunky was still smiling as Rat Face’s eyes went wide in agony, as his mouth went open to form an enormous O. Then Rat Face dropped the syringe. It shattered on the floor, the clear liquid spilling out of it with a heart-stopping sizzle.
The smile started to fade from Chunky’s face. His stupid eyes looked even stupider. He still hadn’t processed what had just happened.
Meanwhile, Rat Face grabbed his middle and doubled over. He bent so low, his head moved right past my hand. That’s what I was waiting for.
Straining against the strap that held my wrist, I reached out and grabbed Rat Face by the throat. It was a perfect catch. I got him in a pincerlike grip called the dragon’s claw. It held the front of his throat tight, right under his chin. His wide eyes went wider still. His tongue appeared in the open O of his mouth. He made a noise. “Ack,” it sounded like. A sickly flush began to rise into his brown cheeks.
About one second had passed since I’d thrown my kick. Finally, Chunky was beginning to realize that things were going wrong.
The last thing I remember h-1 Page 2
