by Lisa Ladew
Chapter 20
Sara listened hard, making sure the men had actually left and one of them wasn’t just inside the door, waiting to see if she was really unconscious. She didn’t think so but it always paid to be cautious. She’d never met or heard of this Brian or Chris before, but she was reasonably sure neither was a big boss. And the real party wouldn’t start until a big boss got here. She’d been out of the game so long she barely knew who the players were anymore, but still, she knew a big boss when she met one. Neither of these guys was one.
These guys were either lower-level agency, or they were just standard criminals who had been recruited. One of them at least had to be agency, she thought. The DCIA wouldn’t trust her to just anyone. And she had seen Thorpe at the hotel. He’d been behind the swat guys. She had tried to shoot him, but she was pretty sure the shot had missed him. The second officer in had bulldozed into her from the side and smashed her in the head with a metal baton. Dazed, she had still tried to claw her way through them to Thorpe but one of them had shot her in the arm. She didn’t know if they had been real Las Vegas PD or agency playing a part, but since she didn’t know, she refused to shoot or stab any of them. Thorpe, though, if she had been able to get to him, she would have put a bullet in his brain in a heartbeat.
Thorpe was a big boss. So high up in the agency he was practically untouchable. He only answered to the Senator in charge of The Agency. He was one of the biggest reasons she was on the run.
She had lost consciousness at some point. The last thing she remembered was being shot, and then some sort of painful explosion in her head that had instantly stolen her awareness. She didn’t wake up until they were just leaving the city in the car. They had driven mostly North, but sometimes North/Northeast out of Vegas for 3.5 hours. Much of it on crappy side roads. She had stayed in the position she was in when she woke up, cramped and uncomfortable, but not wanting them to know she was awake, watching the sun go down out of the corner of her eye to determine their direction. She had counted the minutes in her head and estimated how fast they were going. The best she could figure was that they were 175 miles north of Las Vegas, in the Nevada desert.
She had a pretty good idea what was in store for her once they got where they were going. Thorpe wanted the identities of the leaders of the agitadors - the name given to the band of rebel women fighting against the government-sanctioned human trafficking in Mexico. The band of rebel leaders she had founded and funded. He also wanted to know how they contacted Sara. And he wanted all of Sara’s reports and pictures on him. Sara knew he wasn’t above plans of torture to get what he wanted.
And Jerry was with them. Poor, sweet Jerry who had never been agency. Why had she ever thought it? He wasn’t agency, his friends weren’t in on anything, and now she had signed his death warrant by being attracted to him and letting him believe there might be a chance between them.
In the dark, pregnant quiet, she said a silent apology to Jerry for getting him into this.
When she was certain she was alone, she turned her focus to getting out of her cuffs. She’d been in a situation like this once before, and had managed to escape. She was seriously surprised that she did not have an armed guard right now. Thank God she didn’t though. Disarming a guard before he realized she was free would have made things even harder. Hard, but not impossible. Not for Love ‘em and Cleave ‘em Lola, she thought. God, she hated that nickname. She hated all her nicknames.
She categorized her injuries. Head, throbbing on both sides. Bad, like a giant rotten tooth. Left arm, numb from the elbow down. Could she move her left hand? She could, but vaguely, like it was part of a poorly-built mechanical arm. Right shoulder, sore. Other than that, she felt OK. She rolled her shoulders and turned onto her stomach. Using her strong back muscles she brought her shackled feet up to her handcuffed hands. They’d left her with her shoes, too, which was another big mistake on their part. They’d taken the knives, but left the shoes. She felt through the lining of one shoe until she found what she was looking for. A short, small piece of metal. She fished it out and relaxed, giving her arms a break. As her feet fell to the floor the piece of metal caught on her shoelace and quietly clattered out of her fingers to the ground. No matter, she had another. Several more actually, including a short one in her mouth between her cheek and gum. That one had been there so long she had developed callouses around it. She brought her feet back up and felt around for the second, grasping it more carefully. She relaxed again for a moment, then maneuvered the piece of metal around to her handcuffs, tapping carefully for the little hole. She found it, and with a quick push and twist, her hands were free.
Quickly, she tried to sit up and simultaneously flip her arms forward to unshackle her feet, but her left arm froze up and almost forced a scream from her lips. She clamped her tongue between her teeth and waited, sweating against the pain. That was her gunshot wound. Her arms had been forced behind her back for hours now and it had gone to sleep. But it was awake again, and furious.
When enough of the pain abated, she moved her right hand towards her ankles, but more slowly this time. She picked the lock and rubbed her ankles as the shackles fell to the ground.
Quickly, Sara stood up and paced the room, looking for any sort of weapon or advantage. She picked up the cuffs and shoved them in her pocket as she went.
Cot, toilet, small room with absolutely nothing in it. Sara tried the door. Locked, of course. She ran her fingers over the hinges, plucking at them. They were heavy, with no movable parts. Dead end. She bent over and examined the lock plate and latch assembly, poking her little piece of metal in there. No luck.
Sara went to the window and tried to open it. It was stuck tight; shut and locked and covered with bars on the outside. Improbable means of escape, even if she could loosen the bars somehow. But she would come back to it. She ran her hands over every inch of the outside wall, looking for cracks or weaknesses. It was made of clay on the inside. One of those shacks made with red desert dirt and water that would last forever and keep the inside cool at the same time. Was there paneling on the outside? She tried to see but couldn’t.
She ran her hands over the toilet and then pulled on it. It didn’t budge. How do you anchor a toilet into clay? Was there a steel plate in here somewhere? She put her foot on it and pushed, but still there was no movement at all. She left it for the time being and flipped the cot over. There were small screws she could take out but they were useless without a plan. She could take it apart and use the connecting pieces as a weapon. Pretty shoddy weapon though. They were too light to be very useful.
She got down on her hands and knees and went over every inch of floor. The floor itself was oiled, hard-packed dirt. She found no items, no loose dirt, and no holes. Sara didn’t allow herself to get discouraged. There was something here that would allow her to escape. She just had to find it.
She had three more walls to check, and then she could move the cot around and check the ceiling. She ran her hands over the wall separating her from Jerry. She found a hole, only about an inch wide but about 3 inches deep, about a foot above the floor. She scratched at it with her fingernail, trying to dislodge more clay, but nothing moved. She put her little piece of metal to work on it, and was able to scrape away some tiny pieces of clay. She looked closer and saw the circle of clay around the hole were stained a darker color than the rest of it. Blood? Sara grimaced and wondered how long it took someone to dig that hole with only their fingers. She didn’t want to know.
How many inches until it broke through to the room next door? And why wouldn’t the person try this on an outside wall? Maybe there was paneling on the outside wall and the person who did this knew that. Maybe they just wanted a diversion, a distraction, or to be able to talk to the person in the next room. Sara wouldn’t mind being able to talk to Jerry, but she didn’t have time for this now. She had to focus on getting out.
She heard movement behind the door. She ran over quietly and put her ear to it. “I’m jus
t going to check on her,” a voice called, then metal scraped against the door. She jerked the handcuffs out of her pocket and flattened herself against the wall.
The scraping stopped and she heard a key slide home in the lock. The door opened slowly. Sara waited to see what would enter first. Gun? Head? Body? A brown-haired head poked in at chest height. This man was an amateur.
Sara flung the handcuffs around the man’s neck and pulled him into the room, squeezing his neck with all her strength. He never had a chance to make a sound. His hand came up blindly, a gun in it, trying to hit her. She leaned her head back and pulled more pressure on the cuffs. His movements slowed. She pulled harder. He began to slump forward. Now Sara had to decide - choke him out and leave him unconscious? Or keep choking till he was dead. Not knowing who he was, Sara wanted to just leave him unconscious, but it was oh so dangerous to do so. Killing him would probably more than double her chances of getting out of here alive with Jerry.
Pain exploded in Sara’s right temple. The struggle had made her sloppy, and the other man was pushing a gun in her face. She gritted her teeth against the pain and kept pulling. She’d made her decision.
“Let him go, bitch!” Chris screamed.
No way, Sara thought, hot blood pounding in her ears. Shoot me or don’t. Either way, you’re next.
Instead, Chris brought the gun butt down on her head. For the third time that day, explosions rocked her brain. All of the strength oozed out of Sara’s body, and she fell forward on top of the man she’d been trying to strangle. She didn’t lose consciousness. But it was a close thing.
Chapter 21
Jerry paced his room, his shoulders crying out at more than 4 hours behind his back. He’d searched the entire room thoroughly, twice, and there was nothing loose in here. OK, change tactics. Is there a way to get out of these cuffs without finding anything to stick in the lock?
Jerry thought long and hard. Could he at least get his hands in front of his body? That would relieve the pressure from his shoulders and make a third search easier. He experimented a little, and found he could not move his hands up at all, but what about down? He crouched, and ran his hands down the back of his body. They caught on his butt and wouldn’t go farther. Damn! He pulled his hands apart as far as possible and crouched and pushed/pulled at the same time. Success! They slid past and he almost fell over. Now he bent at the knees and moved his hands all the way down to his feet. He stepped carefully backwards with first one foot, and then the other and stood up, marveling that his hands were now in front of his body.
His shoulders sang in relief. He let his arms recover and wished he would have done that as soon as he got into this room. It was simple enough. Now, don’t start berating yourself, he thought quickly. You did it. You’re doing a great job. Focus on getting out of here.
Jerry started another search of the room, starting at the door, and fastidiously examining every inch of the rooms with his fingers. He refused to hurry.
While Jerry was turning over the cot and wondering if there was anyway to tear the fabric from it and get it stiff enough to jimmy his cuffs he heard a commotion outside the doorway. He ran to the door and pressed his ear against it. Grunts and clanging sounds. Was it a struggle? He dropped to the floor and pressed his ear to the crack at the floor trying to hear better.
He heard a shout. “Let him go, bitch!” Jerry’s heart took the express elevator to his throat. Sara was fighting. Somehow, Sara was fighting with the men that had brought them here!
Jerry got up and yanked on the door handle. He braced his foot against the doorway and pulled with all his might. He had to get out there and help! The door held fast. Jerry let go and turned around and around the room in an impotent rage. He couldn’t just stand here!
He held his breath and listened at the door again. All sounded quiet. What had happened?! Fear and anxiety beat at his chest with panicked fingers. What was going on?
He heard voices.
“Get up, help me with her!”
Then a low moaning and rasping sound.
“Shake it off, help me get her into the chair before she wakes up. You fucked up going in there like that.”
It sounded like Chris, the stockier guy was talking. That meant Brian was the one doing the moaning. Jerry mentally high-fived Sara for messing him up, while at the same time he moaned internally at the words ‘before she wakes up.’ Had they knocked her out again? A person’s brain could only take so many blows to the head before it suffered permanent damage.
More talking. Jerry strained to hear. It was Brian, his voice torn and gravelly. “She got out of her cuffs. Bitch tried to kill me. We can’t put her back in there. She’ll just get out of her fucking cuffs again.”
“We’ll break her arms. Thorpe won’t care if we break her arms, as long as she can still talk when he gets here.”
“Yeah, let me do it. There’s a sledgehammer in the shed.”
Brian’s voice had taken on a note of excitement now. Jerry’s hands clenched into fists. Break her arms? These men were monsters!
“Yeah, OK, but first put her on the chair. We got to tie her to it before she wakes up.” Jerry heard grunts of exertion and knew they were moving Sara.
Jerry’s mind raced furiously, he had to get out of here. He had to help Sara. He couldn’t just sit in here and listen while they broke her arms with a sledgehammer. His mind would break in two.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a gunshot wound. She was shot at the hotel.”
“Looks painful.” Brian’s voice had taken on a horrible mocking quality. Like a nasty bully who was about to get his way.
Sara screamed. Jerry didn’t want to imagine what was going on out there. Did he stick his thumb in her wound and grind it around? Sara screamed again and Jerry couldn’t stand it one more second. He backed up, ran, and jumped at the door, pounding it with his weight. There was no way he was going to bust it open or down, because the hinges were on the wrong side, but maybe he could splinter it, pulverize, and push his way out. Either that or he was going to beat his brains in trying. He saw no other way.
He bounced off the door and landed on his feet. He backed up and ran at it again, yelling out his pain and frustration. The impact jarred his bones. His teeth seemed to come loose in his head. No matter, he ran at it again with another ear-splitting bellow of fury. Again, again. He started to feel it give in the middle. He doubled his efforts and pushed harder with his feet. A loud crack down the center of it gave him strength to ignore the pain and hit it again.
A boom echoed through the room. Another. Movement caught his eye and a hole appeared at the very top of the door. They had shot it from outside.
“LAY OFF! JUST QUIT IT! OR SHE’LL SCREAM MORE.”
Jerry stopped, panting hard, listening intently.
A soft voice he could just barely hear. “Why can’t we just kill him?”
The reply, also soft. “Thorpe wants him. If she won’t talk Thorpe plans to torture him in front of her.”
Yelling, directed at him. “STAND BACK FROM THE DOOR. IF YOU RUSH ME I’LL SHOOT YOU.”
“OK, I won’t rush you.” Jerry said back, his voice shaking from the adrenaline squirting through his body.
The door opened inward. Chris stood there. “Step up to the doorway, and look.” He stood back and Jerry did. He saw Sara, her eyes closed, her head rolled forward, and her arm leaking blood from the hole in it, in what looked like a dentist’s chair. They had looped rope around her middle and her legs. Brian was standing next to the chair, holding a gun on her. Chris was holding a gun on Jerry.
“Look, we aren’t going to do anything to her. We just need to keep her here until our boss gets here. He’s the one who wants to talk to her. But if you hit that door again, I’ll start breaking her fingers. Every hit of the door equals one finger broken. And if you come through the door, I’ll shoot you. My boss wants to talk to you, and I don’t want to kill you. I don’t want to kill anybody, but I will if I h
ave to.”
“You aren’t going to break her arms?” Jerry demanded powerfully, mostly to keep Chris talking. He couldn’t go back in that room. He and Sara were both dead if he did.
Chris and Brian exchanged a worried look.
“Yeah I heard you guys. What’s this Thorpe got on you two that you’re willing to torture innocent people for?”
Brian laughed, a sad, broken sound. “Innocent? She ain’t innocent for a second. Do you have any idea how many people she’s killed?”
Jerry shook his head. “No, how many?” Something about Sara looked different. She had shifted in her seat maybe.
“Hundreds. Maybe close to a thousand. They don’t call her the Carnicero of Zapopan for nothing,” Brian spat out, his gun hand losing focus, pointing at the floor while he talked.
Jerry blinked. Carnicero? Butcher? Jerry tried to focus on his goal here: keep them talking, but his mind kept wanting to go to what they had said. She had killed hundreds of people? Could it be true? And if it was true, what did that mean about her? Was she a monster too? Was he caught sideways in this den of monsters who deserved each other? Should he just let them close the door, then try to figure a way to get himself out, and leave Sara to whatever mess she had created.
Sara herself decided for him. As Jerry looked at Brian, trying to digest what he had just heard, he saw movement in the chair. Sara stretched, elongated, and her hands moved almost quicker than his eye could track. They snatched a screwdriver from Brian’s pocket and buried it in his throat. She pulled forward viciously, and Jerry saw her perforate his trachea. Brian convulsed madly, blood from his throat spattering Sara in thick, red threads. His hands scrabbled to his throat, his eyes unbelieving. He fell over with a thud.
Chris turned his head. When he saw the bloody hump that had been his partner, his gun swung towards Sara. Jerry’s thought ceased and a veil of action fell over his eyes. He leapt forward, his handcuffed hands above his head. He brought his hands down as hard as he could on Chris’ wrists, feeling a satisfying crunch, but Chris still managed to pull the trigger. His bullet reverberated loudly in the room. Jerry didn’t have time to see where it went, he brought his hands up in a quick, hard jab, hitting Chris as hard as he could in the face. Chris’ neck snapped back and his body followed. Jerry would have huge, purple bruises from his wrists to his elbows for weeks, but he didn’t feel a thing in the moment. As Chris’ body flew backwards and slammed into the wall, his hands opened and the gun flew out. Jerry went after it and scooped it off the floor, immediately turning it on Chris.
