I had willed myself to stay awake, aided by the buzz of mosquitoes and the self-appointed task of keeping them from landing for a blood feast on Sherry's skin. On the other side of the room it was Marcus whose turn it was to sit watch. He was in the wooden, straight-back chair, the iPod wires flowing out of his ears and the shotgun lying across his thighs. On occasion he would start bobbing his head to a tune I couldn't hear and close his eyes but I had to hand it to both boys: whether it was fear of what Buck might do if he found them asleep or if they were simply used to a late-night existence, neither of them nodded out. Whenever the sound of animal movement, or of a scraping across the floor by me or their napping crewmates, both sentries' reactions were swift and fully alert. So much for sneaking out the blade strapped on my ankle and easing over to cut someone's throat and gain control of that gun. It only happens in the movies that way. In real life I would have to wait for a mistake, a surprise that might come from an outside source, a prayer answered from someplace else.
Long ago I had dribbled the last of the canned peach juice into Sherry's mouth and with the back of my hand felt the heat coming off her forehead and neck. I conceded that my ability to gauge might be diminished, but I convinced myself that the fever had gone down with the liquids and the food. She had opened her eyes several times, though it was hard to read how reactive they were in the dim light of the Coleman lantern.
I was also trying to gauge what time it was, waiting for the sunrise. With the knife strapped to my calf I'd got more than I could have hoped for. I could cut the bindings on my ankles quickly enough. Then I'd hold the blade with my insteps and slice through the tape on my wrists with a single stroke. Then it would be hand-to-hand combat against three-at least two of them armed and who knows what the other kid brought back with him from the airboat. I'd spent most of the silent night flexing my fingers, keeping up the blood flow and working the scenes in my head, how I would move, the advantage of my height and length, the possibilities of when, but not where. I couldn't wait any longer. I'd have to take my chances here, in this small room where their movement would be confined. I'd need the shotgun first. It was a vicious thing at close range, but in this tight space the shot pattern wouldn't have time to spread out. Whatever it hit would be a shredded mess. The exact timing, though, was impossible to plan. I'd need to wait for sunrise because even if we were lucky, even if I neutralized all three, there was no way I could find the airboat in the dark. That was my reasoning, but I was still asking myself why they had waited this long. They could have blown a hole in a window of the other room with mat shotgun alone and men torn their way through me internal skin. Even if Buck had convinced himself that the room was filled with narcotics, wouldn't he have taken a chance of unloading it at night with flashlights rather than wait until morning when they'd be operating in the open? Maybe they'd grown cocky, working out here where they knew the territory, where they knew the water routes and the range of boats and sounds of intruders. Maybe they thought they were invincible.
My own head work was draining my energy. It had to be close to sunup. I closed my eyes and might have even dozed off because when I woke, all my planning of the night before went down the tubes. Circumstances out of my control forced my hand, and like every good special op gone funky, you sometimes do best by saying "fuck it" and adapting on me fly. From the reaction, all of us heard me sound of the chopper blades at the same time.
My eyes snapped open; my fingers, numb from the loss of blood and movement, had that tingling sensation in them that makes you want to yelp, then they almost involuntarily went down to my pant leg where the knife was hidden.
Across the room the kid, Marcus, stood up with the shotgun, the wooden legs of the chair scraping across the plank floor. When I focused, Buck had changed positions from when I last checked him. He had been sleeping, stretched out next to the lamp, but was now sitting with his back against the wall, eyes fixed on the light. Wayne just rolled over on one elbow and said: "Huh?"
"It's a helicopter," Buck said. His voice not anxious or even surprised. "Small one by the sound."
Marcus moved toward the door and his buddy quickly got to one knee and, uneasily, still unsteady from sleep, followed him. I was thinking, "Now! While they're distracted," but when I glanced back to Buck he was pointing the.45 directly at me.
"That's all right, officer," he said. "Don't bother getting up; we'll check it out."
The boys stopped at the door, Marcus now with his hand on the knob.
"Cops, you think?" he said back at Buck, who was now on his feet. He did not have to shake the stiffness out of his joints. He was moving sleekly, like a cat that had already stretched.
"Maybe a rescue chopper," Wayne tossed in. "You know, hurricane relief stuff."
"And maybe the fucking dope dealers just swinging by to see if their stash is still here or blown over hell's half acre by the storm," Buck said, approaching the door and causing Marcus to pull his hand back away from the knob. He then turned to me, showing the nose of the pistol. "Or maybe the boy is right, Officer Freeman. Maybe you got some friends out there after all."
No one moved for a handful of seconds, listening to the woofing sound of the blades, the volume increasing and then slightly beginning to fade.
"Well, boys. That's his first pass," Buck said. "Let's wait while he goes out to bank a turn back around and then go eyeball 'em."
They waited ten more seconds and then Buck nudged Marcus, and the boy opened the door, letting the other two out first. His mistake.
"You watch Freeman," I heard Buck say. "And stay the hell under the overhang." I then heard the thumping of footsteps on the deck, maybe a splash of someone jumping into the water. Marcus stood just outside, his hand wrapped around the door keeping it half open as he peered out. I was thinking I'd lost my chance at the shotgun, but would I even need it? If it was a police chopper, Buck and his crew might run. If it was rescue, maybe they'd wave it off. I listened to the aircraft sounds start to build again, coming back. Marcus looked inside to check on me and his face was anxious but void of any new recognition. The chopper now sounded like it was hovering and the kid stepped out again, pulling the door nearly closed with him. I couldn't afford to hesitate again.
I pulled my pants leg up and secured the knife taped to my calf, and in a quick and silent slice I freed my ankles. Without hesitation I then squeezed the handle between my boot soles, looped my wrists over the blade, and pulled through once. The edge was so sharp it flowed through the tape like paper. I rolled to my knees, eyes on the door, and stood, but that tingle, that electric shock of muscles gone to sleep and suddenly called upon, zinged through my right leg and it buckled. I went down to one knee but the fall was not nearly as startling as the sound of blaring music that jumped alive from the next room and then the electronic beep and metal clack of the computerized door lock snapping open.
I was stunned for a second by the opening beat and chords of Bob Seger's "Feel Like a Number" but before the first stanza I was up out of the blocks like a sprinter toward the outside door.
Marcus too must have been frozen by the sounds and whatever the hell he was seeing outside because his hand did not start to move from the door. I was a step away and when the light between the jamb and the door started to widen I threw my body weight into it, trapping the four fingers I had watched in disgust as they trailed down Sherry's breasts. I heard the kid scream in pain and felt him push back at me, and instinctively I took one hard-lunging swipe downward with my knife.
The door closed flush with the jamb, my shoulder against it, and with my right foot I dragged over the crowbar that Buck had used to lock me in and kicked its edge under the door and pinned it. Only then did I rest my back against the panel and look down to see four fingers, sliced off at the second joint, lying like droppings on the floor next to me. Now I wasn't flying on a plan but on adrenaline. I went first to Sherry and saw her twisting onto her side, struggling against her trapped hands. But just above her head on the wall I also saw the lights on the electronic door lock glowing green. Something had tripped the power, like a driver hitting the garage door opener with the remote halfway up the driveway. I figured someone from the chopper had the switch so I twisted the handle and shoved open the door with my hip and was met with a rush of the high volume music: Dat! da dat! da dat!, da da daaaa. Dat! da dat! da dat!, da da daaaa. I take my card and I stand in line To make a buck I work overtime
I put my bloodstained knife into my back pocket and grabbed the ends of Sherry's bed frame. I scraped the legs over and then with my back into it like a rower I pulled her through the door opening and into the computer room. Then I jumped back to the door and slammed it shut and punched a series of numbers I will never remember into the locking device, and like a miracle the lights on the lock went red.
In the closed room the music was twice as loud. Something about another drone, something about feeling like a number. I remembered the CD player on the southern wall and strode over to it but it took me one more stanza to find the off button, and the room went quiet.
I pulled my knife again and sat down on the edge of Sherry's bed and cut loose her wrists and ankles. Then without hesitation I laid my head down on her chest. I was listening to her heart, yes, but it was not my only purpose and she responded by wrapping her freed arms around my shoulders and holding me with the little power she had left.