Pawn’s Gambit (7 page)

He never got a chance to use it. Even before the words were out of his mouth I had taken the single long stride that put me within range; and as the knifetip cleared the sheath, I snapped a savage kick to his belly. He doubled over, and I had barely enough time to regain my balance and turn around before I found myself surrounded. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Heather disappear into the cabin, one of the boys in hot pursuit, but I had no chance to go to her aid. Knives glinting, they moved in.

I didn't wait for them to get within range, but charged the closest one. He probably hadn't been attacked by an unarmed man in years, and the shock seemed to throw his timing off. I deflected his knife hand easily and gave him an elbow across the face as I passed him. The others, yelling obscenities, ran forward, trying to encircle me again. One came too close and got his knife kicked from his hand. He backpedaled fast enough to avoid my next kick and drew the metal pipe from his belt. Clearly surprised by my unexpected resistance, my attackers hesitated, and I used the breathing space to pull my bowie knife from my boot.

For a second we stood facing each other. “All right,” I said in the deadliest voice I could manage, “I'll give you punks just one chance. Drop your weapons or I'll carve you into fertilizer.”

I'd never fought with a knife in actual combat, but the training was there, and it must have showed in my stance and grip. “Duke … ?” the boy I'd elbowed began.

“Shut up, Al,” Duke said, but without too much conviction.

A sound from the cabin door caught my attention. Heather, struggling against an arm across her throat, was being forced outside by the punk who'd been chasing her earlier. “Not so fast, you son of a bitch,” he called at me, panting slightly.

“Attaboy, Jackson,” Duke crowed. He turned back to me, eyes smoldering. “Now you drop
your
knife, pal. Or else your broad gets it.”

“Don't listen to him, Neil!” Heather shouted, her sentence ending with a little gasp of pain.

“Leave her alone!” I took a half step toward the door—and heard the faint sound of cloth against skin behind me.

Heather shrieked even as I started to turn, my left arm rising to block. But I was too late. The whistling iron pipe, intended for my head, landed across my shoulder instead, still hard enough to stun. I felt my legs turn to rubber, and as I hit the ground the world exploded in front of me and then went black.

I must have been out only a few seconds, because when my head cleared I was lying on my back with Duke and two of his pack standing over me. I wondered what they were waiting for, and gradually realized Heather was shouting at them. “Don't kill him! I'll make a deal with you!”

“You don't have nothing to offer that we can't take by ourselves,” Duke said flatly, his glare still on me.

“That's not strictly true,” Heather shot back, her voice tinted with both horror and determination. “Rape isn't nearly as enjoyable as sex with a willing woman. But I'm not talking about that. I can tell you where there's a big cache of food and furs.”

That got Duke's attention, but good. He looked up at her, eyes narrowed. “Where?”

“It's well hidden. You'll never find it if you hurt either of us.”

“Willy! Zac! What've we got?” Duke called.

I turned my head slowly toward the cabin as two of the boys came out the door. Heather, I saw, was no longer being held, though Jackson stood close by her with his knife drawn.

“Not too much in here,” one of the two called back. “A couple days' worth of food, maybe, and some other stuff we can use.”

Duke looked back down at me. “Okay, lady, it's a deal. Zac, go see if you can find some rope.”

“You gonna tie him up out here?” Al asked. “Someone might find him.”

“Naw, we're gonna take them inside. But I want his hands tied before he gets up.” Duke grinned down at me. “You've got a good place here to hole up. We almost missed it.”

I didn't bother to reply. A moment later Zac brought out most of my last coil of nylon rope, and in two minutes my hands were tied tightly behind my back. I was then dragged to my feet and marched at knifepoint into the cabin. Heather was already inside, her hands similarly tied.

“Let's put 'em in the kitchen,” Willy suggested. “We can tie 'em to chairs there.”

We were taken in and made to sit down, but they ran short of rope and only I was actually tied to my chair. Al suggested instead that Heather and I be roped to each other, but Duke decided against it. “She can't get into any trouble,” he scoffed. Stepping over to me, he inspected my ropes and then drew his knife, resting its tip against my Adam's apple. “Okay, girl, I got my knife at your friend's throat. Give.”

She gave them directions to my upstream “refrigerator” hollow. “You'll probably need to walk—there's too much undergrowth for bikes,” she concluded.

“Okay, we'll go take a look.” Duke sheathed his knife and glanced at the others. “Jackson, you and Colby stay here and keep an eye on things. And keep your paws off the food—hear?”

“Gotcha,” Jackson said. Colby, mobile but still hunched over from my kick, nodded weakly.

Willy caught Duke's eye, glanced meaningfully in my direction. “Why bother with guards?”

“'Cause if she's lying we want him in good shape, so we can take him apart for her,” he said calmly. “Let's get started.”

They left. Jackson and Colby hung around a little longer, until the sounds of conversation from the others faded into the distance, and then went into the living room where they'd be more comfortable. The swinging door closed behind them and we were alone.

I looked at Heather, wishing I had something encouraging to say. “Did they hurt you?” I whispered instead.

“No.” She paused. “They're going to kill us, aren't they?”

There was no point in lying to her. “Probably. I blew it, Heather.” The words made my throat ache.

“Maybe not. They took the four kitchen knives out of the drawers earlier. But they didn't find your bayonet.”

I stared at her, hope and surprise fighting for supremacy in my mind. I'd long ago told Heather of the weapon and its hiding place, of course: it had been put on top of the wall cabinet over the kitchen sink precisely for a circumstance like this. There was only a three-inch-high gap between the cabinet and ceiling, an easy spot to overlook in a quick search. But how did Heather know Duke's punks had missed it?

For the moment, though, the answer was unimportant. Carefully, I tested the ropes that held me to the chair. It was a complete waste of time—the boys hadn't taken any chances. “There's no way for me to get over to it,” I admitted to Heather at last.

“I know.” Her face was very pale, but her mouth was set in grim lines. Swaying slightly, she stood up from her chair. Her feet were tied at the ankles, but by swiveling alternately on heels and toes she was able to inch across the floor. Turning her back to the counter that adjoined the sink, she used her tied hands to help push herself into a sitting position on top of it. The counter was, for a change, clear of dishes and other obstacles, and by twisting around Heather was able to rise into a kneeling posture. Positioning herself carefully, she bowed forward at the waist and stretched her hands upwards toward the bayonet.

She couldn't reach it.

“Damn, damn, damn,” she whispered bitterly. She tried again, straining an inch or two higher this time, but she was still nearly a foot too short. Standing up would help, but there was no way, tied as she was, for her to get the needed leverage to manage such a move.

She seemed to realize that, and for a moment she knelt motionlessly. I could see tears of frustration in her eyes. “It's all right, Heather—” I began.

“Shut up, Neil.” She thought for another minute and I could see her come to some decision. Moving cautiously, she turned so that she was leaning over the sink in a precarious-looking position. Then, taking a deep breath, she hit the window sharply with her elbow. It shattered with a loud crash.

I bit back my involuntary exclamation. Jackson and Colby stormed in, knives at the ready. “What the hell's goin' on?” Jackson demanded. He glanced at me to confirm that my ropes were still intact, then strode to the counter and roughly hauled Heather down. “What the hell were you trying to pull, bitch?”

She shook her head defiantly. He slapped her, hard, and turned to me. “What was she tryin' to do?”

A damn good question, especially as I hadn't the slightest idea. “She didn't say, but I think she was trying to get out,” I said, hoping I was way off the mark. “I guess she forgot about the security bars.”

He looked back at Heather, who was now looking sullen. From the doorway, Colby spoke up. “I'll bet she was looking for something. Let's check those cupboards.”

Jackson dragged Heather back to her chair and then returned to the cabinet. I watched in helpless silence as he searched all the cabinet shelves and then, almost as an afterthought, climbed onto the counter and looked on top of it. With a triumphant war whoop, he pulled out the bayonet. “Trying to get out, huh?” he sneered at me. “Hot damn! Wait'll Duke sees this.”

“Jackson,” Heather said, speaking to him for the first time, “won't you let us go? Please? We can't hurt you anymore—you'll all be long gone before we could do anything.”

“Screw you, sister.” He looked at her a moment, as if wondering whether she should be punished for her escape attempt, then apparently decided against it. Swinging the bayonet idly, he nodded at Colby. “Let's get back to the cards. I don't think we'll have any more trouble from these two.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling crushed. The bayonet had been, at best, a very long shot, but somehow it had helped just to know it was there if I was ever able to get to it. Now that last chance was gone; and all because I hadn't had a convincing lie ready when it had been needed. I'd blown it for us twice.

A faint scraping sound made me open my eyes. Heather had stood up again and was once more inching her way toward the sink. “Heather—?”

“Shh!” she hissed. Her face held concentration, and not even a touch of the despair I was feeling. What was she up to?

I soon found out. Again she hoisted herself to a sitting position, on the edge of the sink itself this time. Instead of getting up on her knees, though, she extended her hands back toward the jagged spikes of glass in the broken window. Without hesitation—and without touching anything else—her fingers zeroed in on a particularly loose fragment. She tugged, breaking it free with only the slightest
snap,
and I finally realized what her plan had been. Hopping down with her prize, she started back toward me.

But we were still a long way from freedom. We now had something to cut the ropes with, but with my hands half-numbed from loss of circulation I knew I could never cut Heather's bonds without severing a vein in the process. Her hands were probably in the same condition, and even with her enhanced sense of touch she wouldn't do much better on my ropes. Still, it was our only hope.

Heather, however, seemed to have an entirely different idea. “Open your legs an inch,” she whispered as she reached me. I started to object, but she seemed to know what she was doing, so I shut up and did as I was told. Turning so that her back was to me, she stooped down and placed the piece of glass directly between my knees. “Close 'em,” she said.

“Wait a second, Heather, this is too dangerous,” I objected, suddenly realizing what she had in mind. “Why don't you go around and cut my ropes instead?”

She ignored the suggestion. “Close your knees and hold it tight,” she hissed furiously.

I did so. I was terrified for her hands, and my stomach was knotted at the thought of what was probably going to happen, but we were running out of time. If we did nothing before Duke returned, we were dead. Heather crouched a bit more, placed one of her bonds gingerly against the glass, and began to rub.

After all my fears it was like watching a minor miracle happen. Quickly, accurately, and with no wasted motion, Heather attacked the ropes around her wrists. Even with her hands undoubtedly numb she always seemed to know exactly where the ropes and glass were relative to her skin, almost as if she had eyes in the back of her head. Only once did she so much as scratch herself, and that was due to a momentary loss of balance that made her sway a little.

Seconds later her hands were free. Sitting down on the floor, she took the glass from between my knees and set to work on her ankle ropes. They were off almost immediately. For another few seconds she remained where she was, grimacing as the blood flowed back into her hands and feet. Then she stood up and walked around behind me, and I felt her fingers tugging and probing at the ropes on my wrists. “Come on, hurry up,” I muttered impatiently.

“Just a minute,” she whispered back, her voice strangely tense. Her examination finally over, she began to cut my ropes, moving much more slowly than she had earlier. Despite her caution, though, she nicked me twice and once even managed to cut her own finger. However she had worked her earlier miracle, things unfortunately seemed to be back to normal now.

But finally I was free, and as I rubbed life back into my tingling hands Heather cut the ropes on my feet and those tying me to the chair. Standing up carefully, I tiptoed over to the cupboard and utensil drawers to arm myself. A large pan lid and carving fork went into my left hand, the fork extending a couple of inches past the lid's rim; a one-piece wooden rolling pin, the housewife's traditional weapon, went into my right. I handed Heather a small metal frying pan and positioned her by the swinging door. “I'll announce myself before I come back in,” I told her. “If anyone else comes through, clobber him.”

“All right.” She paused. “They're both still sitting on the couch playing cards. The bayonet is on the floor in front of Jackson.”