He could feel the buildup of lactic acid growing in his calves and thighs, and though he was in little danger of having them cramp or give out, he felt they needed to hurry. His abs burned from keeping his back pressed hard into the tire. It felt like he’d done a hundred crunches with a fifteen-pound medicine ball clutched to his chest.
He pulled the 9mm pistol from his pocket and switched off the safety.
“Easy, now,” he whispered.
Joe adjusted his feet. Kurt went next, and they slowly moved up through the last six inches. Kurt raised the gun and stretched his neck so he could just peer over the edge. He saw no one guarding the well.
“Clear,” he said.
“Clear on this side,” Joe said. “Now what?”
Kurt tossed the gun over the edge and drew the rope out from beneath his shirt. He passed it through his hands until he had the length he needed.
With one hand on each end of the rope he let out a half loop approximately four feet in length. With a flip of the wrist and an extension of his arms he sent a wave of energy through the rope. The middle sailed out away from him in a big U shape and dropped over the top of one A-frame neat as could be.
Kurt slid it taut and pulled it downward so it wouldn’t ride up the metal bars.
Making sure not to twist, he passed one end of the rope back to Joe. “Hold on to that with both hands and hold on tight.”
Kurt pulled his section taut and wrapped a loop under his arm, around his triceps and then around his hand twice. Joe followed suit.
“You holding that rope tight?”
“Like it’s a winning lottery ticket,” Joe said.
“Good,” Kurt replied, “because you know what’s going to happen once we give our poor legs a rest, right?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “Like everything else connected with you, it’s going to be painful.”
“No pain, no gain,” Kurt said. “This time the gain is our freedom. Ready?”
“Ready.”
Kurt tensed his arms, locking them in place.
“Three … two … one … go!”
At almost the same instant both men pulled on the rope and relaxed their legs and abs. The rope snapped taut around the A-frame. The tire fell from between them and they swung forward, slamming into the wall and dangling there a few feet below the top.
The tire hit bottom with a noisy clunk, but Kurt and Joe held on tight high above it.
“We have to do this part at the same time,” Kurt said, “otherwise someone’s going back down.”
They pulled themselves up side by side, arm over arm, until they were able to grasp the metal of the A-frame. It burned their hands as it had Kurt’s earlier, but they held on, pulled themselves up and clambered over the low wall.
Kurt hit the sand face-fi
rst and was damn glad of it. Joe crashed down beside him.
Breathing hard and resting for a moment, Kurt could feel his legs shaking. It seemed like they’d been in that well for days. He looked to his wrist. His watch was still with the guard in Malé.
He held a hand toward the setting sun.
“What are you doing?” Joe asked.
“Trying to make a sundial.” He gave up. “What time do you have?”
“Six forty-five,” Joe announced. “It must be a new record. Left for dead and back to the action in less than an hour.”