Mean Streak

Jeff had never served in the military, but she’d seen enough movies to recognize a foot locker for what it was. The metal trunk had reinforced corners and substantial brass fastenings. Fortunately they appeared to be unlocked. If she could manage to slide the locker from beneath the bed, she’d be able to open it.

It wasn’t going to be easy. She was weak from not having eaten for over twenty-four hours and spending most of that time in bed. Simply the act of bending down to inspect under the bed had brought on a surge of dizziness and rockets of headache pain. She took deep breaths to stave off both, and when they decreased to a tolerable level, she grasped the handle at one end of the locker and pulled on it with all her might.

She was able to move it no more than an inch or two at a time before having to rest. By the time she got it clear of the bed, she was damp with perspiration and her arms and legs were aching from the effort.

She flipped open the fastenings and raised the lid.

* * *

The moment he cleared the door, she launched herself at his back, leaping onto it piggyback, reaching around his head to dig her fingers into his face.

She got a thrill from hearing his grunt of surprise and pain when one of her fingernails peeled a good two inches of skin off his cheek. But her success was short-lived, lasting all of ten or fifteen seconds.

Then his gloved hands closed around her wrists and forced her hands away from his face. While before, she’d been holding on with fierce determination, she was now fighting just as hard to free her wrists from his iron grip. She kicked against the backs of his legs but that was a waste of valuable energy.

She acknowledged the futility of trying to work herself free at the same time her reservoir of strength ran dry. She sagged against him, draped over his back like the flag of the vanquished.

“You done?” he asked.

“Not by a long shot.”

“I’m going to let you down. No more nonsense, all right?”

“Go to hell.”

“In due time, Doc. It’s a sure thing.”

Stretching his arms behind him over his shoulders, he dangled her until she could touch the floor, then he let go.

She’d planned for this. Before he was fully turned around to face her, she jerked free the butcher knife she’d stuck into one of the wall logs and made a swipe with it across his middle. He bowed his back and sucked in his belly just in time. She missed completely. The second swipe nicked the material of his coat but did negligible damage to the tough fabric.

“Damn you!”

She raised the knife high and arced it downward toward his neck. The tip of the blade caught in the wool of his scarf, but never found flesh before he grabbed her hand and, with humiliating ease, unarmed her. He tossed the knife across the room, where it skidded across the hardwood floor before banging into the baseboard.

“Now are you done?”

She stumbled back against the wall, fearing retribution. He looked huge and indomitable. Blood trickled from the deep scratch on his face. He brushed it with the back of his hand, leaving a red smear on the chamois leather glove.

He looked at the fresh bloodstain, then at her. “I guess you’re feeling better.”

She pulled herself up to her full height and glared at him, despising her own weakness and infuriated by his composure.

“Want to tell me what the hell that was about?” he asked.

He followed the direction of her angry gesture and looked over his shoulder toward the dining table where she’d placed the incriminating laptop and its charger, which she’d found in the locker beneath the bed. “You lied to me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You said you didn’t have a charger.”

“I said I didn’t have a phone. Which I don’t.”

“Well I found the charger, and it’s been plugged into my cell phone for two hours, and the phone is still dead. What did you do to it?”

“I took the battery out.”

His calm admission rendered her speechless. As she stood there gaping, he clamped the end of his middle finger between his front teeth and used them to pull off his right glove, then began unbuttoning his coat.