Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

I needed to lift the chain that bound both wrists to the hook above me up over the end, drop down, and run. When I’d first gotten there, I would have been able to do it easily. It was a dead lift up, and I could have managed that, but now, I wasn’t sure. And if I did it and that was all I had, then what? Once I was out of the room, where did I go? There were so many variables and I had so very little energy.

It was so much to imagine and—

Ian.

It was everything, a whole universe of sound and images and smells and all of it assaulting me and pummeling my brain and then—quiet.

Ian.

There was only his face and the curt nod I used to get that I knew now was special and arrogant and the way he was with only me.

He’d worked so hard to keep himself away, and then when he simply couldn’t, when I’d broken through and held him, kissed him, loved him… all that puffed-up macho pride became clear as what it was—his desire. Ian wanted me, and I was the first person he’d let down that wall for. I would not be responsible for him locking himself away again. Even if I died, he’d know I’d been trying to get to him, and that would tell him he was worthy of love and so he would someday love again. It was my hope, anyway.

I had to try. There was no way out of that.

Every muscle in my body screamed that it could not do what I wanted. My heart pounded, I shook like a leaf in the wind, and sweat poured off me. I lost the grip on the hook three times—gripping, pulling, and then falling back down. But on the fifth try, on the one I was going to quit after, I heaved my body up, pushed through a pressure in the back of my head that felt like someone was driving a spike through it, and fell hard to the concrete floor.

I heard my left ankle snap, and the pain was instantaneous. If I’d had my regular strength, I could have compensated for my descent. But as weak as I was, I slipped, and it was over. I crawled to the doorway because I wasn’t ready to put any weight on it.

Hearing voices, I rolled sideways and waited.

“You get the water. I’ll go call the doc and tell him that he’s ready for him.”

“Good.”

Only one man reached the door and noticed it was open. He pushed it open and leaned in. “Dr. Hartley, are you already in—”

He went down hard when I grabbed his left ankle and tripped him face forward. But even with how hard he hit, he still had his gun out when he rolled over. I took that easily; I was trained for the contingency, but in so doing, I missed the spear-point knife. It was only five inches long, but when it was buried in my right shoulder, it hurt like hell. When he shoved on it, making the cut longer, I threw an elbow to his face, and that time he hit the ground with enough force to knock him out. I sat there for a long moment before I searched his pockets and came up with my salvation. Not an Uzi or more mags for his Beretta 92FS, but instead, his iPhone.

I couldn’t get Ian because the phone was password-protected, but as I struggled to my feet, checked the clearance on the gun and the mag, and leaned against the wall, the call to 911 went straight through.

Quickly, efficiently, I rattled off my badge number, explained I was a marshal, and went on to say that I was critically wounded and needed help at my location.

“Stay on the phone with me, marshal,” the operator ordered.

“I can leave the phone on, but I have to put it under my arm so I can have both hands on the gun.”

“Okay.”

“Normally I can shoot with one hand,” I told her.

“Of course.”

“But I’m shakin’ kinda hard right now.”

“Yes, I would suspect so,” she said, taking a breath.

“So you might hear armpit noises.”

“That’s quite all right.”

“Are you sure?” I teased and realized I was bordering on unhinged.

“Yes, marshal,” she answered, her voice soothing. “I wish you could put me on speaker.”

“So do I.”

As if on cue, two guys came hauling ass around the corner, and I dropped them both with shots to the legs and shoulders. I had them throw aside their guns and their phones, and after slowly moving over to them, dragging my fractured ankle behind me, I put the muzzle of my stolen Beretta to the forehead of the closest guy and asked him which way was out.

I was worried I was in some underground bunker or an enormous abandoned warehouse or God knew what, but it so happened that I was being held in a trailer like they had on a construction site, just much bigger, with the bars built into the top of one room. Apparently sheet metal and pipes and other things were usually stacked in them, straight down and then pulled up through the roof for use. What I had thought was a torture chamber was merely functional.