Page 6 of Jazz

I crossed the floor slowly, struggling to keep my eyes off the hanging woman. Dougal turned the phone off.

“I’ll have to fucking edit all that now,” he grumbled, fumbling meaty fingers over the handset.

I scooped the Vice President off the floor and back onto his feet, Skinny groaning. The woman beside me was still, the smile dissolving from her face, replaced by tension, and a hintof anger. Skinny’s knee stuck out at a weird angle, a funny lump protruding through his jeans.

“Fuck,” I breathed. “Ya knee’s dislocated, brother.”

“Aye, I can feel the bastard.”

Above me, the smile returned.

Chapter Five

The man’s groans faded, along with the thump of multiple feet, retreating into almost silence. All that remained was the sound of my heart beating against my ribs and the whoosh of my breath, straining in my lungs. I wriggled, feeling the pull of whatever I was hooked onto. It swung, the movement growing, the wobble building. I balanced on the very tips of my toes, nowhere near enough foot on the ground to take my weight. Already my arms were hurting, an ache forming underneath my shoulder blades, in my armpits.

My head still pounded from striking the ground after the branch-like arms of a biker took me out. And now my lip joinedin, a burning ache from the cut, dried blood pulling on sensitive skin every time I moved any part of my face.

I stared again, trying to make out something, anything, through the blindfold. I think I could see light. Something crept in around the edges. I tested my bonds again, wriggling my wrists, feeling the cable ties cutting into my skin, the tiny zip as I only made them tighter. My ankles still didn’t move, but the material forcing them together was different. The pressure was not as intense. They didn’t cut into my flesh. And as I tried to work them apart, I could hear a rustle. Duct tape. And that would loosen if I kept wriggling them apart. Bit by bit.

Exhaling slowly, I took another deep, long breath, holding it for a few moments once my lungs were full. And listening. There wasn’t a rustle. Not a heavy breath or the sound of shuffling feet. I had to assume I was completely alone. So now I had an opportunity. I pushed up off my toes. Stretching my fingers, waving them around in circles, feeling. For anything. And then I caught a feel. Something cold. Metal. Dense. I tapped a nail against it. Tough and hard. Metal. A hook. It curved round at the end. Open at the top.

I didn’t need to hide my smile. There was nobody here. I had time. Time to work my tied hands up over the hook or the rub the cable ties against it. One would cut me free, and one would let me loose. The ache building in my shoulders morphed suddenly, and I flinched, rocking against the hook above me, my toes scraping the floor. The ache turned to pain. I didn’t care whether I cut the cable ties or unhooked myself, but there was no way I was hanging here any longer, waiting for my arms to be pulled straight from the sockets.

Another flood of anger rushed at me. Hot. Consuming. Motivating. The Kings would be out looking for me. I wascertain. And when they got here, I wanted to throw the first punch. Fury would grant me that. Of that, I was also certain. What I didn’t need was Kings’ pity. Or Fury trying to control my every move after this. I needed to get out of this one myself.

Straining, I regained my balance. Reaching up as far as I could, wiggling my hands up and down the thick hook. I’d unhook myself first. Then I’d find something to cut through these cable ties. I had no idea whether the Rats would be back. Or whether they would just leave me here for the night. It had to be night. It felt like it was night. Cold air gently infiltrated around me, dampness clinging to my face as temperatures dropped. My stomach rumbled loudly, the sound like an aeroplane, echoing deeply in the emptiness.

I stopped for a minute. Waiting. Listening. Checking there was no one there. No one watching. I couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t feel any sort of presence. So, I continued, stretching as far up onto my toes as I could. The hook was thick and heavy, and just out of reach. Even on the extreme tips of my toes, I couldn’t push my wrists up enough to move them over the top.

For a moment I took a breath, sinking my weight onto my shoulders, and taking the tension off my feet. A sharp ache had formed at the base of my foot, like I’d spent four hours in the highest stilettos ever. But as the ache faded, the heaviness in my arms returned, tugging on my lats, stretching and pulling like I’d just completed thirty pull-ups. Burning. It was faint at first. Just the lick of flame against tired muscle. Muscles fatigued from flailing around, from punching and scratching. But the fire built, steady, unstoppable, engulfing my shoulders and my back and my triceps.

I pushed up onto my toes again, my feet, my calves, tensing. And now that fire had moved there too, ripping throughmy skin, eating into my bones. I wanted to whimper. To cry. But even here, by myself, I wouldn’t give these fuckers the satisfaction. There’d be no tear tracks on my cheeks when they came back. I bit my lip, hissing as pain, burning like my shoulders and the balls of my feet, tore through my flesh. But I concentrated on that pain instead, remembering every pulsing feel, the heat from a new bubble of blood brought to the surface of the cut, disturbing the scab.

A drop of sweat fell between my shoulders, instantly cooling on my skin as the lick of winter, not quite in surrender but not far from it, crept in around me. I shivered, the action rocking me on the hook and sending fresh waves of pain through my body. Squeezing my eyes shut, I willed myself to feel anything other than cold, to subdue the involuntary movement of my muscles. I needed to stay still, very still, and concentrate on anything other than the burning ache in my muscles.

Around me there was silence. No rasps of breath other than mine. No sounds other than the heavy thumping of my heart in my ears. Deep, resilient, strong. But as I stilled my breathing, and slowed my heart, this space wasn’t as silent as I thought it was. Somewhere there was a drip, steady and rhythmical. Water. Dripping from a pipe or gutter. Constant, and the more I concentrated, the more I could hear it. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Was it raining outside? It had been earlier in the day. It was March. Season of shit weather. And still cold. I could feel the chill in the air again, a shiver attacking my body, a rack of pain following. Something else. Something else. Think about anything else. I just had to hang on for another hour. Then they’d be here. The Kings wouldn’t leave me hanging around. I laughed. The sound sliced through the silence. They’d come.And when they did, these fuckers would wish they hadn’t been born. They’d rip them apart. And I would watch.

Something groaned, and I jumped, my feet slipping, my body suddenly sagging against the ties. Fuck. Don’t cry out. I bit my lip, feeling for the pain it would deliver. The type of pain I could concentrate on. Easier to bear than the heavy fire in my arms. Above me there was a creak, something distinctly metal. The hook was heavier than that sound indicated; it was iron, hard and strong. This metal was thinner. Sheeting on the roof, maybe? I listened again, concentrating into space. Nothing. No sound. Just a whole lot of nothingness.

I sighed, heavier than I’d intended, sinking back onto the hook and my suspended arms, pain ripping through the muscles again. How long till they got here? How long would I hang for? The surrounding air cooled even further, the smell crisper from the stale scent of fuel and decaying concrete. I sniffed hard again. Fading fuel and concrete. The creak of metal. The thick iron hook. I had to be in a garage somewhere. And if I was in a garage, there would be tools. Everywhere.

Drawing in a breath, filling my lungs with defiance, I tipped up onto my toes once more, gaining as much height as I could. I arched my back, pushing my chest forward, parting my wrists as much as I could. Then I dragged them up and down the lump of metal holding me in place. The movement was smooth, no ridges to catch the cable ties on. But I kept going. Kept rubbing and stopping and testing. Nothing. No give.

I don’t know how long I tried. The action monotonous. The result the same. The cable ties never loosening, not even a fraction. And now I was tired. My fingers engulfed in a prickling fuzz, my arms heavy, the pain receptors in my muscles so exhausted that I was just a big bundle of numbness from thewaist up. How long could I hang before I lost circulation to my arms?

The slow drip to my right was back. Heavy and constant. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drop. Drop. The sound changed. Stronger, heavier. Rain down a gutter. It had to be. Outside, it was raining. Just enough to mist the roads and make them slippery with the slick of water on oil. Inside the smell of spent fuel faded, another scent distracted my nose. Growing and strengthening. Warm spice and something sharp. Aftershave.

There was someone here. I hadn’t heard him. He’d moved like stealth itself. No sound of footsteps, no creak of the floor, no crunch of concrete or scratch of a stone. He’d crept in, the only warning the smell of him. Fresh and spicy. In any other situation, I would have inhaled the scent, closed my eyes and really smelt him. But today, bound and hanging from the rafters like a slab of meat, that scent told me to fight.

“I know you’re there, fucker!” I growled, kicking out my legs and biting down on my lip as the pain I was expecting rushed through numb arms. A war of tingles and muscle convulsions.

Nothing. Not a voice in the darkness, not the hint of a laugh, not a sign he even breathed. But he was still there, moving closer as the smell of the aftershave grew even stronger. I followed the smell, pivoting to my left, launching my tied legs to the side. Something below me scratched. A boot on the ground. A smooth sound, but heavy, like there was weight in the noise.

“I can fucking hear you, cunt,” I spat.

A little shuffle of noise, the smell faded. I stilled, listening, feeling, smelling. Behind me. The fucker was behind me. Sucking in a heavy breath, I pulled my tied wrists againstthe hook, pain screaming in my shoulders, and threw my legs behind me. They connected with nothing. Just air. He was well out of reach, just circling me, like a hyena waiting for an opportunity. But I’d never give him that opportunity. Never. I’d rather rip my arms clean out of their sockets first.