potential outcome to this situation other than escape.
Still unable to open my eyes because of the stinging, I rolled to my left, hoping to bump into anything that would help me free myself. I hit something soft. I brushed my cheek against it. Foam of some kind. I rolled right instead, eventually coming up against something more suitable. Something hard, stuck into the floor. After maneuvering around onto my knees, I rubbed my hands against the object.
It felt like a board, only two feet tall, and thin. Midway down the side was some sort of protrusion. Though my hands were quickly getting numb, I could tell by the sound when I jiggled it that it was a padlock.
I got my wrists under the lock, trying to wedge it in between my arms and the bungee cords. Then I took a deep breath and violently tugged my arms forward.
The elastic caught, stretched.
I pulled harder, feeling like my arms were pulling out of their sockets.
Then, abruptly, my hands were free, and I pitched forward onto my face, bumping my forehead against the padded floor.
I spent a few seconds wiggling my fingers, wincing as the blood came back, and made quick work of the other cords around my arms. Then I spit in my hands and rubbed them against my eyes. The stinging eased up enough for me to have a blurry look around the enclosure. There was moderate lighting, from an overhead fixture. I saw beige mats. A black slanted ceiling covered with sound baffles. A trunk. And a bound woman, her feet in some sort of wooden stock, my wrist bungee cord wound around a padlock on the side.
I unwound my legs, tugged off my remaining shoe, and crawled over to her, unhooking her bindings. “Can you hear me?”
The woman moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.
“You need to wake up.” I gave her a shake. “We’re in trouble.”
“My… foot… hurts…”
“What’s your name?”
“My… foot…”
I cupped her chin in my hand, made her look at me.
“Listen to me. I’m a cop. We’re in a truck sleeper and some men are trying to kill us. What’s your name?”
“Candi. I… I can’t move my feet. It hurts.”
I turned my attention to the stock. I crawled around to the other side, wincing when I saw the blood. I took a closer look because I had to assess the damage, then wished I could erase the image from my mind.
“What’s wrong with my foot?”
“You’re missing your little toe.”
“My… toe? ”
I studied the stock. Heavy, solid, the padlock and latch unbreakable. So I looked at the hinge on the other side. Six screws held it in place.
I scooted away from the stock, on my butt, and reared back my right heel.
“Stay still, Candi. I’m going to try to break the hinge.”
I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock once, twice, three times.
The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried kicking any harder I’d break my heel.
“Don’t you have a gun?”
I ignored her, turning my attention to the trunk in the corner of the enclosure. I crawled over to see if there was anything inside I could use.
“Don’t leave me!”
“I won’t leave you. I promise.”
I found paper towels, paper masks, starter fluid, plastic bags, and a large Tupperware container. The lid had brown stains on it-dried blood-and I got an uneasy feeling looking at it. Fighting squeamishness, I pulled the top off.
It was filled with rock salt. But I could make out something brown peeking through. I shook the box, and it revealed a few of the brown things, small and wrinkled. They looked like prunes.
Then I realized what they were, and came very close to throwing up. I pulled away, covering my mouth. There had to be dozens, maybe over a hundred, of them in there.
That sick bastard…
“Did you find anything?”
“Nothing helpful,” I said, closing the lid.
“What’s in that box you were holding?”
Taylor was smart. He didn’t leave any tools, weapons, or keys lying around. I eyed the starter fluid.
“Candi, do you smoke?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have matches on you? A lighter?”
“In my purse. He took it.”
Dammit. But starting a fire in the enclosed space probably wasn’t a good idea anyway. However, the chest itself had possibilities. It was made of wood, with metal reinforced corners. I picked it up, figuring it weighed at least fifteen pounds.
“What was in the box!”
I muscled the chest over to Candi and knelt next to her.
“Hold still,” I said. “If I miss I could break your leg.”
I reared back, clenched my teeth, and shoved the chest into the top of the stock. There was a loud crack, but both objects stayed intact.
I did it again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
My shoulder began to burn, and the corners of the chest were coming apart, but the hinge on the stock was bending.
Two more times and the chest burst open, spilling its contents onto the mat, the Tupperware container bouncing next to Candi.
I hit the stock one last time. The chest broke into several large pieces. I grabbed one of the slats used to make the chest, and wedged it in the opening I’d made between the top and bottom of the stock. I used it like a crowbar, levering at the hinge.
It was slowly giving… giving…
Then the stock popped open like a shotgun blast.
Candi sat up abruptly, grabbing her ankle to see her injury for herself. Then the tears hit, fast and hard.
“Ah shit… that fucker.”
“We need to find a way out of here.”
“My toe…” she sobbed.
“Candi! Focus!”
Her eyes locked on mine.
“We need to start rolling up the mats,” I ordered, “find the way out of here before they come back.”
She sniffled. “They? I only know one. Taylor.”
“He’s got a buddy now.” I made a face. “And they’re armed.”
I watched Candi’s face do an emotion montage. Anger, pain, despair, then raw fear.
“I have kids,” Candi whispered. “A boy and a girl.”
“Then we need to find the exit, fast. Start pulling up the mats.”
“What time is it? My man, Julius, he’ll come looking for me when I don’t report back.”
I thought about the pimp, running out of the diner with his teeth in his hand.
“Julius, uh, probably won’t be coming to the rescue. Do the mats. Now.”
She wiped her nose on her arm, and then reached for the Tupperware container.
“Candi…”
