I curled up and waited for the inevitable subduing, closing my eyes and gritting my teeth to protect my tongue and jaw.
The breathing was now directly overhead and I could feel their boots disturbing the snow around me as I waited for the first kick to open me up for a search.
It didn't happen.
Instead, a cold snow-covered glove pulled my hands from my face and I caught a glimpse of a canister. I didn't know if it was CS, CR liquid, or pepper, and it didn't really matter. Whichever it was, and even if I closed my eyes, it was going to fuck me over big time.
The moment I felt the ice-cold liquid make contact, my eyes were on fire. My nose filled instantly with even more snot, and I felt as if I was choking.
The flames spread all over my face. I was conscious of what was going on, but was totally incapacitated. There was nothing I could do but let it take its course.
As I choked and gagged, a hand forced my face back into the snow. There were no commands to me, or any communication between the bodies.
Snorting and gasping like a suffocating pig, I struggled for oxygen, trying to move my head against the hand that was still holding it down, desperate to clear the snow pressing on my face so I could breathe, but he wasn't letting that happen.
A kick aimed at the side of my stomach got between my arms which were wrapped protectively around it, and I half coughed, half vomited the mucus that had built up in my mouth and nose. As I rolled with the pain, Sprayman pulled me onto my back, arched because of the backpack.
My neck stretched as my head fell backward. I was still choking and snot was running into my eyes.
A gloved fist hit me across the head and my jacket was unzipped. Hands ran over my body and squeezed my coat pockets. They found the spare hook, the vegetable knife, the makeshift Yale gun. Everything was taken from me, even the Polaroid film. One of them pressed his knee into my stomach with all his weight and vomit flew from my mouth. The taste and smell of strong tea from the journey filled the air around me as it spilt onto the snow. I tried lifting my head to cough up the last remaining bits in my throat, only to be slapped down. There was nothing I could do but try to keep breathing.
The character kneeling on my stomach was joined by the weapon-pointer on my right-hand side, and his freezing, fat muzzle raked against my face, pushing into the skin. The two of them just knelt there, waiting. The only sounds were their heavy breathing and me snorting like a pig.
They knew I was fucked and were just maintaining me in that position.
From what I could make out through watery, painful eyes, they looked far more concerned with what was going on by the gate.
I knew I had to recover from the impact of the fall and the spray before doing anything about getting out of this shit. I accepted I had no control over myself physically, but I still had control of my mind.
I had to watch for opportunities to escape, and the quicker I tried to do it, the better chance I would have of succeeding. There is always confusion in the heat of things; organization only comes later.
I analyzed what I had seen. They were all in winter-warfare whites; they even all had the same weapons and were highly organized, and at least two of them spoke English with American accents. This wasn't the Maliskia, and this wasn't about commercial intelligence. I started to feel even worse about my future prospects and was pissed big-time with Liv and Val, who obviously hadn't told me everything. I just hoped I'd be able to get my own back.
I thought about Tom and hoped that if he was alive he'd make it back to the real world as quickly as he could. He had tried to save me. The bull's-eye with the hook was probably more to do with luck than skill, but at least he'd had the balls to do it. Winning a fight isn't important, it's being ballsy enough to get stuck in that is. I'd been wrong about him.
As I lay passively facing the sky, I felt something wet and cold dissolve on my lips: the first heavy flakes of a snowfall.
The few seconds of silence were broken by the crunch of snow coming from the direction of Tom's escape route. It must be the bodies returning from pursuing Tom or collecting his corpse. I tried to look, but my vision was too blurred for me to see anything. I was down in my hole and they didn't walk near enough for me to see if they had him. If so, he must be dead; I couldn't hear him, and I assumed he'd be in pain if shot, or crying if captured, thinking about returning to jail.
There was the crash of the chain as the gate was forced open, but still no sound from the two with me. Their silence made the situation feel even scarier than it was already.
Tom and I were probably a sideshow they hadn't been expecting. They must have had their hands covering their mouths, trying not to scream with laughter, watching our attempt to climb the fence, just biding their time for when we were at our most vulnerable. Whatever we were trying to get hold of, so were they. That scared me very much. It seemed the race wasn't only against the Maliskia.
Things were happening at the house. The front door was being battered.
Then I heard screaming cutting through the wind, men's voices that couldn't be from one of the teams. These were the voices that went with high-pitched, big-time commotion.
My two new friends were still looking around, and whatever they were waiting for, they got it. Muzzleman tapped Sprayman on the shoulder and they both stood up. It was obviously time to go. As soon as the pressure on my stomach was released I was thrown over onto my front, face down in the snow while the left-hand strap on my backpack was cut, accompanied by their labored breathing. My right arm was dragged behind me as it was pulled away from my body.
Gritting my teeth, I took the pain it generated in my chest. Then I was kicked over onto my back again, and I brought my knees up instinctively to protect myself.
I didn't want eye contact, not that much of it could be done in this darkness, but I wouldn't want them to construe any look I might give them as defiance and get them sparked up, or as a sign that I wasn't as injured as I was trying to pretend.
Through semi closed angled eyes I could only see one of them, swinging his weapon on its chest sling until it was across his back. Nightmare sounds were still coming from the house as he knelt down, gripping my throat with one wet, cold, gloved hand, putting another round the back of my neck, and started to pull me to my feet. I wasn't going to resist at this stage and jeopardize any chance of escape.
As my body emerged from the snow hole, the wind started hitting the tears and mucus on my face. My snot started to feel like freezing jello.
I was marched, with hands still in place around my throat, following tracks that had already been made in the snow. Not leaving signs didn't seem to be a high priority for these boys.
We went through the now open gate. I could feel the wind forcing the falling snow against my face and hear the crunching footsteps of my escorts. Looking toward the house, I felt like I'd dived into a swimming pool and was moving up toward the surface, the shimmering shapes and sounds slowly becoming more distinct.
I made out more white shapes through the snow falling in front of me, in the lights that were now blazing on both floors. There were ransacking noises, furniture being thrown about and glass breaking, but the screaming had stopped. Still not a murmur from the team. The only reason the injured guy and his helper had spoken was probably because they hadn't realized where I'd landed.
I was dragged past the 4x4 and bounced onto the wooden deck, my shins banging painfully against the steps, no doubt adding to the bruises I'd got last night. They carried on along the deck with me, the sound of their footsteps echoing along the boards.
A battering ram had been abandoned on the threshold, a long steel pole with two rectangular handles on either side. The top hinge of the door had been pushed in and the bottom one was holding the door at a 45-degree angle inward, the glass from its windows in shards on the floor. These guys hadn't bothered with electric toothbrushes.
We crunched over the broken glass and entered the house. The warmth enveloped me, but there wasn't time to enjoy it. A few paces inside I was forced face down onto the wooden floor of the hallway. To my right were three other people, tied up and face to the floor, two of them in just boxer shorts and T-shirts. Maybe this was the reason there was no voice contact. They didn't want these three to know who they were. The three captives looked about Tom's age, with long blond hair. One of them had his done up in a ponytail, another was crying and his hair was
