I readjusted my body around the pan to make myself comfortable while I pulled off my other outer glove with my teeth. Then, with both touch gloves still on, I squeezed the thin metal of the soda can between my thumbs and forefingers until the sides touched in the middle. I then started to bend the two parts backward and forward. After only six or seven goes the thin metal cracked, and soon the two halves were apart. I felt for the ring-pull end and dropped the other one next to my gloves and hood.
Feeling gently around the broken edge, I looked for a place where I could start to peel the side down like an orange. The sensation had virtually gone in my swollen hands, but the touch glove caught on the aluminum and I found what I wanted and started to pick and tear. My fingers slipped a couple of times, cutting me on the razor- sharp metal, but there wasn't time to worry about that; besides, I couldn't feel the pain and it was nothing to what would be inflicted on me if I didn't get away from here.
Once I'd pared the metal down to under an inch from the tab end, I tried moving my wrists apart as much as possible. It didn't work that well because plasticuffs are designed not to stretch, but there was just enough play to do what I wanted. Cupping the can in my right hand with the sharp edge upward, I bent it toward my wrist, trying to reach the plastic. If I'd left more tin sticking out it would have gone further, but the edge would have buckled under the pressure. That was also why I used the tab end: The thicker rim gave the cutting edge more strength.
I knew that establishing a cut into the cuffs was going to take the most time, but once I'd got into that nice smooth plastic I could go for it. It must have taken just a minute or two for the jagged tin to finally bite; then, when I was about three-quarters of the way through, I heard the loud, echoing creak of the swing door opening. Light and engine noise spilled through a gap of about two inches under the stall door.
There was the sound of boots on trash heading in my direction. The light got stronger and I started to stress big time, dropping the can and scrabbling for the hood, and, once it was on, trying to find my gloves. I didn't manage it, but just as I was gritting my teeth for the inevitable confrontation the footsteps went past.
There was a flurry of muffled pleas in English from the boys as their doors were kicked open and they got dragged out and subdued. They must have heard the Americans during the contact, too, as there was no multilingual begging now.
Doors banged and soon I could hear their feet dragging past me. Within moments, the door swung shut and silence was restored.
I felt around for the can end, not bothering to take the hood off. I couldn't have seen anything anyway. I started to work with more of a frenzy; I had to assume that they'd be coming for me next, and soon.
After two or three minutes of frantic sawing, the plastic finally gave.
Pulling the hood off, I felt around for the gloves and put them in my pocket, keeping just the touch gloves on.
Next I located the other can end. Getting slowly to my feet and enjoying being vertical, I felt around the stall. I found the door handle, opened it and walked very slowly and carefully out into what I could feel was a narrow corridor with painted brick walls. A faint glimmer of light under the swing door trickled into the corridor about ten feet up on my left. Picking my feet up and putting them down with infinite care, my left hand supporting me on the wall, I made my way toward the light.
As I got closer I began to hear a vehicle engine revving, then starting to move off.
Once at the door I couldn't find a keyhole to look through, so, clearing the debris on the ground, I got down on my knees. Chains rattled as the roller shutter was pulled open. I wondered if the pizza boys were leaving town.
Lying flat on the floor on my right side, I managed to get my eyeball close to the bottom of the door. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the bottom half of the can, the one I hadn't worked on. Using the light to find a place in the metal where I could start peeling this time, I got to work and put my eye back against the gap.
I'd been right, it was some sort of hangar or factory space. It was mostly in darkness, but lit in places by twelve-inch-long florescent lighting units, the sort that campers use. These had either been perched on the hoods of wagons or were being carried around. The pools of almost blue light and shadow made the place look like the set of the Twilight Zone.
Several vehicles were parked in a row on the far left, about forty yards away, sedans, wagons, MPVs, and SUVs, some of which had roof racks piled with skis.
My thumb slipped and ran along the ripped can. I still couldn't feel it, but at least some sensation was returning to my hands. Pins and needles had started to work their way around my fingers while I carried on peeling the metal back.
I looked straight ahead to the exit, my only way out, then at the people who would try and stop me. They were mostly by the two remaining vans, parked haphazardly in the middle of the hangar.
A group of maybe five or six bodies were hurriedly unloading their weapons and taking off their white uniforms and bundling them into what looked like Lacon boxes aluminim airfreight containers. They were in a hurry, but not rushing. No one was talking; everyone seemed to know what was required.
When one of the bodies did a half turn so that it was in profile, I realized that Bobby wasn't the only woman on this job.
As they continued to throw off their kit, I could now see where the sound of Velcro had come from: She was ripping apart the side straps from sets of body armor before stacking them in the boxes.
Another group of maybe eight were out of their whites and unpacking civilian clothes from duffel bags. Others were combing their hair in the side mirrors, trying to make themselves look like normal citizens.
I caught a glimpse of the 4x4 I'd been transported in; its back window safety glass was pockmarked with holes where the rounds had passed through. Beyond it were the shapes of the other vehicles used on the job, which were now probably going to be abandoned. Strike marks from automatic weapons were not the best kind of modification to be sporting at stoplights.
I couldn't see any evidence of the computer kit. I assumed they'd moved it straight on, along with the pizza boys and probably Bobby and the guy with the hook hanging from his thigh. They'd be in need of proper trauma care. Since the weather had put a stop to a quick exfiltration, the next destination would be a secure area like the U.S. embassy. From there, the equipment would probably be moved by diplomatic bag back to the U.S. Dip bags are basically mail sacks or containers that by mutual agreement other governments cannot have access to, which means they can contain anything from sensitive documents to weapons, ammunition, and dead bodies. I'd even heard a story of the intelligence service bringing back the turret of a new Russian armored personnel carrier in what must have been a party-sized one.
The pizza boys would be stuck in the embassy or a safe house until a heli could get in sometime tomorrow and airlift them out of the country, unless there was a U.S. warship in dock. If I didn't get a grip of this situation, I knew I'd soon be following them.
Everyone was now out of their whites and in jeans, down jackets, and hats. The woman was still organizing the loading of the Lacons.
Loud metallic echoes filled the hangar as the boxes were moved into the vans.
One man seemed to be running the whole show. I couldn't see his face from this distance, but he was the tallest of the group, maybe six foot two or three, and a head above everyone else. He gathered everyone around him and seemed to be giving them a brief. They were certainly doing a lot of nodding, but his voice wasn't loud enough for me to understand what he was saying.
While he finished the briefing, the doors of the two vans slammed, both engines revved and they started to leave. Their headlights swept across the group as they turned toward the shutter.
I felt around the rim of the half can in my hands as the chains went into action. I wasn't doing particularly well with it because I hadn't really been concentrating.
I watched the Wasp team disperse as they moved off toward the line of vehicles like aircrew to their fighters, lights swinging in their hands. They were probably going to split up and do their own thing, probably in exactly the same way as they'd come into the country in the first place.
They would now be sterile of anything implicating them in the job. They would have cover documents and a perfect cover story and would certainly no longer be armed. All they had to do was wander back to their chalets and hotels as if they'd had a good night out, which I supposed they had. None of them was dead.
More engines revved, doors slammed, and headlights came on. I could see the fumes rising from exhausts. It looked a bit like the starting grid before a Grand Prix.
