Killing Time

5

Mike pulled himself together, pissed that he’d let this woman get to him.

She knew about Operation Slam Dunk. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why; he only knew she wasn’t going to stop badgering him until she got the answers she wanted.

But then, unexpectedly, she did stop. She stopped cold. She got a look on her face that made him think she might be second-guessing herself.

She broke eye contact suddenly and whirled away. Shoulders tense, back rigid, she walked to a pair of multipaned glass doors that he guessed led to a balcony or terrace. The glass was coated with the grime of the city and backlit by a light haze from the cantina and restaurant signs burning up and down the street below.

After a furtive look outside, she undid the latch and shoved both doors open onto the narrow terrace. Car exhaust, overripe fruit, and the tang of unwashed bodies bled into the hotel room, along with traffic sounds from a story below. A distant church bell chimed ten times. Ten p.m. on one of the longest days of his life. Overlaying it all was the faint scent of El Rio Rimac. She breathed deep, as if preferring the foul city air to a breath tainted with his presence. Then she stared out into the night… like she was searching for something or someone, before quickly closing the doors again.

When she finally turned around, he couldn’t decide if she looked relieved or wary. She moved away from the doors, head down, clearly uncertain, possibly scared.

It was the first chink he’d seen in her armor, and he pounced on the opportunity like a fat man on a pile of French fries.

“What’s your name, chica?” He’d grown tired of playing her game. He had to get out of these cuffs, and the best and only option he had now was distraction.

She hesitated, then expelled a deep breath. “Pamela Diaz.”

Another lie. Like a bad poker player, she had a tell that gave away her bluff. He’d noticed it when she’d denied she’d lost anyone. A little lift of her chin. An absent tap of her index finger—which happened to be resting against the barrel of his gun and reminded him to proceed with caution.

But at this point he didn’t care if she told him she was Margarita Thatcher. She’d answered a question. It was a start.

“Okay, Pamela Diaz… I’ll consider answering your questions if you answer mine.” He didn’t wait for her to point out the obvious—that she held the gun and the advantage. “What’s your stake in Operation Slam Dunk?” When she hesitated again, he pressed his slight opening. “You know you’re going to have to tell me sometime.”

A humorless smile tipped up one corner of her mouth. “And why is that?”

“Because you haven’t killed me for a reason. And I think we can rule out sex.” He lifted a brow. “Yes? No?”

She snorted and he saw another sign of hope. She’d wanted to smile.

“So, that’s a yes. Which means you want something else from me… and that you need me alive to get it.”

She considered him with a long look, then finally walked back to the chair and sat down.

Tick. Tick. Tick. He had nowhere to go and no way to get there—yet. He could wait her out.

He knew instinctively that there was nothing he could say that would make her talk. She had to decide what happened next.

But he knew he was right. She wanted him for something other than a whipping boy. And to get his help— good luck with that—she was smart enough to know she had to give him something, because they’d reached gridlock. If she wanted information, she needed to lay her cards on the table. Once she did, he’d let her think she’d softened him up enough to get the upper hand. Then she’d find out how tired he was of playing with a stacked deck.

“I’m a journalist,” she said after several long moments.

Tip of the chin. Tap of the finger.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“A journalist?” He grunted. “Give me a break.”

“Freelance,” she insisted. “I’m writing a retrospective piece that chronicles Spec Ops military units and their deployments in Afghanistan.”

He actually laughed. “Right. And to accomplish that, you make it a practice to seduce, drug, hold at gunpoint, and”—he lifted his arms as far as the restraints would let him—“cuff your potential sources to a bed. Try again, Pamela.”

“You have a reputation as a loose cannon.”

“Ah… so this was all for your protection. What a line of bullshit. You could have walked up and asked me.”

“And you would have told me to take a flying leap.”

She had a point. “So, rather than risk that happening, drugging me was the next logical alternative.”

“I’m on a tight schedule. Expediency is what matters here, not your tender sensibilities.”

She was a ball breaker, all right. New tactic. “Do we have a timetable for when these cuffs come off?” he asked point-blank.

No answer.

“Okay, fine. Could I at least have a drink of water while you work it out in your head? I’m bone dry here.”

She thought for a moment, then finally stood and walked hesitantly across the room toward a door he suspected was the bathroom.

The fact that she was willing to show him a little mercy told him reams about her. No self-respecting tango, street thug, or banger would give two rips about his poor parched throat. While it was clear she could handle herself, this particular skill was not her bailiwick—and knowing that only made him more pissed that he’d let her get the drop on him.

As soon as she turned her back to him, he went to work on the flex cuffs, hoping that all the hours of competitions he and the guys used to stage paid off. There had been a lot of down time between missions, a lot of hurry up and wait. You could only play so many games of cards and basketball, so you got creative. Flex cuffs were plentiful and tying each other up and trying to beat each other’s escape times provided not only a diversion but a skill set that might come in handy one day.

Looked like today was the day his uncontested speed record was going to be put to the real test. And when she closed the bathroom door behind her—a stroke of luck that the lady needed some privacy—he made full use of the window of opportunity.

Pressing the inside of his wrists together, he wedged his right thumbnail under the edge of the first of a line of tiny teeth that locked into the plastic band on the catch on his left hand. Stretching, he tipped his head back so he could see what he was doing, then glanced toward the bathroom door when he heard a flush and then the sound of water running.

He had to move fast. Straining to get the right angle, he repeatedly worked his nail over the first tooth until it finally gave and slipped under the catch. The left cuff loosened a fraction of an inch. He repeated the process. Another tooth gave. Another breath of room.

He had the feel of it now. Like riding a bicycle. He repeatedly wedged his thumbnail under the next tooth, pressed, felt it give and immediately loosened another tooth, then another, and another…

The bathroom door swung open. He let his wrists go limp so she wouldn’t suspect what he was up to.

She walked to the bed, a glass of water in one hand, his gun in the other.

Tricky, but doable.

Eyes narrowed and wary, she hesitated.