John Robinson

With a shriek of tortured metal another bullet went slashing by my face, tumbling end for end by the sound of it. Ricochet.

Tucking myself further back into the dinky little three-by-three steel cubbyhole at the end of the hall, not for the first time in the last ten minutes I cursed my inability to say no to pie. No doubt about it, if I got out of this alive I was going to buy a Stairmaster. Maybe two, one for each leg. In circumstances like these centimeters could mean death. I checked my guns again. One was still hopelessly jammed, the other one empty. So much for that.

It’s weird, but rounds just don’t seem to last as long as they used to; I lay the blame for that squarely at the feet of Rosie O’Donnell. It would have been sweet for the bullet fairy, Disney-like and with a soft blue neon glow, to come flitting in right about then to bring me some fresh ammunition. But truth to tell what I really needed was something with a little more authority. Like maybe a rocket launcher.

“Mister Ryan?”

Boneless again. Him and that pukey, reedy voice of his. But I doubted he much cared what I thought. About that or anything else. He liked his voice, I knew. He liked it a whole lot, as a matter of fact. In his heart of hearts—assuming he possessed one—I think the sadist believed he sounded like a white Johnny Mathis. To me the labored wheezing of his speech beat coarsely against my ears, putting me in mind of a man with a twig lodged in his larynx.

“Hello. Earth to Mr. Ryan.”

Boneless sounded awfully confident, reedy voice or not. He and his men were nicely ensconced at the other end of the hall, safe from anything short of a tactical nuke. Safe enough from no-bullets me, at any rate.

“Come now, speak up,” he rasped. “That last one was a bit close, I’ll admit, but you’re still alive and with us. For the moment.” His voice grew expansive and mocking. “So here’s some food for thought, if you’re able to digest it. I believe you’re completely out of ammunition, and have been for the last few minutes. Am I right? No matter. The only reason I haven’t rushed you, or had one of my men roll a hand grenade down your way is because you have something of mine. I wish it back unharmed.”

His sigh was companionable as he went on, “Let’s take a moment to pause in this fracas for some itemization. One, you’re bleeding. I should know. I inflicted your wounds. Two, you’re scared. Who wouldn’t be, in your position? And three, you and I both know there’s no rescue coming. Not in this lifetime. There’s only one way out of this hallway. That’s past me.” He brayed a guttural laugh. “And that’ll make a feller pucker, as your kinfolk like to put it.”

As I silently steamed he slowly continued, “But you already know that. Now allow me to brighten your day and tell you something I’ll bet you aren’t aware of. Listen closely. Do you hear it? A sad and muffled sort of crying?” He whispered the name. “Sarah.”

The word hit me like ice water, even as I shook my head. He was lying. She was safe. But on the off chance it was true, how in the—?

“Yes, make no mistake. I have her,” he murmured. “Life is plain old chock full of surprises, isn’t it? She was apprehended before she even made it to Level Five. The girl’s standing next to me, shaking like she has the plague. Poor thing. But we’ve had a good talk, she and I. She told me she’s really hoping you’ll make the right choice here and not only save her life, but yours too.” His voice brightened. “I imagine the child has a few choice words she’d like to say, if you’d care to chance talking with her.”

Right. Screw that.

“But something tells me you don’t really believe I have her, Mr. Ryan. Or may I call you Mac?” A sneering tone colored his voice. “Anyway, although over these past few hours we’ve become fast friends, Mac, I don’t think your ego could take the strain of knowing you’ve failed again. Much in the same way you failed your wife and children, and after that nearly a dozen of your men in the Gulf, what was it, over five years ago now.”

I refused the bait, biting back the reply that would reveal my exact position. Recurring nightmares still plague me about those times. A heart surgeon couldn’t have slipped in the knife more effortlessly.

He went on with brutal detachment, “I know you must have doubts; I would. So let me prove it. I’ve heard that your young friend here is a marvelous singer. Really something special.” Boneless’s voice dimmed slightly as he must have turned to her. “Sarah, could I impose on you? Might I ask you to sing something for Mac?” If she answered, I couldn’t hear it. “You would?” he said then. “Wonderful. Make it something … pretty.”

There was a brief pause, and then whatever Boneless did caused me to know for a surety he had the girl, because she erupted with a shriek that nearly stopped my heart.

The note climbed in a crescendo straight up into the stratosphere and then some. It was a horrendous sound, reverberating off the metal walls, terrified, pain-filled, lost and alone, the agonized entreaty of someone completely bereft of hope, the heart-rending wail of a little child floating in the dark in a flooded basement as the black waters rise and mottled green pit vipers drop in through the broken windows and mommy’s not coming back, ever.

I’ve heard a lot of blood-curdling things in my nearly three and a half decades on the planet, combat included, but nothing quite like that. I wouldn’t have thought it possible a human throat could make such a sound. And with that I vowed to myself that Mrs. Ryan’s wayward son was not going to end his life in this lousy corridor. Not today.

Not until Boneless and I had an accounting.

Because you know what they say about payback. And payback’s dictates would make sure before Boneless killed me I had blood enough and nerve enough and will enough to send that smirking maniac screaming straight to hell.

No doubt about it, the boy was going to die. The sooner the better.

The echo of Sarah’s screams faded in a decrescendo, and I heard her tormentor chuckle and clap his hands appreciatively as she wept. “That was lovely, Sarah. Very sweet. But what do you say? Let’s try it once more, this time with feeling.”

The girl moaned her terror and denial, begging, “No no no please God …” and then I heard her begin to simultaneously sob and gag. Obviously something was being forced down her throat. My fingers twitched like fleshy spiders, impotent with fury. What the hell was I going to do? Reign in my emotions. That’s what. Panic kills. Think.

Another time I’d felt this helpless. Boneless had alluded to it: the night back in 2007 when I’d overridden my gut feeling and unwittingly led my men into an insurgent trap near the Kuwaiti border, after obeying orders based on bad intel. I felt now like I had then. All I could do in that desert was lie there semi-conscious, fighting to get up and help them as the jagged shrapnel from the terrorist’s bomb burned like liquid fire inside my body. All the while I had to listen to the screams of those under my command as they died. One by one.

But that was then. Surely I had some options now … right? Maybe, if I could just think of one. With my head concussed and broken ribs aching, my mind churned in search of a solution as I felt hot sweat of intense concentration rolling down my beard-stubbled face.

Then drawing a short ragged breath I raked my eyes over the corridor one more time. That’s when I noticed something I’d missed before.

The twin industrial lights running along the hall were extremely long, spanning nearly twenty feet, but had been spaced only three inches apart. Just three inches. And the empty guns and clips in my hands weighed in at a shade over seven pounds … I almost shook my head at the idea. But I didn’t, because that’s all there was.

Okay Boneless, you gutless wonder, I thought. See what you do with this. Hefting the items, I closed my eyes. Then with a prayer born of desperation I hurled the things as hard as I could straight up into those overhead lights.

And ducked.

There was a crash and a flash. The hallway instantly was plunged into darkness. And howling a feral war cry I used that sudden gloom to barrel straight at Boneless and his troops.

My plan’s simplicity was trumped only by its daring. I couldn’t see a thing now, but neither could they. My idea was that the very audaciousness of my attack would take them by surprise, sending them all scattering like so many field mice before a goshawk. Then I would scoop Sarah up and somehow we’d beat feet to safety. As I said, not a world-class plan, but it was all I had. The devil was calling this dance.

And no surprise. It didn’t work.

As I charged the line I felt the air around me tear apart in thunderous explosions of gunfire, the Stygian blackness all around detonating into brilliant, deafening crashes and flashes of light and sound. Boneless’s men not only hadn’t trampled each other in fear, they’d opened up on me in a deadly fusillade.

It had been worth a shot—excuse the pun—even though I’d been told by him earlier this evening his security forces were made up of former SEALs, ex-Delta Team guys, and hardened Russian Spetznatz troops who’d whiled away their misspent youth terrorizing Afghan villagers. In other words, mercs all. No wonder they hadn’t cut and run; obviously he’d told the truth about that, at least.

But I was committed now—like I should have been when I’d first agreed to the job—so I had no choice. I guess it’s true: you can’t change your destiny.

Or can you?

I didn’t know. I just kept on running flat-out toward the guards, juking and jiving this way and that, bellowing a rebel yell like one of Bobby Lee’s finest boys in butternut brown as I skittered right down the pipe. And as I went I couldn’t help thinking, how did I ever get into this insane mess? But I knew full well.

This is how.