Ronnie bowed her head, avoiding eye contact for fear her true emotions would bubble over and she’d scare him off. She’d purposely ripped the top of her scrubs a good foot down the center during her last bout against the cattle prods and she breathed deeply for effect. The sight of her heaving chest should cloud the kid’s mind. “Mr. Walter isn’t going to want me all filthy,” she said. “Come on. Please?”
“You know this is going to cost you?” GQ fished in his pocket for the key.
“Maybe you should go get that other guy,” she said, retreating a little from his hungry gaze.
“We’ll be fine,” he said, his voice thick and gravelly. “Just you and me.”
“What about the cameras?”
“Forget the cameras,” he said. “I’m the one watching them. There’s nobody there to bug us. Now put these on.” Like he’d done each time before, GQ unlocked one side of the door and opened it just wide enough to drop in the handcuffs.
Garcia planted both feet against the other end of the door and kicked as hard as she could the moment the cuffs hit her hands. It took her two tries but the entire door fell away, slamming into GQ’s legs at mid-shin. She scrambled out of the cage, using the handcuffs like a pair of brass knuckles and swinging with deadly accuracy at the kid’s jawbone. Stunned, he pedaled backwards, blinking in dismay. Ronnie followed up with a low tackle, driving him backwards and taking him to the floor. His head slammed against a vent pipe with a satisfying thud, but he was still moving and far from finished.
A cold rush of adrenaline — and the sure knowledge that she was fighting for her life — kept Garcia moving with a burst of renewed energy. But adrenaline could only do so much, and she realized as soon as GQ began to fight back that she had very little in the way of reserves. She had to finish this quickly.
Falling face-first into GQ’s chest, Ronnie made a grab for the Scorn tucked into his belt. Her hand brushed the grip as he bucked his hips, rolling her onto her back and reversing their positions before she even knew what was happening. Her hands were trapped between them, low but unable to get to the Scorn and too far from his face to claw his eyes out. She tried to post a foot and throw him, tried to use the momentum of his movements against him, taking advantage of the power in her legs, but nothing worked.
“Just relax, babe,” he said, chest pressed to hers, panting in her ear. She could smell the cheese crackers on his breath. “It might even be fun if you’d quit jumping around.”
Garcia turned her head so she didn’t have to look at him. She’s been too slow to keep him from getting his hooks in — latching his feet around her lower legs and allowing him to rest the weight of his entire body low on her belly while still keeping his hands free. He planted a palm on the metal floor, slamming his right fist into her jaw. A shower of sparks exploded inside her head, but to her surprise she didn’t pass out. GQ was mean, but he wasn’t particularly good at hitting.
Momentarily rejuvenated by the realization that she was still alive, Ronnie put all her energy into bucking her hips, throwing GQ just high enough so she could work her hand down to his crotch. Miyagi called it “squeezing the kiwis.” Ronnie decided it would be more productive to twist and pull. GQ’s eyes flew wide. A curdled growl spilled from his lips as he hit her again, pressing down to stop the squeezing.
“You fight like a girl,” he groaned, laughing through a twisted grimace as the pain of her attack began to ebb. “Girls always go for the nuts…”
Garcia smiled. She’d given his kiwis a good enough squeeze he hadn’t felt it when her other hand moved to the Snake Slayer. She’d already pulled it from his waistband and cocked it before GQ realized she wasn’t still trying to tear off his balls.
“I guess you’re right,” she whispered as she pulled the trigger, sending four rounds of .36 caliber buckshot ripping through his belly, destroying his diaphragm and turning his right lung into Swiss cheese. “I do fight like a girl.”
She’d shoved the little derringer directly into GQ’s flesh under the point of his breastbone when she pulled the trigger. His organs absorbed the lion’s share of the report, expanding gas and burning gunpowder doing nearly as much damage as the buckshot.
GQ gurgled, pushing himself away as if Garcia was on fire, backpedaling to get distance from whatever had bitten him. His mouth hung open and he looked down at the blossom of blood forming on his shirt. Ronnie pressed her advantage as he gathered himself up to scream for help, driving him backwards with a hard smack to the temple with the heavy barrel of the Snake Slayer. She could have shot him again, but wanted to save the second round for whoever was on the other side of the door.
Fearful he had the cattle prod or some other weapon in a back pocket, Ronnie slapped away his pitiful attempts to fend her off. She fell against him and grabbed the Scorn with her left hand. The hawklike blade cleared the Kydex sheath with a welcome snick. In the same fluid movement, she drew the knife across the inside of GQ’s thighs, slashing viciously with all the speed and violence she could muster. Clothing, flesh, and arteries zipped and tore before the razor-sharp blade. With both femoral arteries cut and half a lung gone, GQ struggled for only a moment in a rapidly growing pool of his own blood before blinking his vaporous eyes for the last time.
Ronnie rolled gasping onto her side, Scorn in one hand, Snake Slayer in the other, blinking up at the bright light above her. Even the suspended metal bar was not quite as terrifying now that she was free of her cage.
Taking a brief moment to catch her breath, she moved to the hatch, bouncing up and down on her feet to regain movement and circulation after the endless hours of confinement. She had no idea what or who was on the other side, or if they’d heard the gunshot or GQ’s dying cries. What she did know was that she was going to get off this boat, even if she only had a little hawkbill blade and single shot in her pistol.
Chapter 41
Joey B let loose a flurry of curses, jumping sideways in the darkness as some kind of snake slithered out from under the beached skiff and disappeared into the heavy undergrowth along the muddy bank. Thibodaux took the opportunity to smack him on the back of the head on general principles.
“Couyon!” the big Cajun hissed. “Calm your ass down!” He zipped up the diagonal closure of his black dry suit and shrugged on a “wing” type buoyancy compensator and small tank.
Emiko Miyagi moved fluidly around the skiff, stowing her short sword along the gunnel within easy reach of where she would be sitting. Joey swallowed hard as he eyed the glinting two-foot blade.
“Scary shit, huh, Cupcake,” Thibodaux said. “A gun don’t necessarily do it for some people.” He tipped his head toward Miyagi and her sword. “She likes to be more hands on when she works.”
Thibodaux adjusted the straps of his harness over a separate gun belt and thigh holster so he could dump the dive gear when the time came without interfering with the rig. He carried a Glock 19 with a Gemtech suppressor in the holster. With subsonic 9mm ammo, the weapon would make little more noise than a good handclap. A short-barreled H&K MP10 was on a breakaway harness across his chest. Also suppressed, the rifle would be sure to announce his position if he had to use the weapon.
Miyagi was also armed with a Glock 19, as well as the short sword that she preferred to any firearm. She also carried a small dagger in her sleeve that he’d seen her use with amazing effectiveness.