“You’d best enjoy this meal,” the trooper was saying. “I’ve heard through the grapevine you don’t have too many meals left.”
Hickok’s interest was piqued. “Why’s that?” he asked.
“Ahhh! You are alive!” the guard cracked. “Do you really want to know?” he taunted the Warrior.
“You’re the one who brought it up,” Hickok said. “You probably didn’t hear a thing.”
“I did so!” the trooper said indignantly.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Think you know it all, don’t you, smart-ass?” the Technic said.
“I know more than you.”
“Is that so? Did you know the Minister plans to rack your ass after your buddies return from New York City?” the guard gloated.
“Nope,” Hickok admitted. “I didn’t know that.”
The soldier smirked.
“But I know something you don’t know,” Hickok mentioned nonchalantly.
“Like what?” the guard demanded.
“I don’t think you’d want to know,” Hickok said.
“You tell me or I’ll cram this food down your throat!” the soldier stated.
His gaze fell on the white plastic bucket. “Better yet, I’ll dump your shitpail on your head!”
“Are you sure you want to know?” Hickok asked, tensing.
“I want to know!” the Technic persisted.
Hickok shrugged. “If you insist.” He lunged, his left hand grasping the guard’s shirt and yanking him off balance as his right streaked to the fork and grabbed the implement.
Completely startled, the Technic dropped the tray and the keys, the tray clattering as it struck the floor. He tried to pull away, but the gunman’s left hand was locked on his shirt. The Warrior’s upper torso, without the shackles securing the wrists to suspend it, pressed down on the guard, causing his knees to sag.
Hickok touched the fork tines to the guard’s right eye. “Make one move and you’re blinded for life!” he threatened harshly.
The guard gulped.
“Do exactly as I say or I’ll ram this fork into your eye!” Hickok growled.
“What… what do you… want?” the trooper stammered.
“Reach down slowly, and I mean slowly, with your right hand and remove your pistol from your holster. Do it slow! One false move and you know what I’ll do!”
“Yes,” the guard stated in abject fright. He could feel the metal tines digging into his right eyelid.
“Use only your thumb and forefinger to draw the gun!” Hickok directed.
“Lift it—slowly—up to me!”
The guard trembled as his right hand lowered to the holster flap and undid the snap. He carefully eased his thumb and forefinger under the leather flap and withdrew the pistol, holding it by the grips.
“Slowly!” Hickok said.
The Technic licked his dry lips as he moved in slow motion, raising the automatic to chest level, inches from Hickok’s left hand.
“A little higher,” Hickok instructed him.
The guard elevated the pistol to within an inch of the gunman’s right hand.
Hickok glanced at the automatic, a 45 of indeterminate manufacture, probably produced by the Technics. He saw a safety button above the grips.
Blast!
The safety was on!
Hickok hesitated. He would need to drop the fork, draw the pistol, and flick the safety all in one move, leaving himself vulnerable for the fraction of a second his right hand would be empty. Could he do it before he soldier reacted?
Was there any other option?
“You’ve been a good boy,” Hickok said sarcastically. “But I still think I should put out your eye!”
“Please!” the trooper whined. “Don’t!”
Hickok scraped the fork tines over the guard’s right eyelid, and the soldier flinched, his eyes closing in instinctive defense as his face recoiled.
Which was just what the gunman wanted.
Hickok released the fork and snatched the automatic, his thumb flipping the safety off, and before the Technic quite knew what had transpired he found the fork replaced by the pistol. “Now we come to the easy part,” Hickok said.
“Anything,” the guard declared.
“Your momma sure raised a polite cuss,” Hickok joked. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. You Technic types don’t know who your momma or pappa was, do you?”
“No,” the trooper replied.
“Too bad. A little parental love might have changed you from a jackass to a thoroughbred.” Hickok wagged the pistol barrel downward. “Now I want you to lower us down, real slow. I’ll let you know when to stop.”
Struggling to support the gunman’s weight, the soldier eased to his knees.
“I’m gonna let go of your shirt,” Hickok said. “When I do, slide your butt backwards. Don’t try anything stupid!”
The trooper nodded his understanding.
Hickok released his hold on the shirt, shoving the guard from him and dropping his left hand to the tiled floor to support his body. He wound up in the push-up position, his left arm bracing him, his ankles smarting like the dickens from the manacles above his feet.
The Technic was crouched not a foot away, staring at the pistol barrel.
“Pick up the keys,” Hickok ordered.
The trooper immediately complied, stretching his left arm to the keys and cautiously retrieving them.
“Now unlock my legs,” Hickok said. “I’ll have you covered all the way, and believe me when I say I can perforate your noggin if you so much as look at me crossways. Do it!”
The guard sidled to the left, still on his knees, toward the wall.
Hickok shifted his left arm, twisting his body, keeping the pistol in his right hand trained on the trooper.
The soldier reached the wall and quickly unfastened the first manacle.
Hickok felt a wave of relief as the agony in his left leg subsided.
The guard unlocked the last manacle.
Hickok rolled to his right, coming up on his knees, the automatic pointed at the Technic. “Thanks, pard. Now stand up and lock the manacles on yourself.”
The soldier obeyed without complaining, securing his legs and left wrist.
“Now freeze!” Hickok said.
The Technic became a statue.
Hickok rose and walked up to the guard, placing the pistol barrel a centimeter from the soldier’s nose. “Blink, and you’ll wind up with a new nasal passage!”
The trooper’s throat bobbed.
Hickok locked the right steel manacle on the guard’s right wrist, then smiled. “Do you want to live?”
The Technic nodded.
“Then tell me where the blazes they’ve got my guns and clothes,” Hickok directed.
“Right here,” the guard responded.
“Here?” Hickok scanned the chamber. All he saw was the brown easy chair. He tapped the barrel on the Technic’s nose. “You wouldn’t be joshin’
me, would you?”
“No!” the soldier assured the gunman. He nodded toward the right-hand wall. “There! You’ll find them there!”
Hickok stared at the blue wall. “Where?”
“They’re in a closet,” the trooper said.
“A closet?”
“A compartment in the wall. Go to the center of the wall,” the guard stated.
Hickok walked to the middle of the wall, the pistol trained on the trooper. If the wall was booby-trapped, he intended to blow the soldier away before he went.
“Look for a small button,” the guard said. “A little circle on the wall.”
Hickok recalled the incident with the syringe, and how Captain Wargo had touched a spot on the left wall, exposing the tray. He peered at the seemingly solid wall. “I don’t see it.”
“Keep looking!” the Technic said nervously. “It’s there!” he assured the gunman.
Hickok saw a circular indentation to his right, about waist height. He pressed the indentation and it sank inward several inches. So that’s how they did it!