All Fixed Up (31 page)

I unfastened my seat belt and, reaching between the front seats, gingerly took the gun now hanging limply in his hand. Tears rolled down his face.

Billy kept driving. “Don't worry, I can get us there in time. And here's what we're going to do when we get there…”

 

Chapter 25

Rudy was looking dazed but better. He'd improved considerably once it sank in we were, in fact, going to help him get his kids back. He was still in considerable pain, but his breathing had slowed, and he no longer looked to be on the verge of passing out. Billy had told him broken ribs hurt like a son of a bitch, but likely hadn't really ruptured anything, and talked him through some slow breathing exercises to help his anxiety, which had apparently caught him up short. He said it had never happened before—the Agency didn't tend to employ field agents with anxiety issues. Then again, no one had ever threatened to kill his children before either.

“I don't know how to thank you guys. After what I did … after I was about to throw you to the wolves … I can't believe you're doing this for me.”

Billy glanced at the rearview mirror. “Don't thank us yet—save it until we have your kids back safe and sound. And I still might kick your ass after your ribs heal.”

Rudy produced a small, if strained, smile. “I'll take it, and gladly.”

He had his gun back. I personally thought it was mighty trusting of Billy to give a loaded weapon to a desperate man prone to anxiety attacks, but it was essential to our plan, such as it was.

It was a simple idea. Basically, we were going to do exactly what Rudy had intended before we teamed up with him: he was going to hand us over, at gunpoint, in exchange for his son and daughter. We were going to play it from the angle that Phil and Misha were not such a loving aunt and uncle that they would willingly trade themselves for the kids. Seemed to us it was the scenario least likely to set off alarm bells in the Russians. And when the safety of children is at stake, you don't want alarm bells fogging up the situation.

Once Rudy removed the kids from harm, Billy and I would reassess and decide where to take it from there. There was no way to plan for that part until we knew what we were up against.

I, of course, had dozens of questions I wanted to ask him about Loughlin, and I was sure Billy did, too, but the kids were our priority. Questions would have to wait.

The truck (“Joe's Plumbing—you plug 'em, we'll plunge 'em!”) was at the appointed place when we got there with ten minutes to spare. I got out first, keeping my Phil demeanor stiff and fearful (oddly, not tough to do). Rudy unfolded himself out of the backseat, never taking the gun off me for a second. Billy got out, keeping his eyes glued to the gun, as Misha would have. Rudy signaled him to come stand beside me; he did, taking my hand when he got there.

We stayed a good distance from the truck, waiting patiently. After a minute, two men got out. One tall, one shorter, both beefy as hell. They were looking at first at cell phones, then at Billy and me, like they were comparing us to pictures of Phil and Misha. I wasn't worried about passing inspection. I
was
worried about the guns in their hands, hanging low to their sides. The men looked almost casual if you didn't notice the tension in their fingers.

“Where are my kids?” Rudy's voice was stronger than I would have thought possible after his breakdown in the car. He must be pulling the dregs of his courage up from somewhere. “If I don't see them in the next five seconds, these two will be dead before you get close to them.”

Damn. He sounded way too sincere. And I couldn't help but notice he was careful to keep Billy and me between him and the two of them.

“Relax. Your kids are fine. Cute little buggers.” It was the tall one who'd spoken. Funny, I'd been expecting an accent. The Russians must have jobbed it out locally.

“One…” Rudy didn't sound like he was bluffing. “I don't think your bosses would like it if you show up empty-handed. Two…” Jesus. I shot Billy a look. He squeezed my hand. “Three…”

“All right, all right. Hold on.” The shorter one walked to the back of the truck and unlocked it.

“Four…”

Shit. Couldn't Rudy see the guy was getting his kids?

“Don't get twitchy. Here they are.”

Shorty opened the door. A skinny little boy with light tan skin and dark, curly hair jumped out, squinting against the sudden light. His sister, with soft brown curls and the lingering chubbiness of toddlerhood, stood at the opening rubbing her eyes.

“Simon! Phoebe!” Rudy's voice was full of relief and fear.

“Daddy?” Simon tried to make a break for his father, but Shorty grabbed him by the shoulder and held him back. “Aunt Phil, Uncle Misha!”

Phoebe, meantime, had turned around, flopped onto her belly, and was attempting to scoot backward out of the truck. Shorty scooped her up by her waist with his gun arm. I tried not to gasp.

The tall one had been keeping his eyes trained on Rudy. “You can see they're all right. Now how about you tell the dynamic duo of astronauts there to go ahead and walk this way, nice and easy, so we can send these children back home with their daddy.”

Billy still held on to my hand, holding me back.

“Go.”
If Rudy's voice were any tighter it would snap in two.

Billy and I stepped at the same time, taking it slowly. When we were halfway to the truck, Shorty let the kids go, and things started happening fast. Simon and Phoebe ran for their father, screaming “Daddy, Daddy!” the whole way.

The tall guy covered the distance to Billy and shoved a gun against his lower back. I got the same treatment from Shorty. They hustled us both to the truck. While the tall one held the gun on us, Shorty pulled our arms behind us—Billy first—and wrapped our wrists with duct tape. Put a piece across each of our mouths for good measure.

“Up you go.” Shorty's hand on my ass spurred me to move faster, if only to get away from him. Billy-Misha's eyes were full of the anger Billy was no doubt feeling himself.

I twisted my head around in time to see Rudy climb into the driver's seat of the Nissan and peel out.

Thank God
, I thought, as Shorty wound the tape around my ankles.

*   *   *

It didn't take long for the
Thank God
to morph into
What the hell have we done.
Apparently, my generous and helpful nature is severely curtailed by duct tape and darkness.

“You okay?”

Now, how the hell had Billy managed to talk?
“Mmmph!”

“Roll over and rub your face on the carpet. Hurry up—I need your teeth.”

What the fuck? Oh, well. I did as I was told, trying not to think about what sorts of nasty things had been hauled in the truck. But at least Phoebe and Simon hadn't had to sit for God knew how long on a hard metal floor. I tried to be grateful for that as I pushed my cheek along the rough pile until the edge of the tape caught and stuck enough to peel off the tape.

“Ouch! Shit, that stings.”

“Try it with stubble and see how you like it. Now, move closer and see if you can get your teeth on the tape around my wrists. You might have to gnaw a bit.”

My eyes were getting more accustomed to the gloom. A tiny bit of light must be getting in from somewhere. Billy was on his side, his back to me.

I scooted down and latched on, immediately deciding duct tape would never make my top ten list of favorite flavors. Plasticky, adhesive-y, and smelly. Bleah. I didn't make much progress until I remembered the kid from college who'd filed his canines into sharp points in some sort of freakish homage to vampires. He'd claimed “chicks dig it,” no doubt having seen our classmates' reactions to the
Twilight
franchise. I, of course, had grabbed some of his energy to freak my parents out at Halloween. (They'd loved it. It's hard to freak out adaptor parents with anything appearance-related.)

I called up the canines, managed to get a tear started, and ripped it the rest of the way with a good hard yank. It didn't take Billy long to free his ankles and unwind the tape from my wrists.

“Now what?” I said, untaping my ankles. The rumble of the vehicle made it plain we were moving at a good rate, so even if we could get the door open, it wasn't like we could jump out and escape. At least I hoped that wasn't what Billy had in mind.

“Now we start looking for anything useful. You take that side. Feel every place—it's too dark to rely entirely on our eyes. And be careful—you don't want to ‘find' the wrong end of something sharp.”

We started at the front, working our way down both sides, laying hands everywhere from floor to ceiling. At the back corner I felt something plastic and boxlike, with a hinged lid. When I lifted the lid, there wasn't much doubt what it had been used for. A camping toilet. When you kidnap two young children, you'd better have lavatory facilities close at hand. It looked—and smelled—like the kids had made use of it. Poor things. No telling how long they'd been kept in here. Good thing it wasn't summer, or they would have roasted.

“I found a portable toilet,” I said. “Used.”

“Oh, good. For a second I thought it might be you, and I was about to be concerned.”

“Shut up. What have
you
found, smart-ass?”

“Half a case of water, some sodas, and what appear to be crackers. Where's a good tire iron when you need it?”

“Well, at least we won't go thirsty. Or hungry,” I said.

“Or wet our pants.” He made his way over to me and put a can of soda in my hand. “Drink up, cuz.”

“I'm not thirsty.” Besides, I didn't want to fill up my bladder. The idea of using the camping toilet was not appealing.

“I need the can.” He'd already popped the top of his and was downing it.

“Why?”

He slurped out the last few drops, flattened the can in the middle, folded it back and forth a few times, and pulled it apart at the crease, after which he compressed the top and inserted it into the bottom, lining up the sharp edges and flattening them together. Then he wound some of the duct tape around the bottom and tested the grip. “Voilà! Sharp edge, relatively sturdy. Alas, not much good for stabbing, but if we get close enough to slice it'll work brilliantly. Come on, drink up so we can make yours.”

I felt a little dizzy at the thought. I'd had quite enough of slicing people. “Um…”

“Cuz, I want you as armed as possible when those guys open the doors. We only have one shot at surprising them. If we screw it up, it looks like a trip to Russia for us. Don't know about you, but I'd rather spend the holidays at home.”

Good point. I popped my top, took a big slug, and almost spewed. “Grape soda? I
hate
grape soda. Ugh. It tastes like watered-down cough syrup.”

“Really? Huh. Mine was cola. Sorry, I couldn't see in the dark.” It wasn't so dark that I couldn't see his grin.

“I'd wipe the smile off your face if I were you, buster. I'm going to be armed in about thirty seconds.”

He laughed and took the can from me, downing the rest of it before making my shiv. “Careful of the edge. It doesn't look like much, but it will open up your skin like a razor blade. I found that out the hard way when I was ten and practicing my manly squashing of beverage containers.”

I tested the feel of it in my hand. It was remarkably easy to grip by the bottom of the can, and if you held it right, it wouldn't be obvious. Infinitely better than nothing, especially against two burly armed guys, but …

I swallowed, memories of hot blood pouring over me flashing into my mind. “Billy, I don't know if I'll be able to do it.”

I felt two strong hands on my shoulders. “Ciel, you will be able to do any fucking thing necessary to get out of this. Because I can't do it alone, not against both of them.”

I nodded.

“Now, they'll still have their guns, and it won't take them long to realize we're no longer taped up. So, as soon as the doors open, we're going to…”

I listened attentively to his plan. “Simple. Almost Stooge-ian. I like it.”

He laughed. “Stooge-ian? Since when do you appreciate the tremendous trio?”

“Since Brian enlightened me as to their genius.”

“Sounds like there's a story there somewhere.”

“Oh, there is,” I said, and proceeded to share, stretching it out, because no telling how much time we had to kill.

*   *   *

A leg-cramping stretch of time later, we sat close to the doors, occupying ourselves by playing Twenty Questions while we waited for the truck to stop. After Billy's fourth turn, I had to laugh. “You can't
always
be an erogenous zone.”

“But there are so many good ones,” he said.

“You'll run out of them eventually.”

He grinned wickedly. (Well, I assumed it was wicked. It was a little dark to say for sure, but it usually was in conversations like this.) “I haven't yet, have I?”

“Fine,” I said, and cut to the chase. No point in wasting questions. “Are you a body part?”

“Yes.”

“Are you something I would be touching right now if we didn't have to stay alert for our big escape?”

“No. Although I suppose it's possible…”

“Yes or no only. Are you something
you
would be touching if we didn't have to stay alert for our big escape?”

“Definitely. Over and over and over again…”

“
Yes or no.
Hmm. You've already been a dick—”

“I believe the proper term is ‘penis.'”

“That's not what
you
called it. Now, shush. I'm thinking. You've already been a nipple and a ‘love bud'—speaking of proper terms.”

“Come on. You have to admit it sounds much more appetizing than—”