I can cut through the zip ties.
I suck in a deep breath of air, and begin to scratch the zip tie binding my wrists against the corner of a table. They are the thin sort of zip ties, and it shouldn’t take too long to file down the plastic.
It’s not easy work. The space between my palms is tiny, and I keep scratching them on the table. I’ve already torn the skin, and I’m dripping blood.
But I need to do this. Good thing I got a tetanus shot before coming out here.
At first I think the plastic-on-metal sound is too noisy, will alert somebody, and so I keep looking at the door, expecting a guard to burst into the small office at any second.
But he never does, and so I keep filing away. Grinding it down and down and down, until there’s just the tiniest thread of plastic holding my wrists together.
I can pull my wrists apart at any time now, but I keep them together. If I’m going to make a move, it’s best that I have the element of surprise. It’s best that I’m in a position where I can make a break for it, try to escape.
Or, if not, try to attack. I’m not going down without a fight. It’s something that I’ve decided. I will scratch and claw and punch and kick and gouge and tear and rip and bite.
I go back to the chair and sit down. I can hear voices from outside, but can’t make out what they’re saying. All I know is that I can hear Pierce’s voice. It’s deep, seems to vibrate through the concrete walls of the office I’m tucked away in.
I can hear that he’s in pain. His words are spaced, their intonation all wrong.
I know they shot him. I can feel it in my heart. I don’t know where, and I don’t know why, but I know they put a bullet in him, and it makes me furious.
They can’t just do this. They can’t torture us. It’s cowardly. It’s pathetic. These fucking mobsters are nothing but scum.
Looking at my wrists, I see my tattoo there. The Chicago skyline… as seen from the lake. It reminds me of Dad. It reminds me of home, and how, right at this moment, I’m realizing that I miss it. I miss it terribly.
I feel a surge of guilt, a pang in my gut. What if Dad knew what was happening to me?
Damn it! I promised him that I wasn’t going to get myself in trouble, and somehow, here I am, in trouble. I promised myself I wouldn’t get in trouble. I promised myself I wouldn’t get involved with Pierce.
How could he lead me anywhere else but trouble? That’s him, that’s who he is. A whirlwind, chaotic and unpredictable. He goes where he wants. I was stupid to think that I could temper that, could tame that.
And now I’m in trouble. Bad trouble.
Looking around, I realize I need more than just my hands as an exit strategy. I need a weapon, something sharp, something I can use to stab or cut.
I begin to search the small office, always keeping my ear faced toward the door. If someone is going to be coming in, I’ll need to dart back to the chair, make it look like I wasn’t up to anything.
The light overhead is mustard yellow, and it casts dark, black shadows everywhere. Everything I see is either rust brown or ink-black. I feel like I’ve stepped onto a movie set.
Frantically, I open all the drawers, trying to find a pen, or a metal ruler, something sharp that I can use. But the drawers are all empty.
Damn it! They’ve cleared the office of anything I can use. I can’t even find a pencil. The pen pot sits naked.
That’s when I notice the first aid kit on the wall. A light bulb goes off above my head. I run to the kit, open up the plastic box, and sure enough I see a pair of small scissors inside.
When they’re closed, they make a decent stabbing knife, and they’re small enough to hide. I pick them up, test their rusty blades. The scissors snap in half. The metal is so old, so rusty, it’s become brittle.
Fuck! Defeated, I go back to the chair, and the moment I sit, the door swings open. The same man walks in, a rude sneer on his face.
I pretend to be looking into the corner of the room.
“Well, love,” he says, moseying up to me. He tears the tape from my mouth, leaving my skin stinging.
“What?” I ask through gritted teeth. I don’t even look at him. I have nothing but contempt for him, and I’m not afraid to show it.
“Your lover boy is going to be fighting tonight. Again.”
I’m interested, but try to hide it. “What are you talking about?” I ask in as neutral a manner as I can.
“The Russian’s here, and they’re having a make-up fight.”
I train my eyes on the guard. “Oh?”
“And your boy’s been handicapped.”
“He’s not my boy…”
He puts his hands up. “Excuse me, missy, but you two looked very close.”
“That’s none of your business.” I pause before asking, “What are the stakes?” I don’t know the lingo, I don’t know if I’m using the right mob or gangster terminology, but I need to know.
“Stakes?”
“What happens if he wins?”
“If he wins, you and him go free.”
“And if he loses?”
“You and him don’t go at all.”
I swallow. “Bullshit,” I say.
He steps closer to me, and I can smell his cheap cologne. “Hey, love,” he says, voice low, conspiratorial. “I’m serious now. Your boy better win, or it’s the end of the line for you. You go to Mogilovich. You want to know what he’d do with a young girl like yourself?”
I grimace. “Get me out of here,” I tell him. “Get me out and I’ll make it worth your while. My Dad’s got money, we’re… we’re really rich back home. We can pay you. We can cover the lost debt.”
He grins. “Don’t think so, but I don’t blame you for trying.”
“So when’s the fight?”
“Now.” He gestures for me to get up.
“What was that sound I heard? Was it a gunshot?”
“Yes.”
“Who was shot?”
He looks at me, but doesn’t tell me. “Get up, let’s go.”
We leave the small office, and he marches me down a steel hallway until we reach a large opening. The lighting here is bright, strong, and I blink rapidly, struggling with my eyesight as it adjusts. I see glowing hexagons and floating blobs, but then it all comes into focus.
I see a steel cage sitting in the middle of what might have been some kind of assembly or bottling floor. Conveyer belts still lie bolted to the floor, lifeless and unmoving.
I can’t see Pierce anywhere. I look around, and then see his opponent. He looks like a pissed off grizzly bear. He’s hairy, huge, and looks mean as hell.
He looks like he can snap a tree trunk over his knee.