Chapter 14
“Get up, pig!” The order was punctuated by a shattering kick to the ribs.
Pain slammed through Shepherd’s torso. He grunted and rolled onto his back, knees protecting his internal organs as much as possible. His wrists were tied behind him. His head felt too large for his body. Above him, a man called Treg grinned over the black sights of an AK-47. Beyond their small encampment, the jungle claimed the world.
“What?” Shep squinted, trying to still the gong that banged relentlessly inside his cranium. “Is breakfast finally ready?” Witty. He was always so damned witty, but he was afraid his charm might be somewhat diminished by the fact that his bottom lip was split down the middle, making his enunciation dubious at best. “Hope ya didn’t burn the toast. And could I get a side of bacon? I’m a little tired of the swill ya been—”
Treg kicked him again. Fire burned through Shepherd’s side and burst like fireworks inside his head. He gritted his teeth and struggled for consciousness. He wasn’t going to pass out. Not now. Not when he was alone with this waste of human flesh. Shep had lain, unmoving and silent for the past fifteen minutes, listening as Treg’s comrades trudged into the woods.
“Get up!” the man snarled, but Shepherd shook his head. His brain felt numb and every fiber in his body screamed with pain, but he was coherent enough to be intimately aware of every weapon his captor possessed. There was the rifle of course, a serviceable weapon that was practically a third arm to these fucking rebels, but it would be heavy, and in Shep’s weakened state might well become a liability. A machete protruded from his captor’s drawstring waistband. It had possibilities. But it was the short blade tucked into Treg’s boot that Shep most coveted.
“Nope,” Shep said. The refusal was no more than a grunt. “If there’s no bacon, I’m stayin’ in bed.”
“Then I shoot you in the goddamned head!”
Shepherd felt sweat wind a shivery course between his shoulder blades, but he’d reached his limit. Death or freedom. One or the other would be his today. “Guess you’re not scared of Guapo, then,” he said and forced a broken smile.
Treg pulled his lips away from tobacco-stained teeth. “I ain’t scared of nothing.”
“That must be ‘cause you’re too stupid to know better.”
Shepherd could practically see the insult rumble through his captor’s brain. He watched anger bloom into rage on the man’s flat features. He leaned forward to grab his captive, and in that instant, Shep yanked his knees to his chest.
Treg jerked up the rifle’s muzzle, but Shepherd was already kicking out, slamming his feet forward with all the strength his failing body could muster. His heels connected with the bastard’s chest. Treg tumbled to the ground, and in that instant, Shepherd propelled himself onto the other’s flailing form. The Latino’s eyes were wide, his mouth open for a scream, but Shep jerked his own head forward. Pain exploded inside his cranium as he connected with Treg’s brow, but his captor was already going lax and there wasn’t a second to lose.
Rolling wildly onto his side, Shep wriggled downward in an attempt to wrench the blade from Treg’s boot. His fingers were numb, his arms practically immobile, but he finally managed to grab the blade’s wooden handle.
Laughter boomed off to his right. Shepherd jerked his head up, searching for the source of the noise. The knife tumbled to the ground. He swore quietly, reverently, and tried like hell to find the blade again.
There! Just beside the kidnapper’s still-inert body. Grabbing it in his right hand, he knelt and tried to locate the bonds around his ankles…the bonds just long enough to let him shuffle through the woods like a hobbled mule. The blade scraped his boot. Voices echoed off to his left.
He whispered a curse and jerked the knife a quarter inch to the right. It scratched against hemp. He sawed frantically. A few cords snapped. He tried to yank his feet apart, but the attempt was weak. He cut more frantically. A little more rope gave way. Almost there. Almost—
“Hey!”
Shepherd jerked toward the voice. The knife toppled from his numb fingers. Two men were staring at him, identical expressions of surprise stamped on their faces.
They chattered something in Spanish and raised their rifles. Point blank. They had him dead to rights. But death seemed worth the risk when the jungle was only yards away.
“Sit down! Down!” shrieked the nearest guard.
“Okay. Okay!” Shep said but instead he staggered to his feet. The frayed rope snapped, but not before it pitched him forward. He fell. A bullet whistled through his hair.
Beside him, Treg moaned and lifted his rifle. Drawing his knees up, Shep slammed his heels into the man’s head. Bullets sprayed around him, but he was already upright, up and racing erratically toward the anonymity of the trees.
Shouts and bullets and curses followed him but he was free. If he were going to die today, he wouldn’t die alone.