Now! Balenger told himself. Crawl! Although the tape was tight around his ankles, he could move his knees by flexing his lower body and pressing his hips forward. He dug his right shoulder and the side of his right knee into the carpet and did his best to shove the chair along. More sweat gushed from his body. Groaning, he felt the chair move a little.
Harder. Try harder, he told himself. His shoulder and knee felt burned by friction against the carpet. The chair moved a little farther. He gasped with effort.
"Amanda, how close am I to the broken glass?" Under the pillowcase, breath vapor beaded his face.
"Twelve feet."
No! It'll take me forever!
Try.
Can't.
Move!
Thunder roared. The walls shook. Then an eerie silence gripped the hotel. Between thunderclaps and rain gusts, Balenger heard something else. Distant. Faint. From the direction of the stairwell. Echoing up.
A shot.
"What was that?" Vinnie said.
"Don't think about it."
Move! Mustering all his strength, Balenger inched the chair forward. Twelve feet away? Too far. Can't make it.
Another shot.
Several more. Rapid.
"God help us," Vinnie said.
Harder. Try harder, Balenger thought. He heard screams now, far below, magnified by the stairwell, drifting upward.
"Please, God, help us," Vinnie said.
Balenger strained, moving the chair three inches.
"Wait," Amanda said.
"What's wrong?"
"You're going to bump into a coffee table. There's a candle. You'll knock it over."
And set fire to the room and get burned alive before Ronnie cuts off our heads, Balenger thought. On the verge of losing his mind, he wanted to shriek until his vocal cords hemorrhaged.
"Where's the table?"
"About ten inches to the side of your chair."
More screams from the stairwell.
"Where's the candle?"
"On the corner nearest you."
I'm never going to reach the broken glass, he thought. On the verge of exhaustion, he budged the chair in a different direction.
"You're going to hit the table," Amanda said.
"Want to."
"What?"
"Need the candle."
The stairwell was now silent. Twelve feet versus ten inches. Balenger groaned, flexed, and shifted the chair. Thunder roared.
"The corner's in front of your face," Amanda said.
Balenger inhaled as best he could, moisture beading his upper lip under the pillowcase. The tape was around his upper arms, but he was able to flex his elbows and move his forearms. He touched the table's smooth metal leg. Wincing from stress in his elbows and shoulders, fearing he would dislocate them, he groped higher, feeling the table's glass corner. Just a little higher, he thought. His elbows and wrists in agony, he reached over the table's corner and sobbed with relief when his gloves touched the candle.
He pulled it from its base and eased it over the table's side. He felt wax drip onto his Windbreaker. Holding the candle horizontally, he shoved its base between his legs. His thighs gripped it firmly. Seen through the pillowcase, the flame was just visible enough for Balenger to guide his taped wrists over it. He felt heat through his gloves and sleeves.
Duct tape doesn't burn. It melts. He imagined it bubbling and shriveling as he concentrated to pull his wrists apart. The heat intensified. In pain, he felt the tape softening, loosening. At once, the tape parted. He jerked his wrists from the flame and twisted them hard, freeing them from the remainder of the tape.
Dizzy from the accumulation of carbon dioxide, he tugged the sweat-soaked hood off his head and inhaled greedily. It felt glorious to be able to use both hands. He grabbed the candle from between his thighs and drew its flame along his left shoulder, melting the tape that bound his chest to the chair. His Windbreaker started to burn. The heat felt blistering. He transferred the candle to his left hand and used his gloved right hand to stamp out the flames on his chest.
The stench of melted duct tape made him gag, but he stifled the reflex and pulled at the separated tape, freeing his shoulders. Frenzied, he bent toward his ankles and melted the tape that secured them to the chair. He wavered to his feet. Tense, listening for more sounds in the stairwell, he reached down for a shard of glass, only to notice a knife among the equipment that had been dumped from the knapsacks. Sure, he thought, they had more knives than they needed. Somebody wanted to make room for more coins.
A footstep echoed in the stairwell.
Balenger rushed to Vinnie and sliced the tape at his shoulders, wrists, and ankles. He heard another footstep, higher in the stairwell. Vinnie took a shard of glass from the floor and ran to Cora while Balenger ran to Amanda. The two men hacked at the tape, working to free the women.
Lightning cracked. In its relatively quiet aftermath, the footsteps ascended. Slow and measured, they made Balenger think of someone who walked with painful deliberate care because of alcohol or drugs. Or maybe the sound came from someone so confident of the endgame that he didn't need to hurry.
Cora and Amanda yanked away the last of the tape and lunged from their chairs. Balenger noticed the hammer Tod had dropped on the pile of equipment. He threw it to Vinnie, then held his knife in an attack position.
"Turn off your headlamps." In the candlelight, he focused all his attention on the stairwell's black mouth.
The slow footsteps kept rising. Steady. Patient. A shadow appeared. Balenger prepared to attack. An arm waved up and down. A pistol was at the end of it. But the arm wasn't aiming the pistol. It was moving the pistol the way a blind man would use a cane, testing the area before him. A head appeared. Night-vision goggles. Tattoos. Tod. He emerged from the staircase. He looked dazed. In the light from the candles, Balenger saw that he was covered with blood.
44
"Is it… Are you…" Tod lowered his goggles, as if convinced they made him see things that weren't real. He didn't seem puzzled that Balenger, Vinnie, Cora, and Amanda were free of their bonds. Nor did he look fearful that all four might be able to overpower him before he could defend himself. What he did look was relieved.
"Thank God." He plodded from the weight of the gold coins in his knapsack and pockets. He backed from the stairwell, gaping at it. "We're gonna need to stick together. Need all the help we can get."
"Are you hurt?" Balenger asked. "There's blood-"
"Not mine." The sound of rain made Tod frown toward the howling darkness beyond the open door. "No. Jesus. Gotta close it. Gotta barricade it again. Hurry. No time. Get it shut. Now. I'll guard the stairs. I'll shoot anybody who comes up the stairs."
But the candlelight revealed that the slide on the pistol was back. Its magazine was empty.
"Give it to me," Balenger said.
"Need it."
"You fired all the rounds in it."
"What?"
"You emptied it."
"Emptied it?"
"Vinnie! Amanda!" Cora shouted. "Help with the door!"
They reclosed it and piled the furniture.
"The spare magazine," Balenger asked Tod. "Where is it?"
Tod kept gazing trancelike toward the stairwell.
"Give me the damned gun." Balenger twisted it from his hand, amazed at how things had changed. A while ago, Tod would have shot him dead for even looking as if he'd try for the gun. Balenger found the spare magazine in Tod's belt. With military expertise, he dropped the empty magazine, shoved in the loaded one, and pressed the gun's release lever so the slide rammed forward and chambered a round. It gave him a moment's confidence to be armed again.
Balenger aimed toward the stairs. "What happened?"
"Not sure," Tod said. He twitched. "Oh, I know what happened all right. I'm just not sure how it was done."
"Where are your buddies?"
"We went down the stairs."
"I know that. Tell me about-"