His momentum carried him past the razor-sharp edge of the doorway, across the threshold, into the vault. He seized the inside door handle and slammed the bulky door shut as hard as he could.
It hammered Dex above the junction of his wrist, nearly cleaving the arm in two.
Dex’s mouth stretched wide, his lips wavering. It was really strange to see a man scream and not make a sound.
Evan put all his weight against the handle, pinning Dex’s arm. He’d released the noose, but the knot held, the laces embedded in the flesh at the base of Dex’s hand a few inches below the massive wound.
Holding the blood in the veins.
Now he just had to remove the hand.
Keeping his grip on the door handle, Evan ripped the garrote free of his sock. Dex reared back, the weighty door swinging open, then smashing shut again on the hatchet wound of the wrist. His mouth spread in another silent roar, but by then Evan had already looped the piano wire around the arm, sinking it into the deepening gash above the wrist.
Gripping the roughly hewn wooden handles, Evan twisted the garrote. Ligaments snapped. The bones of the wrist started to separate from the base of the ulna and radius. It was grisly, hard-going work.
Evan sensed a blur of movement overhead, found himself looking up into the barrel of the .45. He jerked his face to the side as Dex pulled the trigger, the percussion so loud that for a moment Evan thought the round had in fact penetrated his head.
But he heard it ping behind him — and then again and again, ricocheting endlessly around the small box. It seemed only a matter of time before the bullet would find him.
Evan was dangling from the garrote’s handles, wrenching with all his might, yanking Dex against the door to hold it shut. Dex shoved himself back, trying to widen the gap and position himself for another shot.
And still the round pinged and pinged.
Xalbador gripped Dex around the midsection, fighting a tug-of-war over the mangled arm. Dex jammed the gun through the gap again, and Evan clustered both ends of the garrote in one hand and grabbed for the barrel with the other, forcing the bore to the side of his head.
The gun bucked powerfully — he felt the ache in the bones of his fingers — but didn’t fire. He squeezed the slide assembly even tighter, keeping the pistol from cycling. As long as he held on, it wouldn’t be able to eject the round it had already fired. Torquing his wrist, he managed to wrench the .45 free of Dex’s grip. The pistol skittered across the Lexan floor behind him.
The first shot was still rocketing around the enclosure, whining and cracking off the walls. He felt the air move, the bullet riffling the hair on his head, missing by a whisper.
The world was nothing but the ringing aftermath of a struck bell; his head felt thick and dead, stuffed with rags. Dex reared back again, Xalbador yanking him, the door yawning wide. Evan’s fists ached around the wooden handles. His boots slipped on the slick Lexan. Dex and Xalbador were going to rip him right out of the box.
He lost his feet, swinging around on his ass, pulled by the garrote toward the threshold. At the last minute, he threw a boot wide, wedging it against the doorframe, and hurled himself back.
The tendons snapped audibly. Evan toppled backward. The severed hand fell free, slapping the floor.
Dex and Xalbador cartwheeled away, Dex’s stump flinging up, trailing crimson mist. Evan heard the bullet zing overhead and then silence — it must’ve flown out the open door. He scrambled forward, reaching for the metal handle and slamming the thick door.
Dex rolled on the floor, clutching his arm. Xalbador crawled out from beneath him, transmitter in hand, trying in vain to electrify Evan’s shock collar.
Holding the door shut, Evan groped behind him for the severed hand. His fingers cupped Dex’s. He gathered the hand in and slapped it against the sensor panel. It leaked blood, but the noose had held, still cinched around the base of the hand above the jagged line of the wrist.
The sensor whirred and processed. Had the bootlaces held enough blood in the hand for the sensor to read the vein pattern?
Xalbador was on his feet now.
The screen lit up.
READING.
READING.
In his peripheral vision, Evan sensed bodies pouring through the doorway, backup arriving.
Finally command buttons littered the screen — LOCK, OPEN, DISABLE, RECODE.
Evan thumbed RECODE.
Xalbador lunged for the handle.
Evan spread his own hand on the panel. The screen flashed green, and the lugs engaged with a clang an instant before Xalbador curled his hands around the handle.
Xalbador tore at the steel bar, his flailing locks spattering sweat across the Lexan. He stopped flailing. His shoulders sank.
He and Evan stared at each other through the transparent door.
Behind Xalbador, Dex rose to his feet and aimed his muted screams at the elaborate chandelier. Bidders and guards sprinted into the ballroom, jostling and shouting and overturning chairs. At the head of the pack, René halted, the sole point of stillness in the room. His face was flushed in streaks along the lines of plastic surgeries past. A cold rage cemented his jaw.
He glared at Evan, locked safely inside the Lexan vault. Removing his transmitter from a pocket inside his suit jacket, he aimed it at Evan and squeezed.
Evan took a step back, picked up the .45, righted the folding chair, and sat.
René squeezed the transmitter again, then hurled it aside. He charged across to the vault and tugged on the handle, his thin hair cascading over his forehead. Then he stopped, sweeping his bangs back into place. “So you’ve locked yourself in your own cell.” His voice, filtered through the panel, had a tinny quality. “You think that gives you some kind of advantage?”
Evan leaned to pick up Dex’s severed hand from the floor. The blood-dripping scowl inked on the skin was now augmented with the real thing.
The alligator skin below René’s left eye twitched. A squiggle of a vein showed at his temple. “We still have you trapped.” He coughed out a laugh that was equal parts fury and disbelief. “How exactly do you see this ending?”
Evan lifted Dex’s florid scowl. And placed it over his mouth.
53
Some Delicacies
Confusion and mayhem roiled through the ballroom, catching like a flame. Sark had someone by the lapel — a Somalian warlord? — his drawn-back fist restrained by one of the narcos. Dex staggered out leaving a jagged trail of blood, another narco at his side. Candy and Orphan M had appeared. They alone looked composed, leaning against the grand piano in the rear of the room, a nightclub act between sets. Candy caught Evan’s eye.
And she grinned.
Behind her beautiful teeth, there was hunger.
René gestured frantically for the guards to get everyone under control.
Evan sat calmly on his chair watching the show.
As the commotion built to a crescendo, Xalbador swapped out his less-lethal shotgun for an AK-47. Standing on a chair, he swept the barrel across the crowd. “¡Cállense!” he shouted. “Shut up!”
It took some prodding from the other narcos, but at last a version of order had been restored.
“I can sell him, box and all,” René said, addressing the crowd of bidders. “You can buy him and starve him to death, like a lizard in a jar. Savor every minute.”
“This is not our agreement,” Sark said. “I want it to be worse than this for him. I want access to his soft flesh.”
The Widow Lakshminarayanan made a throaty sound of agreement. The others voiced their displeasure.
“He has a gun,” the Somalian said.