"Sam!" Gail cried. "Sam, please! You've got to believe me!"
He laughed, over there, and pointed to his ear, indicating that he couldn't hear a word. She started to move, and he watched with great interest, clearly wondering if she'd really do it. I mean, it isn't every man who can get a beautiful woman to come crawling to his feet, proclaiming her love.
I tried not to watch it. I mean, there are only three ways you can transport yourself any distance when your hands and feet are bound. You can roll like a log, you can squirm along on your side like a snake, or you can sit up and kind of skid yourself along on the seat of your pants. None of these modes of locomotion is anything you really want to see being employed by an attractive woman for whom you have respect and affection…
But it held his attention, that was the main thing. I guess he'd had to take a certain amount of stuff from her in the past; she might play, but she had kept him in his place. Watching the rich, arrogant and lovely Mrs. Hendricks, bound hand and foot, making her way across the oil-stained floor at considerable expense to her dignity and clothing, was a real treat to him.
The gunbarell drooped, as his eyes remained fixed on the slender, struggling, disheveled figure slowly drawing closer. It was time for me to reach under my shirt in back and peel the metal foil from the sharp edges of the trick belt buckle Mac had given me and cut the ropes on my wrists.
I got hold of the buckle all right. I even found a purchase for my fingernails, but that was as far as it went. I didn't have the strength to take it from there.
XXVI
You understand, the buckle was made of steel with the edges honed to razor sharpness, and in order to keep it from disemboweling me every time I bent over, it was clad in metal foil, carefully decorated with an Indian pattern, so that it looked like the massive, ornate silver buckles offered to tourists on both sides of the border.
In theory, it should have taken only an instant to strip off the foil and bring the edges into action, but the fellow who'd figured out the theory obviously hadn't taken into account the fact that the buckle might have to be used by a beat-up gent who'd had his hands tied tightly behind him-in cold weather-for several hours. Like so many of the nice stunts thought up in Washington, it just didn't work. The foil was too heavy.
I scratched at it feebly, but it might as well have been soldered on-and the distance Gail had left to travel was getting shorter by the minute. Gunther was getting tired of the entertainment, anyway. I saw him speak, although I couldn't hear the words; then he rose and went to her. He set her on her feet and made a show of brushing her off magnanimously. He helped her hop to the stool on which he'd been sitting-I'd forgotten to mention that way of traveling, bound. You can hop, if your balance is good or you have someone to steady you.
She was speaking, as she sat down. He listened to her for a moment. I don't know what line she was trying to feed him now, probably telling him how she'd yearned for him since childhood. I saw his face go angry. He lifted a hand and slapped her off the stool, looked down at her for a moment, frowning, glanced around suspiciously and came stalking over to check on Romero and me.
I couldn't get that damn heavy foil off, and it was too late to cut myself loose, anyway, but I did have the belt unbuckled, ready to slip out of the loops. I didn't know what Romero was doing and I didn't really care. He seemed to be a nice enough guy when he wasn't behind the wheel of a car, but he'd been here a day or so without accomplishing much, and I don't have much faith in those security people, anyway. There wasn't any sense in counting on him. I'd have to do it by myself, if I could.
As Gunther approached, holding the gun slackly, not really expecting trouble, I made a big demonstration of trying to rear up and meet him on my feet. He stopped and brought the pistol to bear, watching me warily. I lost my balance and did a comic back fall, landing heavily, hoping my boots weren't too big for the trick that came next, that is, if he gave me a chance to use it by looking away briefly. I have long arms, as well as long legs, and in tennis or Street shoes I can usually manage to get my feet between my bound wrists, bringing my hands in front of me. It's a handy stunt for a man in my line of work, and I'd practiced it from time to time, but never in winter clothes with boots on.
I waited, acting jarred by the fall. Gail had struggled up behind Gunther, but much too far away to reach him. She tried a couple of hops in his direction and fell painfully. He glanced around and laughed, and then I heard somebody shout over the pounding motor noises-and there was Romero on his feet, hopping like a kangaroo straight at Gunther.
Gunther turned. The gun came up, but Romero didn't stop. It was a brave thing, but it was no time for me to be watching the show on the screen; I had business to attend to. I was dragging my wrists over my boots, losing plenty of skin, as the gun went off; then I was on my feet, grabbing the belt and pulling it clear. I heard the bullet hit, and saw Romero kind of hunch up and fall, but I had my weapon ready. It's best used as a sort of murderous brass knucks, with the leather wrapped around the fist and the buckle out, but my hands were tied, and I needed more range than that to reach my man, anyway.
Like most novices at murder, he had to admire his handiwork briefly. He couldn't just shoot one guy and turn to deal with the next, he had to watch the first one fall. Maybe he wasn't quite sure of his marksmanship; maybe he enjoyed seeing him drop. I had plenty of time to get set, and I got him as he turned.
I raised both arms and swung the heavy buckle at the end of the strap. It sang through the air like one of those Japanese noisemakers you whirl on a string. It caught him just right, squarely across the face, and with that much power behind it, the foil made no difference at all. I couldn't have done better, or worse, with a machete.
He lost the gun and staggered backward, screaming, covering his face with his hands. I took another hop and cut again, laying his hands open. I stood over him as he went down, using the belt as a flail until he no longer moved or yelled. Unfortunately, he had only fainted. The buckle hadn't cut deeply. But there were a few things to be attended to before I finished the job; besides, I preferred to do it without witnesses-particularly official government witnesses like Romero. Mac had specified a smooth, discreet and competent job, remember?
I hopped over to the little man, lying doubled up on the floor.
"How bad, Dad?" I shouted over the steady noise of the big engine.
He raised his head with an effort. "Just a scratch," he said.
"Yeah," I shouted. "I know those little.32 caliber scratches. Hold this one for me."
I sat down beside him and gave him the buckle to hold. There was no more trouble with the foil. Gunther had already helped peel it back here and there; I got the rest of it off without any trouble. Then I cut myself loose, hands and feet, and did the same for Romero. I went over and got Gunther's pistol. One shot had been fired from it, but he had extra cartridges in his pocket.
When I got back, Romero was sitting up. His face was even pastier-looking, under the dirt, than it had been.
"What's the time?" he yelled. "My watch stopped yesterday."
"Ten minutes of ten," I said, "according to this one, but I don't guarantee it."
"That gives us," he said, "just ten minutes to get over there and stop them."
"Us?" I said. "I came for this jerk and I've got him right here. I've lost nothing in any churches."
He looked startled; then he looked outraged and angry. "You crummy bastard," he shouted, "doesn't it matter to you that people are going to get killed, people this country can't afford to lose?"