Apart from the odd shout or footfall outside, the only sounds for the past thirty minutes had been him scrambling around and Tess’s steady breath. Her curled shape on the mattress was melting into black, with just her hair still picking up the light. He’d let her rest as long as possible. With injured feet, she’d have a hard enough time keeping up.
Hell, how long since he’d had an encounter like that with a woman? Gentle and innocent—except for the dirty thoughts running through his head. For nearly ten years his few relationships had been short-term and only about sex. In one fling, with a Canadian tourist, he’d pretended he didn’t speak English to avoid conversation. Yep, he was that much of a lowlife. Stick around and they’d start asking questions.
The last time he’d stuck with a woman—with a journalist—too long, she’d torn his life apart. The bitch had pretended to be into him just long enough to paste his face and whereabouts all over the media, leaving him no choice but to leave Australia. Oh yeah, he’d learned his lesson, about journalists and women.
He twisted the cord and tried to angle it to fall over the gap on the other side of the board, so he could pull it through and secure it. Bugger, this would take more time and effort than he’d budgeted. He was fast running out of light, and his head wound pulsed every time he looked up. He made himself breathe—in, out, in, out. At least the pain in his ribs had eased.
After ten minutes he took a break and a handful of painkillers. On his next attempt, success. The cord flipped into the right spot and he used Tess’s tweezers to grip the loose wires and urge them to a point he could grab them. He pulled both ends tight and tied them, then swung on the cord, tentatively lifting his feet off the floor. It held. Sweet.
With the scissors, he sawed off another length of cord at the point it disappeared between the rocks. It was shorter—just enough for a second handhold. Threading it through would be even more of a bitch than the first.
Tess shifted. Mate, the light had fallen fast. This was taking too long. If the soldier returned before he was ready, his plan was screwed. He tucked the cord under his arm and crouched over Tess, his fingers finding her neck, then navigating to the safer territory of her shoulder. He gently shook it.
“Tess, wake up.”
She groaned and sat. He kept his hand on her. Maybe because he didn’t want her getting disorientated. Maybe because the smooth curve of her shoulder felt good. With his other hand he searched for the open bottle of water.
“It’s dark,” she said.
“Ready to bust out? Here, have a drink.” He let his hand fall to the middle of her back while she gulped. “Can you get your boots on?”
“Maybe, if I strip down the bandages on my toes. It’ll be...tight.”
“Leave them off for now. Put them in your backpack—it’s leaning on the mattress. I’ve packed it. You might have to take out one of the water bottles—I’ve stuffed in as many as can fit.” She’d run faster in socks, if she could run at all. He’d have to steal a vehicle.
“What’s your plan?”
“Get us above ground.”
“And then?”
“Wing it.”
Her silence told him everything about her faith in that.
“Sunshine, winging it is what I do best.”
Anything was better than sitting down here, rotting. He got back to work on his handholds, giving her his watch so she could direct its light up. Even the faint blue glow cast shadows.
“Someone’s coming.”
Damn, she was right. Footsteps neared, thudding on dusty ground. “A few more seconds.” The frayed end of the second cord was poking up through the boards, but he still needed to catch it, yank it back down and tie it. “Kill the light. I’ll do it blind.” He hadn’t had time to check everything, let alone practice his maneuver. Could he wait? And then what—risk escaping in daylight? They might not be alive by tomorrow night.
He let his head drop forward, taking the pressure off his wound, and left his fingers to do the work, snapping the tweezers blindly into the gap. A scrape and a click—the key in the lock.
“Put the backpack on,” he whispered. He’d intended to carry it, but plans were evolving too fast.
A door squeaked open. The tweezers snagged something. Shafts of light fell through the cracks. He pulled the end of the cord and caught it in his fingers. Footsteps passed overhead—one person, too heavy to be the woman. Flynn held his breath. One flick of the flashlight in his direction and the cords would gleam like strip lights.
He drew the cord down. Screw it, no time to prepare, test the angles, experiment with his run up. The diagram in his head would have to do. As the bolts shot across, he tied the ends and tested his weight, wincing as the cords rolled, shuddering, along the floorboards. He lowered to the floor, released the handholds and backed into the wall, wiping his sweaty palms on his combat pants. Chalk would be good, like at high school gym. He settled for dirt. No shortage of that.
The hatch squealed as it was levered off, the flashlight beam dancing out from the soldier’s hands. The handholds glowed. Now. Flynn sprang out, launched himself off the floor and into the loops, and swung his feet up. The guy squawked. Flynn’s boot collected something as his feet flew out of the hole. The rest of his body didn’t make it. The flashlight cracked into a wall and flickered off.
He hooked his boots on the edge of the hatch, his torso swinging down wildly. Bugger. Not enough momentum. High school gym was too long ago. The guy shouted something. Flynn crunched up, flailing with his right hand, his ribs burning, his skull complaining about being upside down. Pressure dug into his back—Tess, pushing him from underneath. He got a fingerhold on the side of the hatch, then a hand. The guy shouted again. Merde, how long until reinforcements arrived?
Pain slammed into his shins. Something pushed on his soles. The guy was trying to tip him back in. Funneling his strength into his right arm, Flynn hoisted himself, with a grunt. One foot slipped but his upper body was out. He rolled clear of the hole and sprang upright.
Footfalls rapped from outside, flashlight beams jiggling through the open doorway. His opponent’s eyes lit with fear. Flynn smashed a fist in his solar plexus, dropping him. The guy scraped for breath but kicked out, catching Flynn in the nuts. Flynn swore, unbalanced, slipped sideways. Something skidded out beside him and dropped into the hatch. The MREs the guy had been carrying.
As Flynn picked himself up, another soldier reached the doorway, running, an M16 aimed. A flashlight beam skidded over the wall, revealing an alcove. Flynn dived. Bullets ripped up the room; warm liquid sprayed his face. Putain.
Suddenly, the gunman flailed, reared up and smacked into the floor at Flynn’s feet, his rifle flying up. What the—?
No fucking way—the guy had tripped on the looped cords sticking up through the floorboards. The first soldier lay still on the floor, his skull flipped open like a lid. More shouts outside. Five or six men, a couple of women. Some closing in, some farther away.
Flynn dropped on the gunman, smashing an elbow into the back of his neck. “Look out below,” he called, lifting the guy in a spear tackle and launching him headfirst into the hole. He landed with an unhealthy crack. Hell, Flynn should have taken his rifle. Not thinking quickly enough.
He pressed into the alcove, reining in his heaving breath, as another guy approached the door. A splintering crack ricocheted from the other side of the room. Shit. A second external door had been forced open. Two goons spilled in, silhouetted in a floodlight, rifles glinting dully. Enemy left and right. Nowhere to retreat.