Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) by Robert Gregory Browne
Authors: Robert Gregory Browne
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LA Tribune building until throat cancer forced him to retire, then killed him less than six months later. God only knew what he’d attached to the inside of the trunk, but when he’d ripped it out, he’d left behind this screw.
Thanks, old buddy. Rest in peace.
Readjusting his hands, Vargas brought his wrists up to the tip of the screw and began scraping the rope against it.
It wasn’t quiet work, especially in the confines of the trunk, but he figured the hum of the tires and the blasting radio would mask the noise from Sergio’s ears. Vargas moved as quickly as he could, feeling the screw snag and grab hold, then cut through the fibers, a nanometer at a time, each move of his hands forcing the rope to dig deeper into his wrists.
Then the brakes squeaked and the car came to a sudden halt.
Vargas’s hands slipped, jerking upward, and the screw pierced flesh, driving deep. Hot pain shot through the left side of his hand, radiating up into the pinky.
It took everything he had to keep from screaming.
Yanking his hands free, he brought them down to his thigh, pressing the wound against it, and squeezed his eyes shut, as if this would somehow put out the fire.
No such luck.
He could still hear cars around him, their engines idling, which meant they were at a stoplight. Inside the Corolla, Sergio started singing along with the tune on the radio.
But these were only peripheral observations. Most of Vargas’s concentration was centered on the one small part of his body that stung like a motherfucker. And he felt like singing, too—but it wouldn’t be a happy tune.
Wondering how much more damage he could do to himself, he waited for the pain to subside, and when the car lurched into motion again he quickly raised his hands to the trunk lid and resumed his task.
But he’d have to make it fast. He had a feeling that the next time this car stopped, it wouldn’t be for something as insignificant as a traffic light.
18
F IVE MINUTES LATER , Vargas felt something give, and the rope loosened.
It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.
Twisting his hands back and forth, feeling the burn and not giving a damn, he worked the rope, forcing it to give again, and then again, until finally, thankfully, he pulled his wrists free.
He let out a breath. Felt exhausted. But he couldn’t quit now.
Carefully rolling onto his side, he brought his knees up toward his chest, then reached down to his ankles with his right hand, found the knot in the rope, and started tugging at it. It was tight and rock hard, but Vargas wasn’t about to let that stop him. He kept working at it, wiggling it back and forth until it, too, loosened and came free.
He didn’t bother with the tape across his mouth. That could be taken care of later.
Instead, he shifted his body again and and let his hands roam the trunk, searching for an emergency lever or cable or anything that might pop the lid.
Then he found one, near the rear of the trunk, next to the panel behind the backseat, where the rear speakers were supposed to be mounted.
A small knob.
He had no idea if this was the emergency trunk release or simply a lever that allowed the backseats to be lowered. But it didn’t matter. Either way, it was his ticket out. Escaping through the backseat might be more problematic with Sergio up there, but it was a chance Vargas would have to take.
Grabbing hold of the knob with his good hand, he pulled on it as hard as he could.
Nothing happened.
What the hell?
Muttering into the duct tape, he tried again, and this time got something in return for his efforts:
With a sharp, snapping sound—snapping cable, that is—the knob came loose in his fingers.
Broken. Useless.
Sonofabitch.
Vargas dropped the knob and lay still for a moment, feeling the hump of that goddamned tire beneath him and wondering what his next move should be. He could search for another knob, another lever, but he had a feeling he’d pretty much shot his wad on that
Thanks, old buddy. Rest in peace.
Readjusting his hands, Vargas brought his wrists up to the tip of the screw and began scraping the rope against it.
It wasn’t quiet work, especially in the confines of the trunk, but he figured the hum of the tires and the blasting radio would mask the noise from Sergio’s ears. Vargas moved as quickly as he could, feeling the screw snag and grab hold, then cut through the fibers, a nanometer at a time, each move of his hands forcing the rope to dig deeper into his wrists.
Then the brakes squeaked and the car came to a sudden halt.
Vargas’s hands slipped, jerking upward, and the screw pierced flesh, driving deep. Hot pain shot through the left side of his hand, radiating up into the pinky.
It took everything he had to keep from screaming.
Yanking his hands free, he brought them down to his thigh, pressing the wound against it, and squeezed his eyes shut, as if this would somehow put out the fire.
No such luck.
He could still hear cars around him, their engines idling, which meant they were at a stoplight. Inside the Corolla, Sergio started singing along with the tune on the radio.
But these were only peripheral observations. Most of Vargas’s concentration was centered on the one small part of his body that stung like a motherfucker. And he felt like singing, too—but it wouldn’t be a happy tune.
Wondering how much more damage he could do to himself, he waited for the pain to subside, and when the car lurched into motion again he quickly raised his hands to the trunk lid and resumed his task.
But he’d have to make it fast. He had a feeling that the next time this car stopped, it wouldn’t be for something as insignificant as a traffic light.
18
F IVE MINUTES LATER , Vargas felt something give, and the rope loosened.
It wasn’t much, but it might be enough.
Twisting his hands back and forth, feeling the burn and not giving a damn, he worked the rope, forcing it to give again, and then again, until finally, thankfully, he pulled his wrists free.
He let out a breath. Felt exhausted. But he couldn’t quit now.
Carefully rolling onto his side, he brought his knees up toward his chest, then reached down to his ankles with his right hand, found the knot in the rope, and started tugging at it. It was tight and rock hard, but Vargas wasn’t about to let that stop him. He kept working at it, wiggling it back and forth until it, too, loosened and came free.
He didn’t bother with the tape across his mouth. That could be taken care of later.
Instead, he shifted his body again and and let his hands roam the trunk, searching for an emergency lever or cable or anything that might pop the lid.
Then he found one, near the rear of the trunk, next to the panel behind the backseat, where the rear speakers were supposed to be mounted.
A small knob.
He had no idea if this was the emergency trunk release or simply a lever that allowed the backseats to be lowered. But it didn’t matter. Either way, it was his ticket out. Escaping through the backseat might be more problematic with Sergio up there, but it was a chance Vargas would have to take.
Grabbing hold of the knob with his good hand, he pulled on it as hard as he could.
Nothing happened.
What the hell?
Muttering into the duct tape, he tried again, and this time got something in return for his efforts:
With a sharp, snapping sound—snapping cable, that is—the knob came loose in his fingers.
Broken. Useless.
Sonofabitch.
Vargas dropped the knob and lay still for a moment, feeling the hump of that goddamned tire beneath him and wondering what his next move should be. He could search for another knob, another lever, but he had a feeling he’d pretty much shot his wad on that
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