16. Lex
16
LEX
“ Y our friends only have another twenty-four hours or so before they’re supposed to arrive.”
I flick open my eyes and groan. Mr. Shriveled Dicks is standing over me, a bowl of something in one hand.
“Good,” I grate. “Then you’ll be able to let me go.”
I don’t know if that’s even their plan. They’re more likely to kill me.
Every muscle is stiff and screams in pain after spending hours chained and sitting on the cold floor. I managed to sleep for a few hours, but I woke with a cramp in my calf and my neck threatening to go into a spasm.
He snorts. “You’ll be lucky.”
I force a grin. “Lucky is my middle name.”
What he doesn’t know is that I have a cleaver hidden underneath my t-shirt, the cold metal flat against my spine. Getting it hadn’t been easy. I’d taken off my boots and socks, then had to lie flat on my back to stretch my feet out to the cabinet, and open it, and unhook the cleaver with my toes. I’d been lucky I hadn’t cut my foot off, or at the very least lost a toe. But it had worked, and I’d been able to drag the cleaver close enough to pick it up with my unchained hand, and then hide it behind my back, the handle shoved down the back of my pants. Then I’d gone through the arduous task of once more getting my boots and socks back on, while having one hand chained. Afterward, I’d tried to rest. I’d been terrified of quite literally stabbing myself in the back as I’d slept, but somehow, I hadn’t even nicked my skin.
The problem I have now is choosing the right moment to use the weapon. I’ll only get one chance, and if I pick the wrong moment, I’ll be fucked.
No, probably worse than fucked. I’ll be dead.
Apo tosses the bowl down on the floor beside me. I screw up my nose at the sight of the brown mulch of meat. What the fuck is that? Actual dog food? If he thinks I’m going to eat that shit, he can go screw himself.
He doesn't give me the chance to refuse, though. He grabs my hair viciously and pushes me down until my face is mashed against the awful soft food in the bowl. The stench hits me and sets my stomach roiling all over again.
Laughing deeply, the psychopath holding my hair lets go and kicks me in the thigh before he saunters out of the room.
I'm left alone, with a face covered in dog food, the worst thirst I've ever felt, and aching pains all over my body. I raise one shoulder and twist my neck to wipe my face the best I can against my t-shirt.
Still, I have the cleaver, and, now that I'm awake, I need to figure out what I'm going to do. I can't fight back against them even with my weapon if I'm still chained. I don’t know if the cleaver will be strong enough to break through the metal of my chain, and I’m concerned about noise. The clanging of metal on metal is bound to be heard. From the upper decks, the heavy bass of music drifts down, followed by laughter. Even though it’s the middle of the night, it sounds as if Jarl and his men are letting their hair down a little. They're probably up on the sundeck, playing some music and maybe even drinking some beers, or something stronger.
I strain my ears and wonder if it’s loud enough to cover the sound of my attempted escape. Because I have to escape. Vani and the guys are on their way, and when they arrive, I refuse to still be fucking sitting here like a lemon. I won’t let Jarl use me to hurt them.
Reaching behind my back, I feel for the cleaver, and a slow smile spreads across my face as the music notches up another level. It's some rap from the early 2000s that I vaguely recognize. The bass is deep enough that I hope it will hide the sound of me hitting the chain.
I don't believe for one moment that when my twin and the others arrive, I’ll be set free. I think I'm being held as bait to trap them. We'll all need to do everything within our power to escape at that point. If they're trying to free me, it’ll slow down their escape. On the other hand, if these men can't find me when my friends arrive, that will slow my captors down. They will be distracted looking for me, probably thrown completely off balance if they come in here to find me gone.
When I free myself, I had considered simply attacking these guys and trying to get away. But that would probably be a suicide mission when I know they’re armed with guns. Instead, I’ll try to get free, and if I succeed, I'll hide. They might say hiding is for cowards, but I say the clever man is the man who lives to fight another day.
It occurs to me that I could try to slip off the side of the boat and make a swim for it, but I have no idea how far I am from shore, and it’ll be pitch black outside. The darkness will give me cover, but how far will I get? I have a head injury, and I’m definitely not at my strongest, physically. Leaving the boat feels like abandoning Vani and Zane and Saint, too. What if they show up, and I’m no longer here, and they’re never going to find me because my body has already sunk to the bottom of the lake to be feasted on by fishes and crabs?
When the others arrive, they’re going to need as many people as possible on their side, and that includes me.
I reach behind my back with my free hand and remove the cleaver from where I’d hidden it from Apo. It’s a solid piece of metal, but I honestly don’t know if it’s going to be strong enough to break the chain. I’m sure as hell going to try, though.
I pull my chained arm toward me, so the chain between each cuff is taut. Tightening my grip around the metal handle of the cleaver, praying my palms don’t sweat so much that I lose my grip, I focus on the spot where I intend the blade to meet. The chain isn’t particularly long, and I’m conscious of just how close to my upturned wrist the blade is going to land. If I get my aim wrong, or my grip slips, I could end up cutting off my hand and bleeding to death before I even get out of this fucking kitchen.
With a roar, I raise the cleaver and bring it down as fast and hard as I can, slamming the blade onto the chain. Metal clangs on metal, and the impact vibrates through my clenched hand and up my wrist and arm.
I haven’t hit my arm—thank fuck—but, as I stare down at the spot where the sharp edge hit the chain, my stomach sinks in disappointment.
Merde.
I stare in frustration at the still intact chain and grit my teeth. There’s barely a mark on it. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the beads of perspiration that are starting to trickle down the side of my face. I need to try this again before I give up on this idea completely.
With a growl, I slam the cleaver into the chain, again and again. I’m conscious of the noise, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
With each strike, I imagine it's Shriveled Dick Necklace I'm attacking. I picture his skull caved in, and his eyes widened in surprise as his idiotic brain realizes I'm about to take his life. No matter what else happens, I don't want to let him live. He makes me sick, with his stupid necklace and his animalistic cunning. He might not be intelligent, but he's got the ruthless smarts of an adaptive predator.
I stop, breathing hard, and stare down at the chain.
Fuuuuuccck. I want to lift my head and scream at the ceiling. There are a few tiny marks on the links, but that’s all. If anything, it’s the cleaver that’s come off worse. The one lethally sharp edge is now dented and dulled. If I continue with this, I’m going to ruin my weapon.
There has to be another way.
I take in my cuffed hand and remember what I’d thought about cutting off my thumb to be able to slide the cuff off. I don’t want to go down that route, and cutting it off probably isn’t a good idea if I want to be in any fit state to deal with Jarl and his men when the others arrive. If I’m weak with blood loss, I’ll be no good to anyone. But could I break my thumb? I’d dismissed the idea earlier, but now I’m desperate. It’s my left hand that’s cuffed, so I can still fight with my right, though it’ll still put me at a disadvantage.
Plus, it’s going to fucking hurt.
Am I brave enough to put myself through that kind of pain?
Immediately, Vani’s face comes to mind, the way she gazes up at me with those big doe-brown eyes, hiding behind those long lashes. If I don’t do this, I’ll be abandoning her. I might never see her again, or, worse, the next time I see her, it might be with Apo raping and murdering her. I’d want to die myself if that happened. I just want to take care of Vani, to be the comfort after my brother’s cutting words.
I have to do this for her.
I clench my teeth and adjust my grip on the cleaver so now the blunt handle faces down. I wish I’d paid more attention in my biology class so I knew exactly where I should break the bone for the best impact. I assume it needs to be at the joint closest to my wrist. It’s where my hand is the widest. Fuck. I am not looking forward to doing this.
To muffle my scream, I bundle the bottom of my t-shirt and pull it up to stuff in my mouth. I don’t know if I’ll be louder than the clank of the cleaver on the chain, but it makes sense to take precautions. I also think I’ll feel better if I can bite down on something other than my tongue.
With my breath trapped in my lungs, I raise the cleaver handle. I want to close my eyes, but I need to make sure I’ll bring the handle down on the right place.
In my head, I count, one…two…three…
I bring the handle down, slamming the metal onto my thumb joint. For a moment, I’m sure I disassociate. I pull back inside myself, my head swimming, unwilling to process how the sickening crunch was my bone shattering.
Then the pain hits, and I’m back in the room. It’s white hot, blinding, barreling through my hand and up my arm and smacking me in the chest. I can barely breathe, and my heart hammers. I’m drenched in sweat, quickly followed by a dousing of cold. The room seems to shrink again, darkness creeping in at the edges, but I can’t give in to it. If I pass out, breaking my hand will be for nothing. Apo or one of Jarl’s other goons will come down here and find me unconscious with a smashed thumb and a cleaver on the floor next to me, and they’ll laugh their fucking heads off. I refuse to give them that pleasure.
Taking deep breaths, I count myself through the pain. It doesn’t abate—far from it—but I feel like I have more control now. My eyes are misted with tears, but I’m not fucking crying.
Finally, I force myself to look back down at my hand. The thumb is at a strange angle, and already bright red bruising marks the skin where the handle made impact. I can’t sit around and wait, and not only because I don’t want Apo and his men finding me like this. Pretty soon, the swelling is going to begin, and when it does, I’ll lose all ability to slide the cuff off. If anything, it’ll make escape even harder.
I must act fast.
Readjusting my t-shirt in my mouth, I brace myself to pull my hand out of the cuff. Every muscle in my body is tense with anticipation, and I’m already woozy with the pain. I clamp my teeth down on the material of my t-shirt, flex my bicep, and pull.
The pain is like I’ve hit my thumb with the handle all over again. The metal cuff jams on the broken part of my hand and digs in. I swear my eyes roll in my head from the agony and sweat breaks out across my entire body. I must keep going. The sweat on my skin helps to ease the way a little. The metal slips, just a touch, but it’s enough encouragement. I keep working it, pulling harder. I brace my feet against the stainless steel cabinet doors and use the entire weight of my body to pull my hand out of the cuff. I try to think of the pain as a different kind of sensation—a color, maybe—and tell myself I can handle it. It’s nothing. It will pass. The pain itself will not kill me.
It happens all at once. One minute, the cuff is jammed around my broken bones, and the next I’m flying backward. I hit the kitchen floor on my back and lie there, stunned. I lift my broken hand so it’s above my face and make sure I’m definitely free of the handcuff.
I am.
I’d whoop with joy if I wasn’t in a world of pain. I clutch my hand against my chest, trying to offer it some support, and take a moment to catch my breath. I’m shaking all over from the adrenaline, but at least I’m free.
The music is even louder now, and I wonder if they are getting drunk. It would be a stupid thing to do, but I’ve been around enough crime groups to know many of them are run by, and full of, total idiots. Saint and I have a ruthless and intelligent father who leads his organization with an iron fist, but we saw many rival groups with terrible morale, and no rules to speak of.
I think back to my plan.
There have to be lots of great places to hide on a yacht, too. I'm not sure if this belongs to Jarl or if he's leased it. If he's leased it, he's not going to know every nook and cranny. It could take them ages to find me. I don't even know if they'll be down here again for a while, anyway, because they sound like they're having a party up there and it's only just getting into motion.
With a deep breath, I push myself to standing, stretching out my aching muscles, then bend down and grab the cleaver with my good hand. I put it back under my t-shirt, lodged into my jeans at the back.
I swallow against my parched throat and head to the refrigerator. Throwing open the door, I grab a bottle of Fiji water, jam it into my armpit, and crack open the cap. I down half the bottle, immediately feeling better as the cold water wets my tongue and soothes my throat. I pour the remaining half over my face and hair, washing away the dog food residue and the last of the stinky water. Then I find a hand towel and use the ice dispenser to wrap the towel filled with ice around my rapidly swelling hand.
Anger bubbles up inside me. How dare those fuckers reduce me to this? I’m looking forward to making them pay.
More refreshed and with a clearer mind, I make my way to the door, and when I reach it, I pause, listening with my ear against the metal to work out what is going on outside as best I can. There is still that pounding bass from above, but I can’t hear any footsteps or conversation from the other side of the door.
Will they come looking for me sooner rather than later? By doing this, am I inviting my own death once I’m found? I have no way of knowing what the answers are. And if I don't take this risk, it's all over anyway. God, what a shitty situation to be in.
I crack the door open and peer out.
Outside is a long corridor with a cream carpet, and either side of the carpet are tiny little lights, like the kind you get on airlines at night, but much smaller. They track down the hallway in a pretty way. For some reason, I think of Saint and smile. He’d love these lights, the fancy asshole. The walls are spotless, and everything looks expensive. This is a boat for the wealthy, and even the lower deck, where the staff, who are paid to cook and clean and generally run after these assholes, would be expected to stay, is well decked out.
I slip out the door, looking both ways as I make my way down the corridor. Not sure which direction to head, I turn left by sheer basic animal instinct. My gut says that's the way to go, so that's what I do.
I make my way down a door-lined corridor, my gaze darting all around as I move. I need somewhere to hide. With my injured hand curled into my body like I’m cradling a baby bird, I check the first couple of doors but find only empty bedrooms. They’re small but tidy—definitely not the kind I’d expect the wealthy elite to stay in. They also don’t provide anywhere to hide, and I’m sure Olsen and his men will check here first the moment they realize I’m gone.
Keeping going, I check the other doors. I find a laundry room, and there’s a drying room, too, for wetsuits and the like. They all offer potential hiding places, but something pushes me on.
The next room is a huge supply closet. It might give me somewhere to hide. It's not just a cupboard; this is an entire room. Even better, there are metal, floor-to-ceiling shelves, and some have space behind them, beautiful dark space where I could hide. There are large boxes scattered around, too, and I slip inside to explore further.
I open one of the boxes and stare down at what's inside in shock. There is bag after bag after bag of powder. Call me na?ve, but I don't think this stuff is sugar.
Well, well, well, we all know what the Danes’ business model is now, don't we?
I close the box again and consider my options. My gaze lights upon something, and I step closer. Behind the shelves is a grate embedded high in the wall.
A ventilation system.
Of course, this boat would have to be ventilated, especially on the lower levels. Will I fit, though? I’m not exactly a small guy.
I remember watching a Christmas movie as a kid where the father vanished on Christmas Eve, only to be later discovered stuck in the chimney dressed as Santa Claus. I don’t want to become a similar victim, jammed in a ventilation shaft until someone locates me from the smell alone. I shudder at the memory. I can’t risk getting stuck, and, as much as I want to secrete myself behind one of the shelving units, I’m pretty certain Jarl and his men will tear this place apart the moment they realize I’m gone.
Leaving the supply closet, I keep going.
I reach the bottom of the spiral staircase that leads to the upper deck. Pausing at the first step, I strain my ears for any signs that someone is coming. The music continues to thump from above, and I can’t hear footsteps.
Quickly, I take the stairs and find myself in a nearly identical corridor. No one is around, so I repeat the process of checking the rooms.
I push open the closest door, peer inside, and stop, my heart picking up speed. There are things in this room. A wallet on the table by the bed. A book on the mattress, opened, face down. I glance at it and then, with trepidation, step inside. This is one of the men’s rooms, and they might come back at any moment, but there might be something in here that could help me.
I freeze at the reflection in the long mirror against the wall at the far end. A wild-eyed, pale-faced, mussed-hair maniac stares back at me. Putain! I look like something out of a horror movie. My cheek is dark with bruising, and underneath my eye is swollen from where I was hit.
I begin to search the room, looking in the drawers, and under the bed, and finally in the closet. I’m about to leave when a dark bag in the back of the closet catches my eye. I pull it out and open the zipper, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. Inside the bag are neatly folded clothes, some rolled up socks, a toiletry bag, and a small black case. I unzip the case and stare in disbelief.
Then I raise my good hand to a God who has probably deserted me by now, but who I beseech anyway. “Please, God, let this be loaded.”
I take out the Glock, loving the heavy weight of it in my hand, and check. Holy shit. I just hit the jackpot.
I now have a gun. The stupid motherfucker left a spare weapon in his room. I’d bet good money this is Dick Necklace’s room. He’s arrogant enough to think I’d never get free and never have the balls to be in his room.
I should hide. I can’t risk trying to take all three of them out—and there might even be more, for all I know—but now I’m armed, I can do a lot of damage once the cavalry arrives. Plus, if I’m hiding, there’s a much bigger chance that if they do find me missing, they’ll split up to look for me, and that gives me much more of a fighting chance.
Where, though? The bedrooms will have a closet or two each, but on a yacht, they're not going to be very big. Won’t they be the first place Jarl and his men will think to look? If they’re not going to find me, I need to do better.
I’m going to have to try the upper deck, even though I’m more likely to run into Jarl and his men. I’m hoping they’re all on the sundeck, even though it’s dark, drinking and living it up. It’s tempting to creep up on them and shoot the motherfuckers in the back of the head, but I have to be realistic. It’s still only me against at least three or four of them, but there could be more. Those aren’t good odds.
I creep up the stairs to the upper deck, every muscle in my body poised to run into someone. The weight of the gun in my right hand gives me comfort, but I don’t want to start a shootout I’m sure I will lose. Part of the upper deck is open to the air, and the temperature drops. I inhale the fresh air gladly and try to get a sense of where I am. The bad weather I’d endured before I’d been brought here seems to have abated, but there’s no moon in the sky—or at least it’s hidden by cloud cover—and I’m surrounded by black water. I have no idea how far the shore is. I can’t see any lights that might indicate the shoreline.
Small waves lap against the side of the boat. An idea occurs to me. Checking over my shoulder, making sure I’m alone, I peer over the edge. It’s dark, and it’s some way down to the water, but I spot what I’m looking for a few feet along. Yes, there is somewhere I can hide. A place they won’t easily find me.
I grin to myself
I hear my father's voice for some odd reason then, telling me I'll never amount to anything. Telling me I'm always going to be in my brother's shadow. And telling me I'm always being the weaker one in the family. The one who relies on others. The one with no imagination. Well, look at me now, Papa dearest. Look at me now, surviving having been beaten and hardly having any water for almost twenty-four hours. Look at me now, using my head and keeping calm when everyone around me is a crazy psychopath. Take that, Father, and stick it where the sun doesn't shine.
Soon enough, my friends will be here. I hope against hope that they will be here before this impromptu party of the Danes breaks up, but either way, I have to trust that they will arrive soon.
I'm kind of excited when I let myself think about it.
In a crazy way, this is going to be fun.