A Harmless Little Plan (Harmless #3)(5)

Then my gut seizes as someone kicks me, hard, right above my cock.

All the air rushes into me, then out, like a vacuum cleaner hose is attached to my lips. I cough and gag, but know instinctively that I have to stand. I open my eyes. No Mark.

Where’s Mark?

Wait.

I look at the cop, whose arms are crossed over his chest, a clipboard in one hand, banging against the wall as he shows his impatience in a slightly kinder way than kicking me again.

Did he say “want out of here”?

“You’re free,” he spits out, jaw set, impatience an odor he should patent. The cell door opens and he stands there, looking at the ceiling like it’s the Sistine Chapel.

I have just enough wits not to ask anything, shuffling out of the room, taking a deep breath. Hallway air is still disgusting in a jail, but it’s ten times better than cell air.

We walk down the long hallway, where someone in a suit hands me a manila envelope without a single word. It’s a man with a bureaucrat’s glare. He looks like no one and everyone. The human being equivalent of a beige wall.

All the hair on my body stands up straight, the pores practically seizing.

I know his type.

He’s a man the government needs.

And he’s a man the government doesn’t want you to know even exists.

He leans over, smooth and suave, his suit jacket flapping open and revealing a weapon as he pushes the bar on an exit door. I’m blinded by the sun. He shoves me out onto a small concrete landing attached to a set of stairs. Before I can catch my footing, my ankle turns and I’m falling, the envelope sliding down the stairs.

My hands are still cuffed with a zip tie, fingers fumbling to catch purchase on the thick pipe-like railing as my ribs crack against the edge of a cement stair, then another, my kidney bashed in, my hip screaming. Tightening into a ball and putting my hands behind my head to protect the base of my neck, I wrench something in my shoulder. The pop is so strong throughout my bones I can feel it in my inner ear.

Can’t count the stairs, but it’s a full flight. My body inventories that much. I’m defenseless without separate hands, my cuffed wrists making the fall down the stairs agony.

And then I’m down, flat, paused. Sand and tar and a cigarette butt, casually tossed aside forever ago, press against my lips.

And blood, of course. I taste copper and uncertainty as I open my mouth and spit, clearing it.

I look up just as the door clicks shut, a wall of gray metal, the outline of the threshold barely visible.

I’m free.

Wherever I am, I’m free.

Mark did his job.

I have no clue where I am, though. Rolling carefully, I realize my hip won’t move. It’s not that I can’t move it. The ability to pivot is gone. Blown out.

Not good.

Gingerly, I shift a different way, pulling myself up to a sitting position, sliding across the filthy asphalt, praying there’s no broken glass. I’m injured enough. I don’t need more right now.

It’s going to be a long day.

Once I’m propped against the brick wall, I exhale, willing my muscles to relax. They revolt. I try again. They give me the silent treatment.

I just breathe.

No amount of panicking is going to save Lindsay right now, but I need to act. In order to act, I need to get to a computer where I can track Lindsay’s chip. To get a computer, I need Mark or Silas or someone to help me.

Where the fuck is Mark? It’s dawning on me that I have to trust him. There’s no choice here.

Regroup. I need to regroup. Figuring out where I am isn’t as important as orienting myself. I look up at the sun. It is waning, but bright. I pull my right hand up to shield my eyes and realize I can’t.

Can’t move my right arm.

The muscles don’t hurt. They just don’t cooperate, as if there’s an invisible line on the horizon and my arm can’t go higher. My chest starts to spasm. My lips stick together, tongue dry and coated.

Thirst. I’m dehydrated. I’ll be fine once I orient and get help. Whatever’s wrong with me can’t be as bad as what they’re about to do to Lindsay.

I have to stop them.

Squinting, I look at the sun again. I’m facing southeast. It’s about six p.m., give or take half an hour. Lindsay’s been gone for how long?

Someone has shoved a balloon up my nose and into my sinus cavity and is slowly blowing it up until it pops. I close my eyes and gingerly push myself up the wall to standing.

Shake it off, Drew, I tell myself. You’ve been through worse.

And it’s true.

I have.

Lurching like a drunk after a three-day bender, I stick to the wall, walking a few steps along the line of thick cement block, painted institutional gray. The bustle of the city is in the distance, the stench of urine and exhaust overwhelming my remaining open nostril. The last time I was this injured, I smelled ozone and dirt, sand and heat, the high temperature and blinding sun searing my nostrils.

By comparison, today is a cakewalk.

Getting out of this zip tie is paramount. Old training flashes through my mind. I pull my aching shoulders up and grab the end of the zip tie with my teeth. I tighten as much as I can, until my wrists scream. The plastic cuts my skin at the thumb joint.

I lift my arms over my head, forcing my right arm up, then flare my elbows slightly as I smash my cuffed wrists into my stomach, tightening my core. As I bring my shoulder blades close together during the sharp, sudden movement, I ignore the bones screaming.