WILL TIME WAIT: Boxed set of 3 bestselling 'ticking clock' thrillers (39 page)

F
ight or flight
mode kicked in.  This was my mess, not John’s.  I had to get both of us
out of here.  Now.  I shook my inner body clock, forcing the
tiredness out of me.  I rolled onto my side and pressed my cheek to the
floor, searching once again for items in the cubicles, useful rubbish,
sharps...   Nothing but wrappers, cigarette butts, and soggy tissue
littered the floor.  My mouth felt dry, my throat so chokingly tight that
it seemed as though my husband’s ridiculous snake tattoo were real and actually
coiled around my neck.  “I don’t think they’ve done all this for drugs.”

“Eh? 
What are you talking about?”

“No
time,” I blurted, my head reeling in confusion.  “Just find us a way out
of here.  Like... this second.”

My
husband’s sidekick marched past the entrance again, confirming that it was in
fact him.  Joe.  This did not help cool my nerves.  I slid my
ring, which my husband’s mother had bought me for my last birthday, off my
trembling finger, tried to hack at the plastic ties on my ankles using the
sapphire as a cutting edge.  It barely left an impression.  The stone
was too smooth.  I put it back on my finger and searched for something
else.  “What have you got, John?  A necklace?  Keychain? 
Anything sharp?”

John
rolled his eyes.  “I wish.  I’ve got a plastic watch and that’s
it.  I wouldn’t be in this mess if I had a body full of jewellery to
sell.”

Damn
it!

I
scanned the room again, letting my eyes skate high and low, checking the sinks,
the paper towel dispenser, the...  “Over there!”

“What?”

“I
see glass.”  I checked the doorway.  The men were out of view. 
“Listen for anyone approaching.  That guy threw his pint glass
earlier.  Look.  Oh, why didn’t I think of it sooner?”  I
pointed to a scattering of broken glass by the skirting board.  It lay way
out of my reach, but I had to try.  “We need that glass.”

“Hold
on a sec.”  John scooted onto his side and tilted his head toward the
door.  “Can’t hear anyone nearby.  Go for it.”

I
rolled onto my stomach and stretched my body into a line, slithering forward
like my husband’s repulsive snake.  I groaned.  My arm muscles burned
as I stretched my hands out, seeking glass with my fingertips.  “I
can’t... quite... No.”  I sagged and took a breath.  “It’s
useless.  Too far away.”

“Hook
it with something.”

Think,
Jenna, think
. 
I rolled over and met John’s gaze.  “We need something long, something
quiet, something—”

John
raked a hand through his hair, then snapped his head up.  “My belt,” he
said, already lifting his top to unbuckle it.

“Now
we’re getting somewhere.”  I sat upright and slid my own belt out of the loops
of my jeans.  John threw his belt my way.  I caught it and connected
the two of them together.

“I’ll
keep watch,” he said.  “You get the glass.”

Keeping
a tight hold of one end, I flicked the doubled belt across the room. 
John’s metal buckle clattered as it hit the tiles.  I winced and froze at
the sound.  Sweat tickled my upper lip.

“Quietly,”
he said through his teeth.  “Okay.  Try again.”

“I
can’t.  It’s your buckle, I need to...  Hold on.”  I moved and
leaned into the toilet cubicle.  I grabbed the end of the toilet roll, let
it wheel out a streamer of paper onto the floor.  After cushioning the
buckle in a huge wad of it, I rolled onto my side.  With the snap of a
whip, I cast the belt across the floor again.  “Almost.  Just a bit
to the left.”

“Hurry. 
I heard a chair scrape.  Someone’s on the move.”

On
the third attempt, the paper-wrapped buckle landed on a long slice of
glass.  Bullseye!  Adrenaline pumped through me.  Using smooth
movements, I fed the belt through my hands, dragging the glass across the tiles
toward me.

“Faster,”
John said.  “Get a wriggle on.”

With
the cushioned buckle now merely a foot beyond reach, I yanked the belt back in
one swift movement.  The fragment of broken glass slid toward me, but
then, it spun out from under the buckle, off to the right.  I launched
myself forward, and slammed my shackled hands down on it.  “Gotcha!”

“Jenna. 
Quick.  Someone’s definitely coming our way.”

I
shuffled back into a sitting position, wrapped my arms around my knees and
stuffed the belts under my thighs.  Keeping my back to the entrance, I
prayed my heart wouldn’t pound its way out of my chest, giving me away. 

A
guy whistling a chirpy tune entered the restroom.  “Need the toilet? 
Drink?”

I
didn’t recognise his voice and I didn’t turn to look at him, just shook my
head.  The length of glass remained concealed in my hands. 

John
let out a slight grunt, then rumbled the words, “No.  We’re good.”

The
guy lingered for a moment or two, unspeaking. 

I
tried to act unfazed, but fear continued percolating through me.  I dug my
teeth into my lip knowing my brave facade was about to crack, our escape plan
was about to crash and burn before the off. 

Then,
to my relief, he said, “All-righty-then,” resumed whistling and exited. 

It
took less than a second to snap the piece of glass in half and throw one at
John.  A double heartbeat later, I began to slice through the bindings
circling my wrists.  With my hands at an unnatural angle, bending in on
themselves, I could only manage the slightest cutting action.  My wrists
stung.  The tips of my fingers were so cut up that if I were ever
fingerprinted, they would probably print blanks.  Red droplets fell onto
my jeans.  But no amount of pain or blood would stop me freeing myself and
John. 

“Almost
through,” John said.  “How you doing?”

With
one final slice, the straps pinged open, freeing my hands.  I hurled
myself forward and, using the glass edge like a knife, I cut through the
bindings on my ankles, and then skidded over to John.  “What now?”  I
huddled next to him behind the open door, shaking uncontrollably and clutching
his shoulders.

“I’ll
check the window.  You keep watch.”  John made straight for the far
wall.  After rubbing a clean patch on the window pane, he peered out.

“What
can you see?”

He
ran back to me.  His breath was a disheartening sigh in my ear. 
“No.  There’s no way down through there.  It’s a scrap yard.”

“A
scrap yard?  You’re sure?” 

He
nodded.

I
knew where we were.

“A
ton of twisted metal,” he confirmed.  “We don’t stand a chance.  I
hate to say it, but our only way out... is through that pool room.”

 I
slid down the wall like a deflating balloon. 

O
n all fours, we listened,
and then crawled toward the exit of the restroom.  After poking his head
around the door, John waved me forward.  I followed on my hands and knees,
concentrating on breathing quietly.  Leaving behind the stinking toilets,
we slithered behind two chairs with jackets hanging off their backs.  I
wished it were still night time so that I could slip into the shadows, but we
didn’t have that luxury.  Light streamed in through large windows on the
opposite wall.

The
place was a makeshift call centre in some type of warehouse.  A
high-ceilinged space filled with rows of battered tables, telephones and
computers.  Cables trailed all over the place.  Not what I expected
to find if these were indeed my husband’s scrap yard offices.  But then,
I’d not been here in years.  Alan said it wasn’t the sort of place I
should hang out.  In fact, on the occasions I tried to sneak in to the
place, he had forcibly steered me away.

Stacks
of boxes and a couple of pool tables took up the rest of the space.  This
made sense.  Alan enjoyed a game of pool.  Part of the floor was
tiled, the rest covered in threadbare rugs. 

“How
could you miss that shot?” a man said.  Then someone laughed.

John
pointed to our right.  Cardboard boxes containing various car parts were
stacked behind a battered leather recliner.  In that very recliner sat the
man who was dressed head to toe in black.  The person my husband had put
in charge?

My
head pounding with fear, I wanted to double-back.  But John was already
scurrying away from me.  Moving slick like a panther, he kept his head
low, and made it to the stack of boxes undetected.  He sat on the floor,
pulled his knees up to his chest, and then beckoned me.

Several
sets of footsteps thumped around the room. 

John
waved me over again.

I
shook my head.  I didn’t think I’d be able to move even if I wanted
to.  I’d get spotted.  I listened to even the quietest of sounds,
sussing out everyone’s position. 

Someone
began racking up the balls for a new game.  I heard a loud slam as they
played the break.  

“A
fluke.”

“Fiver
says I can nine ball ya.”

“In
your dreams.  Let’s make things interesting.  Call it fifty.”

“I’ll
take that bet.  They don’t call me nine-ball Joe for my manhood.”

“I’ll
stick a tenner on Joe,” the man who had shocked me with a stun gun said, then
must have slammed a note on a table.

I
figured there to be four guys in the room.

I
was terrified, stiff as wood, but saw this banter as my only opportunity to
move.  Keeping my eyes fastened on John, I forced back my fear, held my
breath, and crawled to him.  I squashed up against him with my knuckles
covering my mouth, petrified my breath would give me away.  The man in
charge sat merely a few feet from us.  The stack of boxes shielded us from
view.  Yes.  But nothing would mute any noise we made. 

A
chair creaked.  Someone was on the move again.  I leaned further into
John, my knees between his thighs, my cheek pressing against his prickly
stubble.

John
tapped my shoulder and pointed to my right at a cloth-covered table.  A
kettle, mugs and other items lay on top.  Several boxes of beer cans sat
underneath it next to a mound of cables.  John bunched my sleeve in his
fist and all but dragged me across the floor.  We hid under the drinks
table and listened.

“Get
ready to hand over that fifty,” a guy said.  Pool balls clanged against
each other.

“This
I have got to see.”  It was the man sitting in the chair.  Footsteps
tapped across the floor.  He must have stood up, walked over for a better
view. 

I
suddenly felt able to breathe again.  But then, just as quickly, someone
else walked toward the table, toward us.  He whistled for a few seconds,
then must have flicked the kettle on.  A low rumbling sound began above us
as we crouched on the floor, underneath him.

“Two
sugars for me,” Joe said.

“Do
I look like a bleedin’ waitress?” the man replied.

I
stared down, saw the tips of his trainers pointing at me between two stacks of
beer. 

“Someone
check on our guests,” the man in charge said.

I
winced.  Oh, crap!

“I’ll
go.  Just let me make a drink first.”

A
hot, frightful stare widened John’s eyes.  He lifted the table cloth,
poked his head out and surveyed the back of the room while we remained on the
floor, limbs entangled like playing a game of Twister.  Once the kettle
reached the boil, we’d have seconds before they discovered us missing from the
washroom.  No matter how frightened, I knew we had to move. 
Now. 

As
the kettle bubbled to a peak, John whispered in my ear.  “There’s a door
in that corner behind the second pool table.  That’s our way out. 
Get ready.” 

I
shook my head fiercely.  Surely they’d spot the door opening?  We
needed a distraction.

I
heard liquid being poured above us, then the tinkle of a spoon against
ceramic. 

A
thought popped into my head.  I leaned forward and lifted the table cloth
by about an inch.  I pinched the ends of some cables, and circled them
loosely around the guy’s ankles, taking care not to touch him.

John
grinned in approval. 

“Okay,
I’ll go check on our guests,” the guy above us said.  He turned away from
the table, then tripped.  A mug smashed on the floor.  Coffee spilled
everywhere as he went down with a thud. 

Someone
laughed.  

Stun-gun-guy
joked, “Had a nice trip, mate?” 

Then
the man who’d fallen started swearing while the others took the mickey out of
him.

This
was our cue.  While jeering and bantering were full around the room, we
went for it.  Scurrying on all fours, we weaved our way to the second pool
table.  On reaching the door behind it, John stretched up and grabbed the
handle.  He pushed the door open and pulled me through.  The door
closed with a creak, but luckily, the men were still laughing and joking
around. 

Once
inside, John sped up a gear.  He darted around the room like his ass was
alight.  He wedged the back of a chair under the door handle, and pushed a
table up behind it. 

As
I turned, I noticed a framed photograph of me, hanging on the wall in pride of
place, behind a large oak desk at the side of a massive metal filing
cabinet.  Then I spotted a navy jacket and striped scarf on a coat stand
in the corner.  Separately these items meant nothing.  Combined, they
made up the exact gifts I had purchased for my husband last Christmas. 

This
confirmed it.  These were my husband’s offices, for sure.  But it
didn’t make sense.  He ran a scrap metal business, so why all the phones
and computers?  Suspicion made my eyes roam further around the room while
questions formed a labyrinth of confusion in my mind.  When I spotted a
metal sign, I gasped, flinched... and thought of Kerry.

It
now made sense why my husband had frog-marched me away every time I’d turned up
at his place of work, and why money had started gushing in like an endless
waterfall lately.  Scrap metal doesn’t pay out that much, surely? 
Well it hadn’t done over previous years. 

There
were things in these offices that my husband hadn’t wanted me to see.

I
often wondered why Alan had wasted his computer talents by taking over his
dad’s scrap business. 

He
hadn’t wasted them at all. 

The
metal sign hanging on the wall read: Bugz Remover 5.0. 

Was
this the company that Kerry had told me about?  The one she suspected of
tricking her into installing software that somehow ended in her bank accounts getting
zeroed?  And my husband was running the show?

Bugz
remover, my ass!  More like Bug planter.

Fury
burst like a ruthless force inside me.  I wanted to pound on my husband’s
face until I no longer recognised him.  How could he ruin people’s lives
like this?  How could I have been so blind to his dealings?  And what
about my friend Kate?  Did she know about this?  Maybe that’s why she
wanted to quit working as his personal assistant. 

“Are
you gonna help me, or what?”  John either hadn’t noticed my photograph and
the sign, or knew there was no time to care.  I dashed over to him just as
he said, “Cover your face.”  He wrapped his arm in a rag and punched a
hole in the window. 

After
knocking shards of glass out, I helped John knot towels, jackets and a dust
sheet into one long length, trying not to think about what I would have to do
next.  We worked fast, used everything in sight, even ripped down the gold
curtains.  Curtains that, at one time, had been hanging in my living
room. 

Shouting
and swearing broke out in the pool room.  I heard running feet. 
“They’re onto us,” I said, bouncing and jittering at John’s side.

He
looped the makeshift rope around the metal filing cabinet, knotted it, and then
threw the other end out the window.

Hearing
doors slam in the pool room, I flinched. 

“Find
them!  Check in there!”  Someone shouted.

“Okay.” 
John tugged at the fabric, checking its strength.  “This isn’t long
enough.  We’re three storeys up.  You’ll have to dangle off the end
and we’ll climb down each other or something.  I don’t know, but you’d
better move.”

I
gulped and stared out of the window.  “Three storeys?  Oh,
Jesus.  I- I don’t know if...”  My stomach churned.  “I-I
have... solid ground... dangling.”

“Either
get out of the bloody window or get shot,” John said.  “Your choice.”

Oh,
God.  I felt sick and nearly peed.  It really wasn’t a choice at all.

Just
do it.  Don’t think
. 

Keeping
a firm, but shaky grip on John’s arm, I lifted my leg to the window. 
Panic erupted inside me as I straddled the ledge.  My palms were sweaty,
and my stomach churned faster and faster.  I didn’t want to let go of
John, but I had to.  I grabbed onto the knotted dust sheet and hugged it
for dear life, hating that my feet weren’t on solid ground.

“Go,”
John said.  And he meant it.  Meant this very second.  I saw it
in his face.  His mouth dropped open on hearing people kicking our door.

“They’re
in here,” a man shouted.  “Break it down.”

I
scrambled down the fabric, my knees scraping against the brick wall.  My
arm muscles were so tight, they felt ready to ping off the bone.  Half way
down, I paused to retch.  Shivering, I clenched my thighs around a knot in
the fabric for a breather, then climbed down to the end of the rope.  My
feet dangled level with the top of a first floor window, but its sill was
narrow and beyond reach. 

I
looked down, and sickened instantly.  The ground lay about ten feet
below.  But worse than that, was what covered every inch of it.  An
endless moat of mangled scrap, rusted car parts, bent road signs and coils of
barbed wire awaited us.  The only non-metal item was an orange traffic
cone.

“You’re
not down yet, Jenna?” John yelled.  “Jump!  They’re nearly through
the door.”

“No. 
Wait.  I can’t... there’s...” I stuttered, but he was now fully out of the
window, wrapping his hand around the dust sheet, about to let go of the window
frame. 

Sweat
slid in a cold line down my chest.  Tears pricked my eyelids as I searched
for the least hazardous place to land.  

When
John added his full weight and started lowering himself, something
jerked.  It was just an inch or two.  But a tear must have begun
somewhere along the line.  Oh hell.

“Let
go! Jenna,” he said.  “This ain’t gonna hold both of us.  You have to
jump.” 

The
fabric jerked again.  I screamed and squeezed my eyes shut.  It
dropped me down by a foot and spun me a half circle so that my back slammed
into the brick wall.  I hugged the rope to my chest.  My heartbeat
roared in my ears.  The men were pounding on the door above, yelling and
swearing.  Rain pecked at my face.  The wind made me shiver and my
arms shook in pain. 

Every
jerk of the rope brought me closer to the piercing metal below. 
Nonetheless, the pain, the fear, the chill of outdoors was nothing compared to
the horrific thought of being recaptured.  I swore, tried to get a grip of
myself and concentrate on finding a gap in the scrap metal below.  “We’re
dead if we drop down here, but we’re dead if we don’t.”  I prayed for luck
to be on my side.  Just this once.  “We’ve got to...  There!” 

“What?”

I
gasped when I saw it, dented and battered as it was.  My old Fiesta: the
car that I loved because it reminded me of when life used to be good, fun; My
reliable rust bucket named Fizz that had a spare key in a magnetic box under
the back tyre, so that when my husband stole my keys after an argument, I could
still take off.  “Swing to the roof of that car on the right.”