Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Five minutes later, the light clicks off. For one mind-numbing moment, I think she’s left me in the dark, but as my eyes adjust, the light is merely very dim: blinking green from the activation light of the camera.

I’d thought my stomach was empty but, as it turns out, I’ve not done yet. As Juliana’s footsteps dwindle to silence, my gut heaves. I have just enough time to react by throwing myself to the edge of the water channel before my stomach relieves itself of the last of its burden. The piquancy and fragrance of Portuguese street food were good on the way down, but chilli and spices are less appealing on the way back up.

Retching and puking, I let my body do its worst. Part of me knows this is the monkey brain acting: fear and panic running their course. Another part, the human brain, sits in the passenger seat, waiting calmly to take the wheel again.

And now, with the immediate freak-out passing albeit with muscles still twitching and dancing the adrenaline fandango, I sit back against the wall, breathing heavily, swiping chill sweat from my face.

Mitch…

Time to weigh up my position…

My resources…

My stomach evacuated, I want nothing more than to rinse my mouth, drink something bland: milk or weak tea perhaps…

Not an option…

Water?

I eye the turgid flow in the channel beside me, now even darker in the restricted lighting. Clots of garbage float, waterlogged, on the oily surface, bobbing beside the bloated remains of a rat. Grey foam speckles the base of one of the inlets.

Drinking from there is not to be considered.

What then?

From one of the narrow inlets to the main channel, somewhat above me, a thin stream dribbles. I stand, reaching for the flow, then as the ankle cuff nips, pick up a loop of chain to relieve some of the weight.

This time, it’s a stretch, but I get there, swiping through the trickle with a fingertip. Cautiously, I sniff, then lick. It tastes a little brackish, but not putrid; rainwater run-off probably. A mug or a glass would be nice, but I doubt Juliana is planning to supply such home comforts. A cupped palm collects a bare mouthful, enough to rinse my mouth with. Another palmful, and fresh water eases some of the tightness in my throat.

Mitch…

Got to warn her…

Get word to Hickman…

Or James…

Gotta get the fuck out of here…

First order of the day… That steel cuff…

The key?

nail, at about eye-level, the brass

hung it there deliberately, leaving it

Still, gotta try…

but even at full stretch, letting the metal gnaw into my ankle, I’m at least two yards short. No amount of reaching and straining will get

extent, straining against the cuff, letting it bite into my ankle, that white line, already dirty with muck, divides the world into two part: the one I can reach, and

Okayyy…

Next target…

The padlock:

to pick the

Pin…

Wire…

…

…

resources: the clothes I’m wearing;

Belt…

The cheese-wire…

the tongue of the buckle might make an

and it’s not there.

Fuck…

I’m looking, I realise, so have my holster and knife sheaths. Anything with

she didn’t

… I suppose…

cast around

concrete, fetid water

into fresh cement. The cement is

me, the camera eye: aimed

side of the lens, watching me on a laptop or

hours: even

kidnapped… even though at the time, I believed Baxter and Finchby

even

the thought of Baxter, my

she did to

a physical ruin; in a condition where he’d live, but he’d never be the same man again. And she left him for

the time, I rather appreciated

But, that was then.