One Kick by Chelsea Cain
Iron Jacket lifted Bishop’s wrists together overhead, wrenching Bishop’s shoulder. Bishop made a grunting sound, and Kick could see him steeling himself against the pain as Iron Jacket bound his wrists together with the strap.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to work.
Bishop was going to rescue her. That’s why he was here.
Iron Jacket unsnapped the cord from his pants and hooked it to Bishop’s wrists, then unlocked Bishop from the handcuffs they shared and secured Kick directly to the fridge.
“I’m sorry,” Bishop mumbled to her.
The winch started to retract, and Bishop’s arms lifted as the nylon cord stretched taut. Click-click-click went the winch. Kick watched in horror as the cord lifted Bishop’s wrists.
“I don’t have the password,” Kick called after Iron Jacket, panicked. “I swear. I don’t know anything about it.” But Iron Jacket barely glanced at her as he walked back to the winch and then stood there, waiting.
Bishop was pulled forward, onto his knees. He swayed there briefly. “I’m going to try to stay conscious long enough to buy you time,” he said to Kick.
She didn’t know what he meant. Buy her time to do what?
He wrapped his hands around the cord, got one foot in front of him, and managed to get shakily to his feet, then stumbled forward, away from her, following the cord drawing him to Iron Jacket. He came to a stop underneath the winch, next to Iron Jacket, and gazed upward as the retracting cable lifted his wrists above his head. Click-click-click-click. Bishop took a sharp breath, arched his back, and was lifted off the floor.
He hung like that for a long moment, dangling there, his back to her, every vein in his arms visible, fingers splayed.
And then Iron Jacket spun him around toward her. Bishop’s face was red and contorted, the muscles of his neck taut, threads of saliva hanging from his chin, and she could hear him wheezing, struggling to breathe, his arms pressed against the sides of his head, his toes just inches from the floor.
“Wrist suspension puts pressure on the muscle sheath around the chest, compressing the lungs,” Iron Jacket said. He threaded his gloved hands in front of him and leveled his gaze at her. His face was smooth, unworried, a man without a concern in the world. “He’ll suffocate if we leave him there too long.” He lifted his chin toward Bishop’s bound wrists. “Then there’s the strap,” he said. “It presses against nerves and cuts off circulation to the hands.” He frowned sympathetically, and Kick noticed that Bishop’s hands appeared to be darkening even as she watched, going from dark pink to crimson. “See there, how his finger’s twitching,” Iron Jacket said.
Kick would have told him whatever he wanted to know. He should know that. He should know that she would cooperate if she could. “I swear,” she pleaded with him. “I don’t know any passwords. I don’t care about some old bank account. You can have it.”
“You think you’re so clever,” Iron Jacket said. “You had Mel wrapped around your little finger. But you don’t fool me. You think he came up with the idea of putting all the proceeds away for you on his own?”
All the proceeds?
“You’re still a big earner,” he added. “I see the statements every month. That was Mel’s way of shoving it in my face.”
Bishop had his head back and was looking up at his wrists, his fingers pulling uselessly at the cord. His shirt was darkened with sweat and blood, so that she couldn’t tell where one left off.
“What kind of password is it?” Kick asked, stalling. “A word? A number? Does it have to have a symbol? I can figure it out. Give me a minute.”
Iron Jacket unthreaded his hands and looked right at her as he shifted his stance. She knew what was coming an instant before Iron Jacket placed his palm over his fist and drove an elbow hard into Bishop’s gut, before she heard Bishop’s sharp, guttural exhalation of pain. Iron Jacket stepped away, and Bishop swung back and forth from the winch.
Kick’s mind grasped for anything. “The Desert Rose? Or November tenth—that was the birthday Mel made up for me. Or Kwikset—that’s the first lock I learned to pick.”
It worked. Iron Jacket left Bishop, went to the table, where he had unpacked his backpack, picked up a BlackBerry, and typed with his thumbs on the keypad.
Kick willed one of the passwords to work. Bishop swung from the winch, pale and limp. His body seemed longer, more concave, like he was slowly deflating.
Iron Jacket threw the BlackBerry down on the table in disgust. “I never liked you,” he said to Kick. “I always thought you were a spoiled little bitch.” He dug through his backpack, and Kick half expected he was looking for a weapon to kill her with right there, but instead he pulled out a plastic bottle of water and drained it. He put the empty bottle back in the pack and grinned to himself. “That’s better,” he said, wiping his mouth. He turned on his heel, stepped back to Bishop, and took him by the waist of his pants. His eyes gleamed as they roamed Bishop’s weakened body. “How do you feel?” he asked Bishop.
Bishop lifted his head and Kick could see him muster his strength. “Never . . . better,” he said.
Iron Jacket gave him a little push, so Bishop swayed away and back; then Iron Jacket leveled his shoulders and brought his fists in front of his own face. He danced around Bishop, like a boxer circling a punching bag, face merry, throwing fake little jabs as Bishop hung there, too weakened to flinch as the fake punches crossed in front of him.
“Mel’s birthday?” Kick tried in desperation. “Linda’s maiden name?”
“Think harder,” Iron Jacket said. He pushed off his back foot, took a small step forward, and threw a real punch, jabbing his fist into Bishop’s rib cage. Bishop’s lips contracted and he groaned horribly. The tendons in his neck drew taut like ropes. Iron Jacket returned his punching arm to starting position, his left fist at his ear. Bishop’s head flopped forward.
Iron Jacket put his weight on his back foot again.
“You had a wife,” Kick said quickly. “Back at the Desert Rose.” She was desperate to distract him, to keep him talking.
“So?”
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” It was a shot in the dark, a wild guess. Kick barely remembered her from the motel, just a vague presence, but she’d be the right age, and matched the general physical description, of the dead body they had found in the house in Seattle. Iron Jacket pitched forward, slightly off balance, and had to adjust his stance, and she knew that she was right. “She rented the house using the name Josie Reed,” Kick said.
Iron Jacket wiped the saliva off his mouth again with the back of his glove. “Twenty-five years we had an arrangement. She didn’t have a problem with it until I brought home a girl.” He leaned back, pushed off, and punched Bishop in the solar plexus. Kick heard herself cry out. Bishop’s body buckled, his face twisted, his fingers splayed, then he hung limply. Iron Jacket swung him gently back and forth.
Bishop coughed, so she knew he was still alive. When he lifted his head, his eyes were bleary and there was blood and saliva on his chin. “Ever thought of using power tools?” he asked. Even half dead, he managed a smirk. “I find . . . it adds . . . a little finesse.”
Iron Jacket’s eyes glowered, and Kick could see him draw back his elbow.
“Watership Down?” she called out. “That was my favorite book. Mel read it to me.”
Iron Jacket hesitated, and then opened his fist, pivoted smoothly away from Bishop, and picked up his BlackBerry again.
The wheeze of Bishop’s breathing was barely audible now. Every few moments his mouth would open and his rib cage would jerk, and he’d suck in a small gulp of air. It wouldn’t be much longer. The blood slowed in Kick’s veins and a cold chill settled on her skin. And then Iron Jacket would kill her.
Iron Jacket put the BlackBerry down. and when he returned to Bishop this time, there was something impatient about his posture, his shoulder twitched, and his mouth was tight.
“She doesn’t . . . know . . . the fucking password,” Bisho
Iron Jacket snarled at him, leaned back, and jammed his fist into the side of Bishop’s face.
Kick’s hands fisted reflexively. Why the idea came to her this time, and not after any of the other punches had been thrown, she didn’t know; maybe because this particular hit was so brutal, her whole body winced. This time she clenched her fists the way she’d been taught, thumb outside, wrapped around her fingers. And that’s when she felt the ring.
James’s talisman, his wire man, still wrapped around her finger.
Wire would work just like a paper clip.
Kick’s heart skittered as she tried to pick the end of the wire loose.
Iron Jacket was focused on Bishop, his back to Kick.
Blood ran down Bishop’s face and neck where Iron Jacket’s fist had connected. He looked dazed. His head lolled. “There you go,” he murmured to Iron Jacket, though Kick felt a stab of certainty that the words were intended for her.
Her fingers were clumsy from being elevated in the cuffs, but Kick managed to unwind a finger’s length of wire. She tried to keep it hidden in her hands, but it was too hard to manipulate. If Iron Jacket looked at her, he was sure to see what she was doing. But she had to risk it. Bishop was barely conscious. Kick felt for where the notch should go and then bent it.
“I’m going to bleed you out through your abdominal aorta,” Iron Jacket announced, and Kick almost dropped the wire.
She looked back and forth between Bishop and Iron Jacket.
Bishop’s glazed eyes appeared sightless, fixed straight ahead. “Sounds messy,” he mumbled.
Kick’s hands trembled. She couldn’t manipulate the wire. Her fingers were cold and clumsy, like they belonged to someone else. She watched as Iron Jacket slid a rectangular leather case from his backpack and folded it open on the table. Kick tried to block out the fact that she recognized that case, that she knew it was for hunting knives. She just needed another minute or two. “Please,” she begged. “Iron Jacket, please.”
His head jerked up at her. “My name’s Dennis,” Iron Jacket said with an amused smile.
Dennis. He was looking right at her now. She kept the wire tucked in her palm, afraid to move.
“How are you going to do it?” Bishop asked, drawing Iron Jacket’s attention away from her again.
Kick bent the second notch on the wire.
“Eight-inch carbon steel blade,” Iron Jacket said. He lowered his head back to the table. “It’s sharp. Sometimes I have to dig a little to find the aorta.”
Bishop coughed, and more blood gurgled down his chin. His teeth were wet with it. “What’s that take you . . . three, four minutes?” he asked.
She could tell it was requiring everything he had to stay conscious. He could barely lift his head anymore. His mouth was having trouble forming words.
Kick felt around for the first keyhole and managed to insert the end of the wire.
“Closer to three,” Iron Jacket said distractedly.
Bishop’s eyes fell on Kick. “That should be enough time.”
She felt the give of the wire as it hooked the inside of the lock, and she twisted her hands around to rotate it. The bracelet opened and Kick felt tears of relief slide down her cheeks. She kept her hand in the unlocked cuff and worked on the second keyhole.
“What are you using?” Bishop asked.
“A modified spear-point blade, plus a combination saw and deer-gutting hook blade.”
Hook blades were used to “unzip” the deer without puncturing its innards, like what had been done to Monster. But Kick couldn’t think about that—not now.
“You like the polymer handle,” Bishop asked, “or wood?”
“Polymer.”
“I like a . . . wooden grip,” Bishop said, his words slurring. “Feels . . . warmer.”
She almost had it. Bishop was quiet, his chin against his chest. But she couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t notice how still his body was, or the fact that he wasn’t making any sounds at all. He’d been quiet before. He was gathering his strength.
The second lock clicked open.
Kick quietly slid her wrists out of the cuffs and started to back away on the kitchen floor as Iron Jacket turned to Bishop with a knife in his hand.
Kick fought frantically to mentally catalog all the weapons she’d hidden in the kitchen, their locations and functionality.
She would have one chance.
She had to make the right choice.
Iron Jacket slid Bishop’s T-shirt up and felt along his rib cage and over his sunken abdomen, as if locating the correct incision spot by touch.
Kick got to her feet. “Dennis,” she called.
Iron Jacket turned, startled.
Kick snatched the throwing star out from under the Adam Rice Missing Child flier, held it horizontally, aimed, and then, keeping her elbow close, extended her arm straight forward and released the star with a flick of her wrist. For a second she wasn’t sure she’d hit her target. Everything slowed. The blade sank into the wall. Iron Jacket whirled toward it. Bishop seemed to pause, suspended in the air. Then the nylon cord snapped in two where she had sliced it, and Bishop slammed into the floor.
Everything was still.
“Bishop?” Kick called. He lay on the floor, not moving.
Iron Jacket pointed at her with the end of his knife. “I see you,” he said in a singsong voice, like that night at the pool. “You fucking little bitch.” He drew toward her, keeping the knife between them, and adjusted his grip, extending his thumb alongside the blade so that the knife was poised to slash.
Kick backed away from him. When he lunged he wouldn’t go for her torso—too much muscle and bone; he wouldn’t want to risk getting the blade stuck in her rib cage. He’d go for tendons or arteries, or her eyes, or her neck. She lifted her elbows to provide some shield and to protect the insides of her arms. “You can’t hurt me,” she reminded him. “You still need the password.”
“I have a Plan B,” Iron Jacket said.
He dipped forward and thrust his knife at her and she sidestepped to the left of his arm, just enough for him to pass her. She was at his shoulder, almost behind him, forcing him to pivot in order to come after her. He thrust at her again with the knife, and this time she stepped forward, holding on to his right arm with her left and moving toward his centerline, close to his chest. By using her body to block his view of his knife, the move would buy her a second, maybe. Her right fist tucked at her breast, thumb snug against her index finger, elbow behind her, she thrust her fist forward, into his throat, aiming for the notch below his Adam’s apple. He dodged and she connected a little to the left, her knuckles driving hard into the meat of his neck. He let out a howl of fury and she dove away from him, to the couch, snapped up the throwing star she’d hidden under the book there, and whirled back to face him.
His eyes were pink with rage. His mouth twitched and he made a noise like a low growl. She held the throwing star vertically and raised it above her head, ready to strike.
“That’s why you took Mia Turner,” she said. “To make her do movies.”
“She had star potential, Beth. Just like you. Mel always said the secret was to find a good girl.”
Kick snapped her arm forward and released the star, shifting her weight onto her front foot. Iron Jacket grunted as the five-bladed star sank in his chest. His face went scarlet. He pulled the star free from his chest muscle and tossed it to the floor. The knife now in his left hand, he came at her. The bloody notch of torn fabric on his shirt was the only hint she’d injured him. It hadn’t slowed him at all.
“When I kill you,” he said, “I’m going to film it and put it all over the Internet. One last Beth Movie. All your fans can imagine themselves fucking your corpse.”
She tried to step around him again, but he backhanded her. This time she didn’t see it coming; he was too close. She flew sideways and was barely able to relax into the fall. She hit the floor, slid,
Blood ran from her nose. She spit some out of her mouth. Her cheek blazed.
“That’s enough, Beth,” Iron Jacket said.
“Stop calling me that.” Kick looked him in the eye, stepped forward, transferred her weight, consciously relaxed the muscles in her striking arm, straightened it, and jammed it into his solar plexus.
He managed to catch her wrist just in time, and he pulled her into his arms and wrapped her in a bear hug, the knife still in his hand, now inches from her face. She kicked and clawed at him, sputtering, growling at him. “Shh, Beth,” he said, tightening the pressure around her chest. She remembered his smell. His sweat. She remembered the feel of his hand on her arm in the pool. “Beth, I’m not going to let you go until you calm down.” She twisted, trying to get free, but her feet were off the floor and she couldn’t get leverage. “Shh, Beth,” he said again. “You need to relax now, okay?” Tears slid down her cheeks and she nodded. She exhaled a shaky breath as she let her body go limp. “Good,” he said. “Good.”
“Enough,” Bishop said.
Kick jerked her head up at the sound of his voice.
He was propped against the wall, like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His face was half covered in blood and he was grimacing in pain. But his eyes were open. He was conscious. And he had Kick’s Glock held between his bound hands. “Step away from her,” Bishop said.
Iron Jacket’s grip didn’t loosen. The knife glinted near Kick’s eye. If Bishop took a nonlethal shot, Iron Jacket would cut her throat. Bishop would have to go for his head. And then Iron Jacket would be dead.
Kick could not let that happen.
“Wait,” she gasped. “What about Adam?” She didn’t want to be the reason Adam was lost. She needed Bishop to understand. “You wanted to punish him, didn’t you?” Kick said to Iron Jacket. The heat of his body was all around her, pushing into her. “ ‘You don’t come out of the box until you know the rules’—that’s what Mel used to say. You killed your wife before she could rescue Adam. And you put him back in his box to teach him a lesson.” She didn’t know how much Bishop had overheard about Josie Reed, about Mia, about any of it. It didn’t matter. The effect was the same. Adam Rice was in a box. It had been only two days. “He’s still alive.”