The Edge

Chapter 28

Most people bound in duct tape would expend all of their energy pulling and tugging at their bonds, which only made the bindings that much tighter, like a fly struggling in a spider’s web. But duct tape, like many such things, had one weak spot.

Focused, immediate torque.

With that in mind Devine leaned back in his chair as far as he could and then threw his torso forward with as much force as he could muster.

The duct tape sheared off at multiple weak points. He didn’t wait to hear if any sound he had made doing this had reached downstairs. That was just wasted time better spent elsewhere.

He stood, turned to the side, and got free of the remaining dregs of the tape.

He then sat on the floor. Devine, despite his size and musculature, was quite limber and flexible. This was not all genetic or by happenstance; he had worked at it.

He brought his hands under his butt and then passed them along his hamstrings, down his calves, and under his feet until his hands were now in front of him. He held his arms up in front of him and examined the zip ties. They were black and police grade, meaning they were thicker than what one normally associated with such devices.

They also were susceptible to torque, but you had to line up the weak point.

He used his teeth to pull the end part of the ties so it was directly in the middle of his wrists. Then he once more used his teeth to make sure the ties were as tight as possible. He sat in the chair, lifted his arms straight up over his head, and then brought them down with every ounce of adrenaline-fueled force he could. His arms passed on either side of his torso. The zip ties, incapable of surviving this sort of torque directed right at their weakest point, snapped in two at the site of the locking mechanism.

Devine didn’t take even a second to rejoice over his twin victories. He went straight to the window and looked out. The lower window had been removed for some reason, though the upper part was still there. But he wasn’t focused on that.

Brand-new-looking bars had been screwed into the exterior walls, turning his room into a cell. Since he was not escaping via that route, he would have to get out of here the hard way.

He turned, raced back to the duct tape, tore off some strips, used considerable strength to pull the long nail out of the wall, and rushed back to the window. The storm was starting in earnest and a bolt of lightning struck nearby. He waited, his elbow poised near the window. As soon as the deafening thunderclap sounded, he hit the glass with his elbow. The glass shattered, and he used the duct tape to pull out a long, pointed shard. He wound the duct tape around the top of it so he could grip it there without cutting his hand.

He placed the nail between his fingers and let the business end stick out the top.

He slowly opened the door, inch by inch, because it had creaked before. He had already seen another partially open door along the hallway when they had brought him up. He closed the door behind him and slid on his hands and knees down the hall to the other door. He pushed it open a little more so he could slide through before easing it back to its original position.

He peered out through the gap. Perfect sight line of anyone coming up the stairs, and when they turned to the room where he had just been, their backs would be to him.

He heard another vehicle pull up outside. The room he was in now had no window. But he could hear feet running through the rain and then the front door opened. He heard voices, some in English, some in other languages. He had a conversational knowledge of Farsi and Arabic, but those linguistic skills had withered from nonuse. It didn’t matter; the people were speaking fast and in low voices.

He relaxed and did his combat breathing when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Two sets, two men.

Through the gap he could see the countenances of the Asian in the lead and one of the Middle Easterners right behind. They reached the top of the stairs and turned right, their backs to Devine, just as he’d planned.

He was on full autopilot now. It was known as unconscious competence because he had practiced both the analysis and actions based on that analysis so many times, and carried it out for real countless more times, that his mental and muscle memory was near absolute.

Devine knew that there were around seventy-five areas of the body that could trigger incapacitating reflex injury. Now his task was to ID a few of those locations in this situation and inflict just such an injury. And do it with speed, surprise, and overwhelming aggression.

There was a reason why a lion always went for the throat.

He’d wanted to do this completely silently, but with two adversaries that was problematic. There were at least two more downstairs, the third man and whoever had come in just now.

He stepped out in such a way as to give the Middle Easterner a sight of him in his peripheral. That would expose the target Devine was aiming for.

When the man turned the glass knife slashed his throat, severing the windpipe so the man would not cry out. The thrust had also split the carotid sheath in two. The blood geyser painted the opposite wall a dripping red and splattered all over Devine as well.

The lead man was pulling out his gun when Devine struck, and the nail hit the man’s windpipe. He recoiled and dropped his weapon, gasping for air, unable to call out. Devine next pulled the glass knife free from the first man’s throat, pivoted, and severed the second man’s carotid with it. Devine caught the man and gently laid him down on the floor, even as he gave a last, rattling gasp and joined his partner in death.

The sounds of the attack and the men falling were fortunately mostly covered up by the sounds of the raging storm.

Devine searched both men and found his phone and his gun.

He quickly sent a text to Harper and Fuss telling them what had happened and approximately where he was, but that they could also track his phone. He was just about to send a message to Campbell when a voice called up, speaking in Farsi.

Devine answered back in a low voice in Farsi, saying basically, “Be right down.”

As soon as the other Middle Easterner poked his head up the staircase, Devine put two bullets in it. The dead man slumped to the floor, the wall behind him painted with his blood.

There was a scream — a woman’s, Devine thought — and then he jumped to the side as the muzzle of an MP5 entered the stairwell and on full auto sprayed the area with a wall of bullets.

Next, Devine heard people running away, and he got to his feet.

He made his way cautiously down the stairs and then poked his head around the corner. He ducked down as more gunfire erupted. When he then heard a vehicle start he ran to the front door and jumped out onto the porch in time to see the taillights of the SUV fleeing down the road as the storm continued to roar overhead.

He ran back to the dead man at the bottom of the stairs, because he had been the one driving before. He snagged the vehicle keys from his pocket and ran back outside. He got into the SUV, fired it up, and started to back out. However, the truck wobbled badly and he slammed it in park and hopped out.

He went around the vehicle, his fury accelerating as he did so.

They had shot out all four tires on their way to escaping. That was the gunfire he had heard.

He slumped against the SUV’s fender and let the rain wash over him.

Despite their escape Devine had one thing to be happy about.

I’m alive.