Unlawful Chase by C.J. Schnier (new books to read .TXT) 📗

for a quick getaway that would never come. A pang of guilt shot through me. Was she looking at her plane, watching it slip farther behind us now? Was she feeling the same sense of loss and helplessness I had felt when I watched Paramour do the same less than a half hour earlier?

The truck lurched to the left as it barreled around a bend in the road and the airfield disappeared. The view from the back of the truck returned to two walls of green separated by tan dirt. I suspected it would stay that way until we made it to the village.

I forced myself to think. I had to devise a way out of this mess. The soldiers had stopped staring at me like a ticking time bomb. They chatted quietly amongst themselves, only occasionally looking over at me.

OK Chase, first things first. "You need to get your hands free," I thought to myself. At first glance there wasn't much of use. The metal bed was stark and empty. The truck was old, and even in the low light I could see large splotches where rust had eaten away at the bed and the framework that held the canvas cover. One of the worst spots was near me. The rust had eaten halfway around a weld where the square tubing met the back of the truck cab, leaving a jagged edge right up against the cab, nearly out of sight. If I could reposition myself, maybe I could use it to cut myself free.

I waited a few moments, making sure the soldiers were focused on each other instead of me, and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, I shifted myself into position. The rusty edge was too high, and I couldn't quite get my hands where I needed them. I shifted my weight, half stood, and then swept my legs under me into an awkward sitting position. This elevated my hands a couple of inches, putting them right at the height I needed them to be.

All three men looked at me, regarded my movements for a handful of heartbeats, and then, satisfied that I had only shifted into a different and more comfortable position, went back to their conversation. Wasting no time, I worked my hands against the ragged, rusty edge of metal, feeling it tug and scrape at my bindings.

Small bits of rust broke off and rained down on the steel seat as I moved my hands back and forth. However, the constant noise from the truck and the increasingly jubilant chatter of the men covered up the faint sounds of falling rust. I worked slowly and methodically when the truck ran over smooth sections of the road, but when the truck would lurch and sway in the rougher tracts, I allowed the natural movement of my body to put more force into my efforts to free myself.

I could feel the zip tie weakening as I sawed through it. Sweat poured from my brow. Whether it was from the heat or my own nerves, I couldn't be sure, and I wiped it away as best I could with my shoulder.

Suddenly the truck shuttered to a stop, slamming me backwards against the cab and providing enough force to break free from the plastic zip tie. Two of the soldiers shouted something and stuck their heads out of the open back of the truck. A voice from outside, sounding apologetic, answered. Carefully, while the people outside distracted my captors, I worked my hands free. I clenched the broken zip tie in one hand, making sure not to leave any evidence of my newfound freedom.

Another few exchanges of words followed, and the wheels squealed as the truck started moving again. All three guards threw their hands up and shook their heads in frustration before taking their seats again. I couldn't understand them, but some things are universal in all languages.

From my limited viewpoint, I saw two men standing on the side of the road with shovels. Both of them looking like scolded children as we pulled away. They moved back into the road and went back to work, shoveling dirt from the middle to the sides. Before they had even faded from view, I could see the first of the village houses.

I held my breath, hoping this wasn't our ultimate destination. Several other shacks passed by, and the truck took a left turn, passing a few more houses. I recognized several of the homes and knew where we were. The procession was heading straight towards the hotel, but the trucks never slowed. We rumbled past the large white building, leaving it to our right, and then down another road. It was little more than an overgrown footpath. Branches scraped and tore at the sides of the truck. It was no wonder I had missed it in my previous reconnaissance of the village.

Part of me relaxed. I still had some time to orchestrate an escape. But how much time? This was all unfamiliar territory for me. This new road might continue straight to Havana, or it may end a half mile from now. There was no way for me to know. If I was going to make a break for it, it would have to be soon.

With my hands free, the next logical goal was getting out of the back of the truck. Of course, avoiding the platoon of soldiers that would follow would make the task more difficult. Avoiding catching a bullet as I ran away was pretty high on my priority list, too. I looked over the dark canvas covering the back of the truck.

Bits of the cloth flapped and fluttered in the breeze as the truck drove, but it all looked to be secured to its framework. I had to either find a way through the canvas or I'd have to somehow get past the three men guarding me and out the back. Given my recent record with fighting, that was my absolute last option. The next time the truck