shake the stiffness out of his joints. He was moving sleekly, like a cat that had already stretched.
“Maybe a rescue chopper,” Wayne tossed in. “You know, hurricane relief stuff.”
“And maybe the fucking dope dealers just swinging by to see if their stash is still here or blown over hell’s half acre by the storm,” Buck said, approaching the door and causing Marcus to pull his hand back away from the knob. He then turned to me, showing the nose of the pistol. “Or maybe the boy is right, Officer Freeman. Maybe you got some friends out there after all.”
No one moved for a handful of seconds, listening to the woofing sound of the blades, the volume increasing and then slightly beginning to fade.
“Well, boys. That’s his first pass,” Buck said. “Let’s wait while he goes out to bank a turn back around and then go eyeball ’em.”
They waited ten more seconds and then Buck nudged Marcus, and the boy opened the door, letting the other two out first. His mistake.
“You watch Freeman,” I heard Buck say. “And stay the hell under the overhang.” I then heard the thumping of footsteps on the deck, maybe a splash of someone jumping into the water. Marcus stood just outside, his hand wrapped around the door keeping it half open as he peered out. I was thinking I’d lost my chance at the shotgun, but would I even need it? If it was a police chopper, Buck and his crew might run. If it was rescue, maybe they’d wave it off. I listened to the aircraft sounds start to build again, coming back. Marcus looked inside to check on me and his face was anxious but void of any new recognition. The chopper now sounded like it was hovering and the kid stepped out again, pulling the door nearly closed with him. I couldn’t afford to hesitate again.
I pulled my pants leg up and secured the knife taped to my calf, and in a quick and silent slice I freed my ankles. Without hesitation I then squeezed the handle between my boot soles, looped my wrists over the blade, and pulled through once. The edge was so sharp it flowed through the tape like paper. I rolled to my knees, eyes on the door, and stood, but that tingle, that electric shock of muscles gone to sleep and suddenly called upon, zinged through my right leg and it buckled. I went down to one knee but the fall was not nearly as startling as the sound of blaring music that jumped alive from the next room and then the electronic beep and metal clack of the computerized door lock snapping open.
I was stunned for a second by the opening beat and chords of Bob Seger’s “Feel Like a Number” but before the first stanza I was up out of the blocks like a sprinter toward the outside door.
Marcus too must have been frozen by the sounds and whatever the hell he was seeing outside because his hand did not start to move from the door. I was a step away and when the light between the jamb and the door started to widen I threw my body weight into it, trapping the four fingers I had watched in disgust as they trailed down Sherry’s breasts. I heard the kid scream in pain and felt him push back at me, and instinctively I took one hard-lunging swipe downward with my knife.
The door closed flush with the jamb, my shoulder against it, and with my right foot I dragged over the crowbar that Buck had used to lock me in and kicked its edge under the door and pinned it. Only then did I rest my back against the panel and look down to see four fingers, sliced off at the second joint, lying like droppings on the floor next to me.
Now I wasn’t flying on a plan but on adrenaline. I went first to Sherry and saw her twisting onto her side, struggling against her trapped hands. But just above her head on the wall I also saw the lights on the electronic door lock glowing green. Something had tripped the power, like a driver hitting the garage door opener with the remote halfway up the driveway. I figured someone from the chopper had the switch so I twisted the handle and shoved open the door with my hip and was met with a rush of the high volume music: Dat! da dat! da dat!,