Donaldson kicked Candi in her side. She moaned.

Taylor figured there were three steps beneath him. He would need to grab the door and tug it closed before Donaldson pulled his gun. He didn't know if the cop's bullet would go through the half inch steel the sleeper was made out of, but his shotgun slugs certainly would. Lots of damage, though, and it would make a lot of noise.

"I'm not exactly keen on a two on one. If you promise to leave her eyes alone, and that she'll stay conscious and not die on you, I could let you go first."

Donaldson's face remained blank for a moment, then he raised his eyebrow.

"I appreciate your offer. I sincerely do. But I can't help but think that while I'm doing my thing, you might make some sort of effort to do me harm. Or perhaps lock me in here."

Taylor began to wish he never parked at this truck stop.

"We seem to be at an impasse."

"No," Donaldson shook his head. "I believe we can work this out. I have no desire to harm you, Taylor. And I am grateful for this opportunity. I shouldn't have flashed the gun. That was a mistake. I've been playing this game solo for so long, I wasn't thinking clearly. I know you have a knife on you, and probably some other weapons in the truck, and I fear I just began a war of escalation."

"I don't want to kill you either." It was the truth. Not that he had any real affection for Donaldson, but trying to muscle the dead fat man out of his sleeper and drag him to a river didn't seem like a fun time.

"We don't know each other well yet. But we're kindred spirits. Maybe we could even become friends."

"It's possible."

"How long will the cop be out for?" Donaldson asked.

"A few minutes, probably more. Pinch her, see if she flinches. When they're really under, they don't flinch."

Donaldson leaned over Jack Daniels and squeezed her breast. She didn't move.

"She's out. You have some rope?"

"More bungee cords in the trunk."

Neither man moved to get them. Eventually, Donaldson raised an eyebrow. "Are you a gambling man, Taylor?"

"I've been known to play the odds."

"Let's flip a coin. Winner gets first crack at the cop."

Taylor considered it. "I'd be up for that, if it were a fair toss."

"We could go in the diner, have our waitress do the flipping. I'll even let you call it. Would be good to get out in the fresh air, clear our heads."

"Let's say I agree. You still have me at a disadvantage."

Donaldson nodded. "The gun. Firing it wouldn't be smart for either of us. Cops might already be on their way, after what Lieutenant Daniels did to that pimp."

"I've got a solution."

"I'm listening."

"An empty gun isn't a threat. Hand me the bullets. But do it slowly, or else I might get nervous and lock you up here for a few days with no air conditioning or water."

"Fair enough."

Donaldson gently reached back into his pants and removed the gun. He held it upside-down by the trigger guard, and swung out the cylinder. Then he dumped the rounds onto his palm and handed them to Taylor.

Taylor grinned.

Maybe this tag-team thing will work out after all.

"Are we good?" Donaldson asked.

"We're good. Let's hogtie this pig."

Taylor climbed into the sleeper, and after an uneasy moment of sizing each other up, the two of them began to bind the cop. Donaldson quickly got the hang of it, and they soon had Jack suitably trussed.

"You sure she's safe here?" Donaldson asked, admiring their handiwork.

"Never had an escape. Bungee cords are tighter than rope. The enclosure is steel, the lock on the door is solid. She's not going anywhere."

Taylor grabbed the cop's purse, wound it over his shoulder, and crawled down out of the sleeper after Donaldson. He made sure the trap door was locked, took what he wanted from the purse, and together they walked back to the diner.

– 8-

The moment they were gone I rolled onto my belly and inch-wormed up to my knees. My hands were behind my back, the bungee cords so tight my fingers were tingling. I strained against the elastic, trying to twist my wrists apart, but couldn't free myself.

More cords wound around my chest and upper arms, and encircled my knees and ankles. I flopped onto my side, wincing at the pain. My shoulder still hurt, and there was a throb in my left breast where Donaldson had pinched me. If he'd done it for a few seconds longer, I would have screamed.

Pretending to be unconscious seemed like a better choice than really being unconscious, but when they tied me up I realized that maybe fighting back and yelling for help when I had the chance might have been the better move.

Panic threatened to overwhelm me, and I began to hyperventilate. Fear and I were old adversaries. There was no way to squelch it, but if I kept my focus I could work through the fear. The goal was to not think about any potential outcome to this situation other than escape.

Still unable to open my eyes because of the stinging, I rolled to my left, hoping to bump into anything that would help me free myself. I hit something soft. I brushed my cheek against it. Foam of some kind. I rolled right instead, eventually coming up against something more suitable. Something hard, stuck into the floor. After maneuvering around onto my knees, I rubbed my hands against the object.

It felt like a board, only two feet tall, and thin. Midway down the side was some sort of protrusion. Though my hands were quickly getting numb, I could tell by the sound when I jiggled it that it was a padlock.

I got my wrists under the lock, trying to wedge it in between my arms and the bungee cords. Then I took a deep breath and violently tugged my arms forward.

The elastic caught, stretched.

I pulled harder, feeling like my arms were pulling out of their sockets.

Then, abruptly, my hands were free, and I pitched forward onto my face, bumping my forehead against the padded floor.

I spent a few seconds wiggling my fingers, wincing as the blood came back, and made quick work of the other cords around my arms. Then I spit in my hands and rubbed them against my eyes. The stinging eased up enough for me to have a blurry look around the enclosure. There was moderate lighting, from an overhead fixture. I saw beige mats. A black slanted ceiling covered with sound baffles. A trunk. And a bound woman, her feet in some sort of wooden stock, my wrist bungee cord wound around a padlock on the side.

I unwound my legs, tugged off my remaining shoe, and crawled over to her, unhooking her bindings. "Can you hear me?"

The woman moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.

"You need to wake up." I gave her a shake. "We're in trouble."

"My… foot… hurts…"

"What's your name?"

"My… foot…"

I cupped her chin in my hand, made her look at me.

"Listen to me. I'm a cop. We're in a truck sleeper and some men are trying to kill us. What's your name?"

"Candi. I… I can't move my feet. It hurts."

I turned my attention to the stock. I crawled around to the other side, wincing when I saw the blood. I took a closer look because I had to assess the damage, then wished I could erase the image from my mind.

"What's wrong with my foot?"

"You're missing your little toe."

"My… toe? "

I studied the stock. Heavy, solid, the padlock and latch unbreakable. So I looked at the hinge on the other side. Six screws held it in place.

I scooted away from the stock, on my butt, and reared back my right heel.

"Stay still, Candi. I'm going to try to break the hinge."

I shot my leg out like a piston, striking the top of the stock once, twice, three times.

The stock stayed solid, the screws tight. And if I tried kicking any harder I'd break my heel.

"Don't you have a gun?"