Despite the pain in his ribs and back, Jones squirmed until his hands, which had been bound behind him, were stretched beyond his feet and repositioned near his stomach. Though his hands were still bound, he had a lot more freedom to move about the cabin and search for a way out. He quickly probed the floor, walls, and ceiling, but each of them proved to be solid. After several minutes, it became apparent that his only option was the heavily guarded front door. Made of oak and finished with a light lacquer, the door was thick, too thick to knock down. It sat in a matching oak frame and was sealed from the outside with a steel dead-bolt lock.
Frustrated, Jones lay on his mattress and pondered his situation. “What would MacGyver do?” he wondered aloud, referring to the TV character who had a penchant for creative solutions. “He’d probably make a grenade out of chocolate pudding and blow up the door.”
He chuckled as he said it, but as he stared at the door over his outstretched feet, two things became apparent. One, a doorway explosion was within the realm of possibility. And two, he wouldn’t have to build a device because the guards had actually given him one.
The idiots had strapped it to his leg.
Forgetting the pain in his back and ribs, Jones leaned forward to study his anklet. The mechanism, attached below his shin, was encased in a silver, metallic shell that was no thicker than his hand. The gadget was streamlined and carried little weight; that meant the technology was pretty advanced.
Unless this is a dummy,
he thought to himself.
Since the latest in incendiary gear was bound to be expensive, Jones wondered if the Posse had the finances to spend so much money on deterrents. If they didn’t, he figured they might be tempted to put dummy devices on the legs of their captives. To him, it made sense. The prisoners would undoubtedly accept the guards’ explanation of the anklets, and because of that they’d be too scared to run away or attempt to remove them.
To find out what he was dealing with, Jones looked for the safest way to penetrate the metal casing. He carefully explored the outside of the shell, realizing that there were only two practical choices. He could pick the lock on the front of the anklet, a difficult task without the proper tools, or he could pry the case open with some kind of wedge. The second option seemed the easier of two, but it also seemed much riskier. Even though there was a thin seam that ran along the top of the mechanism, one that could be pried apart with some effort, Jones figured it was bound to be booby-trapped. Most high-tech explosives were.
That meant he had to pick it.
The question was, how? If he had his lock-picking kit with him, Jones could open the clasp in less than a minute. Without it he had no idea how long the process would take-if he could do it at all. In order to try, he had to find something slender enough to fit in the lock but sturdy enough not to break. Jones scoured the walls for stray tacks or nails, but it was pretty obvious that there were none. Next, he examined his bed, hoping that there were iron springs on the inside, but the mattress was made of foam.
“Shit!” he grumbled. “What can I use?”
Jones glanced around the room for several seconds before his statement finally sank in.
He could use a part from the toilet.
With a burst of energy that masked his pain, he rushed to the porcelain throne and removed the back lid. Peering inside, he was glad to see the water in the tank was semiclear, tainted slightly with the orange residue of rust but better than he’d expected. Wasting no time, he plunged his shackled hands into the fluid, hastily searching for a tool that would fit into the lock of his anklet. After several seconds, Jones found the best possibility. The floater lever, which was shaped like an eight-inch-long barbecue skewer, was thin and made out of a hard plastic.
Dropping to his knees, Jones turned off the main water valve with a few rotations of his wet hands, then lowered the handle on the commode. With a quick flush, the murky liquid exited the tank, filling the white bowl like a wet tornado before dropping out of sight. Jones climbed to his feet, grunting slightly as he did, then removed the plastic rod with a twist.
Wasting no time, Jones closed the lid on the toilet seat and sat down. After taking a deep breath, he crossed his legs, bringing the anklet as close to his face as possible. Then, with his hands chained, he tried sliding the slender piece into the lock.
Thankfully, it fit.
With his limited view of the anklet, Jones couldn’t identify the type of lock he was dealing with. He knew it could be opened with a key, that much was certain, but he wasn’t sure about its internal safeguards. If it was a spring lock, he was confident he could pop it rather quickly. Spring locks have very few safeties, making them a criminal’s dream. They can often be picked with a credit card or another thin object in a matter of seconds. If, however, the lock was tubular, then Jones was out of luck. The multiple pins of the cylinder and the dead-bolt action of the cam would require something more sophisticated than a sharpened piece of plastic.
Working like a surgeon, Jones jiggled the floater lever back and forth until he got a feel for the internal mechanism of the lock. A smile crept over his face when he realized what he was dealing with. It was a spring lock, just as he had hoped. After wiping his hands on his shirt, he slowly manipulated the lock in a circular fashion until it popped open with a loud click.
“Damn!” he said to himself. “Why are women never around when I do something cool?”
After sliding the device off of his leg, Jones was able to study the casing of the anklet in greater detail. The shell was silver in color, shiny and quite reflective, yet possessed an abrasive texture that was rough to the touch. It carried very little weight-one or two pounds at the most-but was durable, holding up to the rigors of his probing. The alloy was unfamiliar to him, possibly a mixture of titanium and a lesser-quality metal, but definitely expensive.
Too expensive for it to be a hoax.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got ourselves a bomb.”
Now that he knew what he was dealing with, he had to decide the best way to use it. Sure, he could strap the explosive to the door and blow the sucker off its hinges, but what would that get him? Probably killed, that’s what. The moment he ran outside, the guards would be all over him.
No, in order to escape, Jones needed a way to take out the guards and the door at the same time. But how? Jones went to work on the device as he planned a scenario in his head.
CHAPTER 42
EVEN
though Payne was still trapped in the Devil’s Box, he felt good about his situation. His hunger was gone, his thirst had vanished, and he smelled kind of pretty. As soon as Bennie left the hill, Payne went to work on his shackles.
When his hands were bound to the floor, there was no way for him to remove his handcuffs. The thick bolt had prevented it. But as soon as it was disengaged, he was able to use the maneuver that he’d learned from Slippery Stan, an escape artist whom he befriended while at a magic exhibit. Unlike most magicians, escape artists rarely use optical illusions in their trade. Instead, they learn to manipulate their bodies to escape from straitjackets or multiple layers of chains. And in the case of handcuffs, Payne was taught to turn his hands and wrists at a very precise angle, which allowed him to slide from the restraints like a hand from a glove.
Of course, the cuffs were only half the battle. The next part of Payne’s escape would be more difficult, and he knew it. In order to get from the box itself, he had to rely on outside help. He wasn’t sure where that was going to come from-perhaps Bennie, or a guard, or even an escaped captive-but he knew he was stuck until someone showed up.
And it took nearly an hour before someone did.
The instant Payne heard movement outside he slid his hands under his chains, hoping to maintain the appearance of captivity.
“Are you still alive?” asked Ndjai with his thick African accent. “I bet you are bored up here all by yourself.” He lowered his face to the grate, smiling with his nasty teeth. “Do not worry. I have some company for you.”
The wheels in Payne’s head quickly started to spin. Was it Jones, Ariane, or maybe even Bennie? None of the possibilities pleased Payne, and the grimace on his face proved it. “Who is it?” he croaked, trying to pretend he was dehydrated. “Who’s out there with you?”
“The question should not be
who
. The question should be
what
.”
Payne scrunched his face in confusion. He couldn’t hear Tornado’s panting so he knew it wasn’t him. In fact, he didn’t hear anything except Ndjai’s laughter. “Okay,
what
is out there?”
“A couple of playmates to keep you company.”
Payne didn’t like the sound of that. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m actually all right. I’ve kind of enjoyed the solitude.”
“Is that so? You might get bored later, and I would hate for you to think of me as a bad host.” Ndjai lifted a large shoe box above the grate then shook it a few times. An angry squeal emerged from the cardboard structure. The creature, whatever it was, did not like to be jostled. “Hmmm, he sounds mad. I hope you will be able to calm him down.”
“I hope so, too.”
Ndjai rested the cardboard container on the top of the box. “Then again, that might be tough for you to do. My little friend tends to get upset around the other playmate that I brought for you.” Ndjai lifted a large duffel bag into the air, then set it down with a loud thump. “You see, this second guy is hungry, and when he is hungry, he has a nasty habit of wanting to eat the first guy, which makes the first guy nervous.”
“Wait,” Payne mumbled. “Am I the first guy or the second guy? You went so fast I got confused. Please say that again.”