“Is there a flashlight in the Land Rover?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the dashboard. Maybe under the seats. But there’s one there.”
“Okay. We’re going to walk to the vehicle and we’re going to get it. You’re going to stand ten feet from the Land Rover—the far side—away from the huts, and I’m going to check. I will also keep an eye on you. You move, and I shoot you exactly the way I shot your friend.”
The Russian shook his head. “That was point-blank. The range. You think you can hit me if I run even ten feet?”
“Not for certain. But are you really that sure I’ll miss? And do you want to run into the wild at night? Unarmed? Think that’s a good plan, buddy?”
The man’s face was bemused. Terrance wanted him scared. He’d shot his partner—twice. Put a bullet into the bastard’s skull. How the fuck was this character not terrified? Terrance had to admit, he was impressed.
“We see,” the Russian said.
So, Terrance walked him to the far side of the Land Rover and ordered him to stand where he was. “Move and I shoot,” he reminded him. Then he opened the passenger’s-side door, one eye always on his captive, and glanced at the dashboard and the glove deck. He ran a hand underneath the front passenger seat. He stretched his arm and his fingers under the driver’s seat. He reached deep into the well between the bucket seats. And he kept coming up empty. No flashlight. No pistol, either, and no knife. Briefly he thought he might have found one, based on the cylindrical shape—his mind imagined the barrel—but it was a battery, nothing more. He also found some peanuts and a bandanna. But not the goddamn flashlight.
He sat on that front seat with one leg dangling out the front door. “I can’t find it,” he said. “Where else might it be?”
The guy shrugged. “Maybe it rolled into the back seats.” He seemed to be enjoying this.
Terrance could use this same process with the second row of seats: sit half in and half out of the vehicle with the door open, keeping watch over his captive. But if the flashlight had rolled into the third or fourth row? He was fucked. There were no doors that far back. You had to climb into the vehicle. He had to hope it was in the second row.
He rested the rifle on his thigh, his right finger on the trigger, and walked the fingers of his left hand like a spider under the seat. The idea there might be actual spiders there caused him to pause, but only for a second.
And, yes, there it was. The flashlight. It was smaller than he hoped, but it would do. The silver metal was starting to rust, but it worked. He jumped to the ground, satisfied, though he understood this was only the first step. Now he had to get Billy or David untied. After that, it would get easier. Not easy. But easier.
“Now you have a flashlight,” the Russian said, smiling. “A flashlight and a gun. Good for you.”
Terrance thought the ornery motherfucker might laugh. His moment of gratification at discovering the torch already had been undone. This creep just didn’t seem to understand or care about the gravity of his situation. The precariousness.
“We’re going to go into that hut and untie David Hill.”
“You’ll keep the lady tied up?”
“I will. Now move.” He pointed at the hut where he thought David was restrained and motioned for his captive to walk ahead of him. When they reached the entrance, he said, “We’re going inside, and you’re going to untie my friend. I swear to Christ, you do one thing other than untie him, and I will fucking shoot you. You so much as hiccup or flinch, and I will fucking shoot you.”
“You don’t want to kill me. If you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead now.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I will.”
He turned on the flashlight and put the slender tip of the handle in his mouth, the metallic taste bitter. He had to bite down on it with his teeth. He aimed the rifle at the Russian, and the fellow followed the light into the hut. He bent low as he entered the section with the sleeping pallet. And there was David. He squinted against the beam, but when the Russian knelt on the dirt floor and untied his hands, he said, his voice raspy, “Terrance. It’s you.”
Terrance didn’t respond because his teeth were clenched around the flashlight. He didn’t even nod. But he was shocked at the way they’d tied David up: it looked like a torture rack. Terrance’s hands had been bound at the wrists and his legs had been tied to one of the posts that held the sleeping pallet, but at least he could sit or lie down if he wanted. David, on the other hand, had been restrained flat on his back, his hands over his head. It looked medieval. It looked excruciating. Terrance watched as the Russian untied David’s feet and the other American sat up. Only then did Terrance spit out the flashlight. Instantly he picked it up off the dirt.