Blackout (25 page)

Then it stopped. Josh slumped forwards, catching his

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breath. The atmosphere within the hole was fetid and stale. Not a breath of air was circulating, and he'd been here for at least two nights now, filling the cramped space with the stench of his own urine and sweat.

Fear, realised Josh. That's the main thing you can smell in here.

Flatner had been down here twice more, taking a malicious pleasure in attaching the electrodes to the blanket. Each time, Josh had been subjected to a half-hour or more of brutal physical and mental pain: huge doses of electricity were mixed with beatings and abuse. Every round of abuse had been matched by another round of furious denials from Josh.

He doesn't believe me. I'll be dead before he realises the truth.

Josh started poking his fingers into the dried mud. It was impossible to say when the hole had been dug. Given that it hadn't rained for at least five years in this patch of desert, it could have been there at least that long. His fingernails scratched into the hardened earth. Maybe something has been left down here, Josh mused. A tool that I might be able to use as a weapon. Maybe a scrap of some old plant that I can eat. Or just a trace of moisture that I can rub against my parched lips.

A fingernail broke but Josh ignored the pain. Compared with what he'd just been through, it was nothing. He burrowed further, getting down one inch, then two. Nothing. It was useless, he realised, rolling over onto the blanket. The ropes tagging him down chafed against his skin.

The stun belt will start up again in a minute, just when I least expect it, he told himself grimly. Flatner will be back down, with more threats, more shots of electricity, more beatings. There's nothing left for me. Just the darkness and the pain.

I'm broken. That bastard just doesn't realise it yet.

Somewhere up above him, Josh could hear a scratching

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sound. One of the covers was moving. His heart sank within him. What was left of his spirit deserted him. Flatner, he guessed and another round of beatings.

A rope this time, without a ladder, Josh noticed as his stare turned upwards. A figure was sliding down wards. Thin and dark. Not Flatner, realised Josh. Not Mark either. Maybe they're tired. Maybe they're sending in the B team to rough me up a bit.

The man landed softly, alighting on the ground with the silent agility of a cat. His gaze focused on Josh with a mixture of pity and curiosity. Now Josh could see him clearly. He was dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and around the lower half of his face he had wrapped a black cloth. Whether it was to hide his face or to protect himself, Josh couldn't tell. Only his eyes were visible: brown, and gleaming out of the darkness.

Not a biker, thought Josh. Whoever the hell he is, he isn't a biker.

'Who are you?' said Josh hoarsely.

The man remained silent. He moved across to where Josh was lying. In his left hand, Josh could see the curved outline of a steel blade, its handle crafted in wood and ivory. The blade flashed forwards. Instinctively, Josh flinched, trying to prepare himself for the knife penetrating his flesh. Not butchery, he said inwardly. He'd heard of torturers cutting men open. Please, God, not that.

The rope sprang loose. Josh held his breath as the man cut one rope, then another. The blade on the knife was as sharp as a razor, slicing through the bindings with ease. One by one,Josh could feel his limbs released from their captivity. 'Who are you?' he repeated, his voice louder this time.

'Stay completely quiet,' said the man, his voice barely a breath above a whisper. 'I'm here to help you.'

For a brief moment, Josh wondered if he might be dreaming. An hallucination, maybe. He knew that happened

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to torture victims sometimes.The pain and the despair overwhelmed their minds and the victims slipped into trancelike states where they genuinely believed that they were being rescued. Josh closed his eyes, struggling to concentrate. He could feel the ropes snapping loose, and the man's hands on his chest rolling him across the dirt floor.

It's not a trance, he told himself. It's bloody real.

His eyes snapped open. The ropes were all cut now. Slowly Josh sat up. His body felt limp, weaker than it had ever felt before. The muscles were slow to respond to his commands, and Josh immediately started to wonder if he'd suffered some long-term nerve damage from the massive quantities of electricity that had surged through his body in the last two days.

'Can you stand?' whispered the man.

Josh struggled to his feet. His knees felt soft and flabby, as if the bone had been taken out of them, and his feet were having trouble keeping a grip on the ground. The man Hung an arm around his shoulder, hauling him upwards. Josh clung on to him, as if he was hanging on to a lifebelt in a stormy sea. Slowly, they inched their way across the hole's floor to where the rope was dangling.

Who the hell are you? wondered Josh. What are you doing here?

'Think you can climb?'

I can hardly bloody stand up, pal, thought Josh. But I could climb the sodding Eiffel Tower if it meant escaping from this hell.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I'll try.' '

'I'll stand behind you, and help push you up.'

Josh gripped the rope. He reckoned he'd scaled a million different ropes in his life, and this one was only twelve feet long, lying against a dried-mud wall with plenty of grip in it. It shouldn't be any harder than climbing a staircase. Unless your body had been shot to pieces by two days of torture.

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He clamped his right hand around the rope, followed by his left. His grip was limp and feeble. Summoning up all his powers of concentration, he squeezed hard on the rope and started to drag himself upwards. His shoulders were buckling under the strain, and his bones felt as if they'd been stretched on a rack. You can do this, he told himself silently. One burst of effort and then you'll be free.

Josh could feel the man beneath him using his back to help support Josh's weight. He gripped harder on the rope, hauling himself upwards foot by foot. He could see the lip of the hole, just two feet away. Kicking down, he rested his feet on the other man's back, using his support to help lever himself another few inches upwards.

Maybe Kate sent him, thought Josh. Maybe he's one of Marshall's survivalist friends.

His fingers grabbed up towards the edge. Below him, the other man was now climbing up the rope himself, still using the strength in his back to help propel Josh upwards. For a thin man, he had the toughness of a person twice his size. Josh's nails dug into the hardened mud at the surface. Above him, he could see the night sky. He levered himself up another few inches, bringing his eyes level with the ground. One more heave, he told himself. And I'll be free.

Josh had no idea what might be waiting for him once he got out of the hole. He didn't even know where he had been imprisoned: he assumed it was in the biker's camp, but he had no way of telling for sure. If there was anyone guarding the site, he had. to assume that he'd be shot on sight.

I'll take my chances. Right now, a bullet is a fate I'd gladly settle for.

His gaze swivelled first right, then left. A grunt escaped from his lips as, with one last effort from his tortured muscles, he dragged himself over the edge. The hole had been dug about fifty yards from the main camp. He could

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see the tents and the shacks, and the parked rows of gleaming, chrome-laden motorbikes, but little sign of life. Judging by the position of the moon, it was three or four in the morning: the dead of night. About ten yards from the hole a man was lying face down in the dust. A knife was sticking out of his back. And a trickle of blood was seeping down into the ground.

The night guard, reckoned Josh. At his side lay the controller used to trigger the stun belt.

'Go,' whispered the man below him. 'We haven't got much time.'

That accent, thought Josh. Not quite English, and not quite American either. I can't place it.

Josh scrambled onto the surface. Within an instant, the man was lying at his side. 'There,' he said. 'There's a horse behind that boulder. Think you can make it?'

Josh nodded. I'd run right across a bed of razor blades in my bare feet to get out of this place.

His feet kicked back against the ground. The strength is always there when you need it, he reflected as he started running the two hundred metres towards the boulder. Sometimes it's buried so deep that you don't even know it is there. But if you can dig it out, you can survive.

Josh didn't look back as he ran. He just sped forwards, ignoring the pain in his legs. The breath came hard and heavy in his lungs but he kept going. The other man was running at his side. A little over fifty yards, he told himself. Then you'll have escaped. A

The horse was an elegant grey stallion, the side of its neck dotted with brown freckles. Josh didn't know much about horses, but he could tell at a glance that this one was built for speed. A leather rein tethered the animal to the stump of a tree, and the horse was idly chewing some of the weeds sprouting through the rocky ground.

On this terrain, there could be no better getaway vehicle.

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'Get on its back,' said the man. 'This isn't going to be comfortable, but it is going to be quick.'

The man got up on the horse first, pulling himself up in one swift, well-practised movement. I've seen him, thought Josh. Somewhere. There was no saddle, just a cloth slung over its back. Nor were there any stirrups, just a leather bridle and rein.

The man grabbed Josh's hand, yanking him upwards. Again, Josh was impressed by the power he packed into his slight frame. Josh landed on the horse's back and sat astride the animal, clinging on to his rescuer's shoulders.

'Hold on tight,' whispered the man. Then he delivered a swift kick to the stallion's side and suddenly they were in motion. Josh gripped hard, adjusting to the rhythm of the gallop. He could feel the adrenalin surging through him as he looked backwards and saw the biker's camp receding into the background.

I'll be back, he vowed. And when I return my hands will drip with your blood.

The stallion sped over the open countryside. Josh had little idea where he was going. He clung on tight, grateful to be breathing free air again. His body had taken a terrible beating. Hunger and thirst were eating away at him, but he sensed that if he could just get clear of this place then he might survive. Right now, that's all that counts, he thought. Survival.

The horse was sure-footed and the man was an expert enough rider to steer it through the rough terrain. They were heading north, Josh noted, up towards the heartlands of Arizona. He glanced back a couple of times, but the getaway had been clean enough. If the bikers had found their murdered guard by now, then they hadn't sent out a search party yet. Even if they did, it should be too late by now. The stallion was putting good distance between them and the camp, and taking them across terrain that couldn't be covered on a bike.

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My rescuer can ride fast, noted Josh. Without stirrups.

Something sparked in Josh's mind. Without stirrups?

The animal whinnied beneath them, then halted as the man tugged on its reins. 'Here,' he said, pointing down towards a dark pool of water between some rocks.'He needs to drink. So do you.'

The horse had already stuck his muzzle into the pool, and was taking huge draughts of the water. Josh climbed down uneasily, careful not to hit the ground too hard. He walked unsteadily towards the pool. His legs were shaking beneath him. Keeping to a straight line required all his concentration. Slowly, he knelt down.The thirst was burning within him, but he knew that after two days without water he had to be careful. Too much, too quickly would be damaging. Just a few sips.

The man was standing at his side. 'Drink, drink,' he "said. 'It'll do you good.'

Josh dipped his hand into the water. It felt cool and refreshing. He lifted his hand and let the water trickle across his face. Next, he used his fingers to rub some of the liquid into his lips. The skin was cracked and parched, and stung at the touch of the fluid. Gradually he started to lick some of the water out of his hands, letting just a few drops at a time into his mouth.

He felt dizzy and disorientated. I haven't slept for two days, he reminded himself.

The horse was finishing its drink, raising its head from the pool and chewing on a clump of weeds. No stirrups, thought Josh again. Why does that keep bothering me?

Josh looked again at the man. He was holding on to the reins of the horse, the leather held tight in his grip. The black bandanna was still strapped tight around the lower half of his face, masking him from view.

Josh took another sip of water, letting the cool liquid settle inside him. He could feel it affecting his ragged, elec

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trocuted nerve endings, making his body tingle. Arabia, he thought to himself. That's where men learn to ride horses without stirrups. Arabia. Josh looked down into the pool. In a shaft of moonlight, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection. He scarcely recognised the man looking back at him. There was several more days' growth of beard and his hair was matted with sweat and streaks of blood. His skin was pallid, and there were scratches all down the side of his cheek. But it was the eyes that shocked Josh the most. They had a hunted, scared look.

Suddenly, Josh could see the face of his rescuer reflected next to his own in the pool. I've seen you before, he repeated to himself. The man who'd been staying in the Motel 6, the one who had said he was an Italian, the one who Madge gave me a picture of.

You're not an Italian. You're alQaeda.

Josh turned around, looking up into the man's face. He tried to smile, but his lips were still too cracked. 'Thank you for rescuing me.'

The man raised his hand. 'You won't be thanking me soon,' he replied.

The hand slammed into the side of Josh's face. He could feel himself growing dizzy. His body wobbled and in the next instant he crashed face down into the cold water.