by Gary Gregor
“Put them on your left wrist,” he ordered.
Sam thrust out his hands and caught the cuffs, “What for?” Sam asked.
“Just fuckin’ do it!” Stringer screamed.
Sam fastened the handcuffs to his left wrist.
“Now, stand with your back to the wall and fasten your wrist to the ring above your left shoulder. I want you facing me, and the professor. I want you to see this, all of it.”
Sam hesitated for just a second, just enough time for Stringer to place the knife back under Ann’s chin.
“Don’t fuck with me, Rose,” Stringer warned. “I’ll kill her. Lock your wrist to the ring.”
Sam reached up, locked the cuff to the ring, and stood with his back to the wall. The mental image in his mind was both bizarre, and macabre. It was an image of a dark, musty dungeon in the Middle Ages; a place where prisoners were manacled to the walls and suspended grotesquely from hooks in the ceiling; a place where flickering lanterns cast ghostly shadows across the walls, as a crazed madman prepared his victims for unspeakable torture, and ultimately death.
“Good. That’s good, Sam,” Stringer smiled. “Now, I’m going to come over there and handcuff your other hand to the opposite ring. But, before I do, I want to remind you that I have the gun and the knife. I want your death to be slow; that’s always been important to me. But, if you force me, I will not hesitate to kill you quickly. Either way, you will be dead.”
Stringer stepped away from Ann. He held the knife in front of him and started cautiously towards Sam. Ann looked around Stringer's body and found Sam’s eyes.
Sam saw something in her eyes. What was it? Terror and pain, but something else. What? What was she trying to tell him? Was she telling him to try something while he still had a free hand, or silently pleading with him not to? He knew if Stringer locked his free hand to the wall, it was over for them both. Stringer would start with Ann, and Sam would have no choice but to stand there and watch it, helpless, unable to prevent her certain death followed by his own. More images flashed into his mind, this time of Paddy O’Reily’s mutilated body. Then, he saw it again, that same something in her eyes. What? Behind Stringer’s back, Ann flicked her eyes from Sam to the closed door, and back again.
Sam saw the eye movement at the last moment, before Stringer’s body blocked his view of Ann. What did it mean? He fought the urge to glance towards the door. What could he do? He had only one free hand. Stringer had his gun, and a knife. How could he stop him with one hand? There were only seconds left. For just the briefest of moments, he caught another glimpse of Ann. What was she doing?
Ann pulled herself up, so her feet were free of the floor. She hung momentarily with all her body weight dragging down on her wrists. She grimaced against the pain, not wanting to make a sound, and hence warn Stringer of her intentions. She had to do it quickly, before Stringer could fasten Sam’s free hand to the other ringbolt in the wall. She had to do something, and she had to do it now.
It was a desperate rather than a calculated act, motivated by her instinct for self-preservation. If she was going to die, she would die fighting. And, there was that something she thought she saw out the corner of her eye. It was the door. The door was moving slowly, agonisingly slowly. Or, was she mistaken? Was she so scared she only hoped she saw something?
Before she knew it, she had swung herself backwards. Behaving like a pendulum, her body reached its rearward zenith, and swung forward. As she came forward, she bent her knees, drawing them as high as she could, and kicked out hard. Her momentum carried her body forward in an uncontrollable rush, and both feet caught Stringer in the middle of his back.
Stringer fell forward under the force of the kick, a rush of air expelled from his lungs, and the knife aimed directly at Sam’s face.
Acting instinctively, Sam flung himself sideways, avoiding the knife coming straight at him. With his free hand, he grabbed blindly for Stringer’s knife arm. Then Stringer crashed headlong into him. Momentarily, the two men were locked together in a clumsy, bizarre embrace.
Stringer felt himself propelled forward and then, he was face to face with Sam. He braced himself and shoved backwards, freeing himself from the grip of Sam’s free hand. He stumbled backwards and crashed into Ann, now swinging wildly, uncontrollably.
“You bitch! You bitch!” Stringer screamed as he regained his balance. “You fuckin’ bitch! You’re dead! You hear me? You’re fuckin’ dead!” He repositioned himself behind Ann and dragged her head back by the hair. He raised the knife, and she screamed.
Sam couldn’t believe it. He was going to see the woman he loved die, and he was helpless to save her.
It was the slightest of movement he sensed first. It came from his right, over by the door. It was fast, just a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision followed almost simultaneously by a deafening boom! Almost simultaneously, he heard a gurgling, bubbling sound. It was coming from Stringer. He looked past Ann and saw Stringer clawing at his throat. Then, he heard another boom. The sound roared, and thundered in the close confines of the room. Only then did he see the blood, and only then did he realize the echoes reverberating in the tiny room were gunshots.
John Stringer stepped away from behind Ann. Something was very wrong. He felt no pain, but he could not speak. He tried to cry out, to curse. Only an incomprehensible wet, gurgling noise issued from his mouth. Then, he looked down and saw the blood gushing from his throat and spewing in great crimson spurts all over Ann’s back. He stumbled backwards, and cannoned into the rear wall of the room. The knife fell from his hand, and he grabbed with both hands at the hole in his throat. Something made him look towards the door. As he turned, he saw only the briefest image of someone standing in the open doorway. Then, there was nothing. No pain, no more gurgling noises, nothing. He slumped against the back wall, and slid slowly down to a sitting position on the floor as the second bullet crashed into his head. His eyes remained open as he stared at only blackness.
Ann Curtis lay on a gurney, and Sam held her hand as the paramedics lifted her into an ambulance. She opened her eyes and looked at him.
"Are you coming with me?” she asked, her voice weak and trembling.
“I’m following in a few minutes, I promise,” Sam smiled at her. He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the forehead. “I need to talk to Russell.”
“Are you okay?” she asked as the stretcher locked into place in the rear of the vehicle.
“I’m fine,” he reassured her. “And so will you be. I’ll see you at the hospital shortly.”
“Promise?”
“Promise,” he said as the ambulance door slammed shut.
Sam waited until the ambulance sped away before he turned and went back inside the bunker.
Russell Foley had sent everyone from the room, and was standing with his back to the door, looking down at Stringer’s body. In death, Stringer sat, his head inclined back against the wall, his dead eyes staring. Blood covered his clothes and the side of his face.
“Handsome devil isn’t he?” Sam said as he entered the room.
"He is now," Foley said. "How's Ann?"
“Her hands and wrists are pretty bad, she has a cut on her neck, and she may have a fractured jaw, but she’ll be okay, eventually.”
“How about you, are you all right?”
“I could use a stiff drink,” Sam said.
“Later,” Foley said, staring down at the dead man.
“How did you find us?” Sam asked.
Russell Foley lifted his eyes and turned to face his old friend.
“I ordered a tap on your phone, home, and office, on the off chance that Stringer might contact you. We heard the entire conversation you had with him when he rang you.”
“You tapped my phone?”
“Of course, you do know what a phone tap is, don’t you?”
Sam ignored the sarcasm. “You tapped my bloody phone, and you get here right on the death knock. You took your sweet time. What happened, did you stop for co
ffee?”
“We needed to be sure Stringer didn’t see us,” Foley explained. “Then, we couldn’t get in. The bloody main gate was padlocked, wasn’t it?”
“So what did you do? All stand around scratching your nuts trying to figure out how to open the fuckin’ gate?”
“Some of the boys did,” Foley smiled. "I never scratch my nuts."
"Never?" Sam questioned.
“No, never. But I know you. I knew you could never get out of this mess without my help, so I climbed the fence.” He reached down and clutched at the leg of his trousers. “I ripped my good pants in the process. I hope you appreciate what saving your dumb arse is going to cost me.”
“I’ll buy you a new pair, something a bit more durable, not to mention fashionable.”
“You bet your beanie you will,” Foley said seriously. “These trousers cost me plenty, and I’ve had them only three years.”
“Well, I’m just glad everything worked out in the end,” Sam said.
“Only just, the way I see it,” Foley continued. “I come in here, and I hear Stringer cussing and cursing like he was about to have a stroke. I get in the room, and I see you handcuffed to the bloody wall, and Ann trussed up like a side of beef in a butcher’s cool-room. Seems I made it in the nick time. You owe me, mate, big time.”
“The outcome was never in doubt,” Sam jibed. “I had the situation under control every step of the way.”
“What were you going to do, slap him to death with your free hand? No, Sam, you had stuff all under control, you owe me, and you owe Ann. If she hadn’t caused that little diversion, I might have waited just that little bit longer before coming in. Together we saved your worthless hide; though I’m sure I’ll die wondering why.”
“Your words cut me to the quick, Russell.”
“I want a full statement from you,” Foley said, ignoring the remark.
“Can I go to the hospital first?”
“One of the boys outside will run you there, but make it quick,” Foley ordered. “I want you back at the station A.S.A.P. The paperwork needs to be finalised. It’s gone on long enough.”
Sam turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. He turned back to face Foley. “Russell…” he said.
“What?”
“That was pretty good shooting.”
“Not that good, I was aiming for you.”
Sam laughed. “You want to get a drink later?”
“Yeah, sure, but this has been a police shooting, I’ll have paperwork up to my neck and it will have to be completed before I can sign off.”
“Okay. Oh, and Russell, one more thing.”
“What?” Foley answered with undisguised impatience.
“Thank you,” Sam smiled.
“For what?”
“Oh, I dunno, saving my dumb arse for one… for everything I guess,” Sam shrugged.
Russell Foley looked across at Sam and smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
THE END
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About Gary S. Gregor
Gary Gregor is a Vietnam Veteran and retired Northern Territory police officer. He is a published author of crime fiction and has had a number of short stories published in Australian anthologies and travel magazines. A voracious reader, he learnt to escape into the world of fiction while growing up in the pre-television era in rural South Australia.
Since his retirement he has taken his love of the written word to the next level, and when not writing he is one half of a two-man band, paying tribute to the music of the 60's, 70's & 80's.
Gary is a Justice of the Peace in South Australia and lives with his wife, Lesley, in the small, rural, farming community of his birth. His military and police background have provided him with the necessary life experiences to bring credibility to both his writing and his characters.
Vengeance List is book one in an intended series of crime thrillers featuring the same two lead characters and set amidst the great Australian Outback, in the Northern Territory.
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