Her head ached where she’d been struck; her back had gone numb from lying on the stockroom’s concrete floor. She heard a knock on the back door of the hardware store. She flexed her shoulders, stretched her arms and legs, but it was no good: she was tied up tighter than a roast.
The door opened. Garrett Mason spoke from outside. “They said you needed me. I got here as quick as I could.”
The other man said, “About time. Go get your truck.”
There was a low moan from somewhere to her left.
“Fuck,” Garrett said. “He don’t look right.”
“You’ve seen worse.”
A minute later Kimbra heard the sound of the truck rumbling down the alleyway.
“...folks, we’re only ten minutes into the second half and it’s already hard to tell if this little Garcia boy is either brave or crazy,” Buddy Laurie said from a crackling radio. “But he’s throwing himself at these Perlin tackles like a dog at a bone.”
“Christ, that’s a tight fit,” said Garrett, stepping back inside.
“Grab his legs.”
There was a rattling as someone was lifted off the ground. “He’s heavier than his brother,” Garrett said as he and the other man shuffled awkwardly to the door. A few minutes later they came back for her.
It was terrifying, of course, but being carried by her wrists and ankles didn’t hurt as bad as she’d thought it would. Kimbra told herself that this was practically like tumbling practice. When they heaved her into the cold bed of the truck the zipper of her singlet dug into her spine.
“Grab that tarp.”
“Is that a box of five-five-six?” Garrett said.
A pause. “Grab a couple of them too.”
Kimbra heard a soft rattling noise that could only come from one thing: ammunition.