Twenty-Two

Blood leaked from Lankowski's broken nose down the contours of his face where it collected on the torn cloth gagging his mouth. The cop killer whimpered as he twisted against his bindings. All his efforts only worked to tighten them, digging deeper into his flesh.

Hatch stared at him with indifference. She would have been happy to knock him around and shove his head into the piss-filled water tank. But he had knowledge she needed. Would he talk? Only one way to find out. She aimed the pistol at his forehead and waited for his whimpering to die down.

"You and I are going to have a little talk." Hatch kept her voice at a whisper. "You will speak only when I tell you to and you will not try calling for help, or I will spread your brains all over this shitter. Got that? That gag comes off, I ask the questions and you answer. Simple as that. Think you can handle it?"

His eyes darted wildly as he considered the terms and eventually nodded. She undid the gag. The second the cloth was removed, Lankowski opened his mouth to scream. The first syllable never left his lips. Hatch struck down hard with the butt end of Cruise's Kimber. The bottom of the magazine hit bullseye, striking his broken nose.

Fresh blood spurted from a laceration running across the bridge of Lankowski's nose. He clenched his eyes tight. His mouth twisted open, and he choked on his sobs.

Hatch brought the pistol up, just as she'd done before. “That one was a warning.”

After a bout of hyperventilating, Lankowski regained some measure of composure. "Who the hell are you, lady?"

"Who I am doesn’t matter. What I tell you to do and you complying with it is the only thing that does. If you answer me honestly and make no more pathetic attempts to cry for help, then you may get out of this alive."

He stared up at Hatch and tried to spit blood. It dribbled over his bottom lip and trickled down his chin. The defiance he'd shown a moment ago was all but gone. Lankowski lowered his head and slumped his shoulders in defeat.

"Where's Lawson?"

"Lady, you're in way over your head." Lankowski’s forehead wrinkled as he eyed Hatch. "When's the rest of the cavalry arriving?"

"Why don't you worry less about me and more about what you need to do and say to not die on a crapper?"

"You're on your own." He laughed. Wind rattled the green plastic walls of the outhouse, forcing Lankowski to raise his voice. "That's it. It's just you all by your lonesome."

"By the looks of your face and those ropes around your wrists and ankles, I'd say I'm not alone."

"Grizz and the boys are gonna have a good time with you." Lankowski made a slow and deliberate pass of his tongue over his blood-caked lips. "Hope they save me a piece."

"You're as useless as you look." Hatch pulled the gag back into place.

Lankowski's words transitioned into a whimper. She brought the pistol butt down over his head one more time for good measure. He slumped back against the rear wall.

Hatch turned in the tight space. She peeked out at the cafeteria through a gap in the door. Light flickered from inside. The windows had all been covered in newspaper, but she saw the shadows of three men through them. She made one last visual sweep of the icy landscape before exiting. She unlatched the door and stepped out onto the ice when she was struck from behind.

Lankowski had launched himself out of the port-a-john. With his hands and feet bound, he made an armless tackle. His body collided with Hatch's right side. The claws of her boots locked her leg in place at the point of impact. Her ankle rolled inward. She fought back a scream at the pain.

She tossed Lankowski aside. He stumbled a few steps, then went face first into ice-covered gravel. Hatch straightened her ankle. A fireball shot up the right side of her body, pulsing from her ankle to her hip with every beat of her heart. She breathed deeply, trying to control the pain. In for four. Out for four. Hatch repeated the box-breathing exercise until she pushed the pain out of her mind.

She regained her footing and turned to face Lankowski. He wriggled backward across the ice like a legless lizard stuck on its back. The wind doused his whimpered cries for help.

Lankowski made a weak attempt to kick at her as Hatch grabbed him by the rope tied at the ankles. The slick ground made it easy for her to drag him back to the outhouse. She dropped his legs, moved around to the other side of him, and hooked her arms under his. Once she had him in a squatting position, she shoved him inside with no regard to where he landed. Lankowski lay on the urine-stained floor of the Port-A-John. He stared at Hatch with bloodshot eyes as he grunted his protest through the gag in his mouth.

Hatch weighed her options. Her swollen ankle pressed against the inside of the boot. She knelt and retied the boot, pulling the laces as taut as she could manage. Speed was her advantage in this and most situations. Lankowski's stunt took that away. Hatch tucked the Kimber in her waist and retrieved a folding knife from an inside zippered pocket on her coat.

"I gave you one warning. Just one. And your dumbass failed to heed it." Hatch opened the blade. Lankowski's eyes went wide. "You wanted to be a hero and warn your friends. Well, I'm going to give you an opportunity to do just that. In fact, I'm going to need you to scream."

Hatch slammed the blade into the gunshot wound on Lankowski's foot. She then used the same knife to cut the gag free. As Lankowski’s screams cut through the howling wind, Hatch set off toward the side entrance of the cafeteria as quickly as her injured ankle would allow.