“The signal to come back.” A cruel smile starched across his face. “You think I’m stupid enough to leave the dinghy on the beach for you to take if something goes awry? You already tried to steal it twice.”
“I can stay with her,” Garry said, unmoving from his original spot by the door.
I would rather be in a box with bats and snakes.
“Did I stutter?” Tom said with an irate tone. “Go find something to tie her up.”
Garry grunted and marched out of the hut.
“You don’t need to do this. Jack is taking the boat to theNauti Guy. Where do you think she would go?” Hunter said, our fingers interlocking.
Tom’s calculating eyes studied the map on the wall. “It isn’t about where she could go. It’s just a precaution to prevent her from doing something stupid, like finding another kitchen knife. How many did you hide around here, Sydney?” He looked at me with a sneer, but I didn’t care to answer. Let him think we had more knives stashed around here.
Garry returned with four pieces of thin rope that once held the kitchen tent. He advanced in my direction, but Hunter put his free hand out. “Let me do it.”
“Get lost.” Garry reached around him for me, and Hunter knocked his arm away. Garry pulled the gun out and forced it under Hunter’s jaw. “Move.”
Fear stunned me like a scorpion. Garry’s small eyes, with their wickedness and instability, made it clear to anyone that the deranged man wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
“It’s fine. Let him do it.” I cupped the side of Hunter’s face with my hand and moved it so I could look him in the eyes. “Show them where the rest of the treasure is and return to me. Okay?” I rose on my toes and pressed my trembling lips to his, then with my chin up and an expression of indifference, I walked to the chair where Tom had sat earlier.
Taking the seat, I aligned my ankles with the chair legs and draped my arms around the back of it, leaving some space. With any luck, I could wiggle my arms out of the rope grip and break free. And also manage to not throw up from Garry’s appalling reek.
ChapterThirty-Three
Good news: I didn’t barf. Bad news: Garry did a remarkable job of tying me to the goddamned chair.
Ten seconds after they left, my right foot fell asleep from blood circulation cut-off. But no worries, I had a plan in place for how to get myself out of this tight situation. I just needed to get across the room to the desk’s junk drawer that was ajar and get the Swiss Army knife. Easy peasy. Of course, it was hard to open the blade one-handed, but I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. Both my wrists were (sort of) loose, so everything was possible.
The main goal was not to tip over.
If I tip over, game over.
With ridiculous body jerking movements, the chair wobbled inch by inch in the correct direction. Hot survival instinct coursed through my bloodstream, and my heart worked harder than a twin-turbo engine. Raw spots developed on my wrists and ankles where the rope rubbed against my skin.
Near the table, halfway through the room, the chair leg caught in the hole in the wood floor. I jerked harder, but the chair didn’t budge. I blew my bangs off my sweaty forehead and tried one more time, jolting to the right with furious impatience. The chair leaned, wobbled, and I flew sideways. Oh shit. My shoulder smashed the table. The lit lantern at the edge jumped, tilted, fell, and hit the floor, its glass shattering.
The spilled oil ignited. The sheets fell off the table and landed in the oil. Flames licked them, and woosh, they were lit up. And like magic, the flood of fire overtook the raggedy hut.
Fucking fuck.
“Fire!” I yelled. “Fire!”
White smoke rose from under the mattress, and like in a nightmare, red flames crept up the sheets.
I wiggled my legs and arms as much as I could to loosen the grip of the cable, ignoring the painful bites of the coarse fibers. My right foot freed more, and I pushed off and set the chair upright. The smoke stung my nostrils, making it hopeless to take a breath. Frantically yet not to overdo my efforts, I moved the chair inch by inch to the front door. There was no time to get the Swiss Army knife. I was one step from hell and had to get out.
“Fire!” I yelled again and broke into a horrible cough. My chest burned as if a hornet’s nest erupted in my ribcage, stinging me within.
I jerked. I wiggled. I used my toes to drag the chair, closer and closer to the door. The closer I got, the harder I worked. Adrenaline in my bloodstream launched me over the threshold. My knees hit first, easing the blow to my head. Scraping my legs and forehead on the porch’s rough wood, I moved to the stairs and tumbled down the steps, pain hitting my body at different angles.
I landed on the dirt path, and the back of the chair fell off. My arms were free. Unable to untie the ropes around my ankles, I used all my anger and jiggled the chair legs until they broke off and the ropes were easy to remove.
My chest felt heavy as if a ton of weight was pressing on it. Hunter’s IDs and cash were inside. Father’s urn. I was losing it all over again. Panic snaked through my veins. I hurtled up the stairs, wanting, needing to rescue it. At the door, the billowing smoke stopped me, and I staggered back, shielding my face from the hellish heat. I ran to the kitchen, tripped, got up, then finally reached it and grabbed a bucket. I scooped water out of the tub we used as a sink and turned to rush back.
“Sydney.” Garry stepped out of the darkness.
“Help me put the fire out.” I tugged on the bucket, spilling half of the water as I carried it, its heavy weight banging my shin.
