His eyes widen and hands release the steering wheel, holding them up. “Fucking hell, where did you come from?”
“Outside,” I answer. “Can you do me a favour? Can you pass me your handcuffs?”
“Wh-Why?”
“Because I want to handcuff you to the steering wheel. Obviously. As I can’t see them on your belt, they must be on the other side. Do it slowly.”
His hands are held up, and he does what he’s asked.
His face reddens, his breathing comes quicker and sweat builds on his temple.
“And remember to breathe. I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, worried that the man is going to hold his breath until he passes out.
He slowly reaches between himself and the door and pulls at his belt.
“Status?” Henry asks.
“Status is. Please hold caller,” I answer.
The driver has one handheld up still, but I can see the moment he decides that he is going to change the plan. The moment I answered Henry, is the moment his hands fell onto something different. The small black cannister of pepper spray. He pulls it between us, and sprays.
The motherfucker.
The chemical irritant hits its mark perfectly, hitting me right in the eyes.
Holy fucking shit balls.
Let me tell you something about mother fucking pepper spray. It burns, and when I say it burns, I mean it's as if I want to rip my eyeballs out and rinse them in ice cold water.
Not only does it make my eyes burn, it irritates the back of my throat and chest, making me cough.
The guard obviously hadn’t thought the move out completely, because as he has sprayed me in his panic, he has also managed to get the back spray from it hitting the windscreen and my helmet.
I swear it was a complete fluke to get the gap between my visor and helmet.
“That was rude,” I say as I smack his head with the butt of the gun. He slumps forward, the horn blares, so I push him to the right.
The lack of van movement, the horn that blares, and the smoke that is thick enough to probably get through the vents have been enough to get a rise from the prisoners.
Whose banging and shouts are getting louder and louder.
“Motherfucker pepper sprayed me.”
“PAVA spray,” Henry corrects. “They don’t use pepper spray.”
“Fuck off, Henry,” I say, coughing.
“Don’t wipe your eyes.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo.” I blink as my eyes stream with water, my vision distorted. I reach across and grab the handcuffs, cuffing the fucker onto the steering wheel.
I grab the keys that are on a chain attached to his belt and climb out.
Cars have started to slow and crawl past us, the dark smoke still billowing from under the van.
I walk to the back of the prison van and put the key into the lock.
“Hey, what the fuck you doing, lady?” someone shouts from behind me.
