A huge roar of approval swept through the crowd, people getting to their feet and cheering-on the little leopard as she struggled to get themuchbigger MacGarioch in an armlock.
Logan skirted the wreckage and hurried over to help.
Jericho McQueen shot to his feet. ‘HEY! LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU LEOPARD-FACED BITCH!’
And with that, the Orphan Army charged, storming down from their seats and into the ring while the weenies ran around with their hands in the air, screeching and grinning and screeching some more.
Logan grabbed MacGarioch’s other arm, before he could land a punch on Kate’s head. Twisting it into a wristlock. ‘Charles MacGarioch, I’m detaining you under—’
Was as far as he got, because a clown battered straight into Logan’s ribs, sending them both thumping to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and big floppy shoes.
The other clowns piled in, and so did the Lion and the Zebra,andthe little old lady. Then Tufty, Biohazard, Doreen, and Barrett. Then it was the Orphans, turning what should’ve been a straightforward arrest into a good old-fashioned circus brawl.
Yeah...
This whole op hadn’t exactly gone to plan.
LXII
What sort of bastard didn’t keep a decent set of tools in his barn?
Of coursethere were no bolt-cutters, because that would be helpful. And no hacksaws. And no bloody anything that would get thisbloodyanchor from around herbloodyneck.
The bench press might’ve done the trick, if there were any drill bits that would cut metal, and the electricity was on. Which it wasn’t.
Could say the same for the table-and-mitre saws, only they’d be a hell of a lot more dangerous. Probably deadly.
Even a crowbar would be an improvement on what Natasha had – which was absolutelyfuckall – could stick it through a link in the chain and twist till it broke. Assuming the linkwouldbreak. Which, knowing the way this bloody life worked, it probably wouldn’t.
Been through this whole bloody barn and all she had to show for it were blisters and scrapes and two-steps closer to taking the Stanley knife to her own wrists.
So now it was the workbench’s turn – going through each of the drawers, emptying them out, and examining every single last thing. Which wasn’t easy with both wrists manacled to her neck.
And if this didn’t work, there were only two options left: figure out a way to get into the caravan, hauling a galvanisedbin full of concrete that weighed twice what she did, or try to make a run for it.
A very slow, awkward,painfulrun, rolling this sodding anchor along with every step.
Cos there’s no waythatcould end in disaster.
She pulled out the very last drawer and tipped the contents onto the workbench. Rusty screws, rusty bolts, rusty washers, couple of angle brackets, a rubber mallet the mice had been at, and right at the very back: a screwdriver. It was one of those cheap-looking piece-of-shit ones: flat head, about six inches long, with a yellow-and-black handle. The sort of thing you could pick up for a buck fifty in your local supermarket.
Sod-all use for getting rid of her anchor. But maybe...
She turned the thing around in her right hand, so the blade and shank pointed at her throat. Then worked them into the ring that her left wrist was cuffed to. The one fixed to her metal collar.
Natasha pushed the screwdriver about halfway in, then pressed the handle downwards.
It rotated – pivoting against the ring – then stopped. So she shoved harder, pulling her chin up and back. Just in case.
Bastard didn’t budge.
She wrenched the thing upwards instead, but it clacked to a halt at much the same angle. Only the other way around.
OK. Time to try something a bit more extreme.
Natasha grabbed what was left of her horrible mask and wrapped a chunk of leather around the screwdriver’s blade. Bent her knees, so the screwdriver’s handle rested on top of the workbench.
Please God, you heartless, vicious,cruelbastard, don’t let me impale myself through the bloody throat.
