Author's Note: This more or less fits with chapter sixty five of Witness, timewise.
Diary of a Protected Witness Part 53
101 Uses for Duct Tape
Jesus, it didn't take Webster long to show his true colors. And sometimes I really, really hate being right...
I'd been sort of keeping track of the Khushrenada case, watching the news broadcasts and just about cheering out loud when the reporter said Winner's cross-examination made Hilde break down and cry on the stand.
The bitch so deserved it! I hadn't held a grudge over her tellin' Khushrenada's people about my phone call--but when she gave Tsubarov more ammo to use against me, I was flaming pissed.
And saying I'd threatened to kill Zechs was so over the top, I would've ripped her head off if I'd been able to get my hands on her. I didn't even let myself contemplate that if she hadn't fucked up my cross-examination, I wouldn't have had to leave the courtroom, and been in that hallway for Une to attack.
But it sounded like she got hers. The news people said she was facing prosecution for perjury, as well as conspiracy to commit murder. Yep, her phone call to Khushrenada made her an accessory when his hit men came after us at the log cabin. Bitch.
I hoped they found a nice foster home for the kid, though. It wasn't his fault his mom was pond scum. And he sure didn't deserve to suffer for her mistakes. Maybe when I could contact Quatre, I'd see if he'd ask Father Maxwell to take the kid into his orphanage. That was one place I knew a kid could get a decent start in life, if he was willing to take it.
Me, I'd been an exceptional case--streetwise before I'd ever entered the orphanage. It made it that much harder for Father Maxwell to teach me right from wrong and drill some sense into my thick skull.
But damn, eventually he did, didn't he?
At least, I thought I'd turned out okay. I wasn't in prison, or dead (not literally at least), or living on the streets. So that was all good.
And I had a gorgeous cop for a lover, and the best friends a guy could want. All in all, when you got right down to it, I was pretty lucky.
Anyhow, I saw the midday newscast where they said that closing arguments had been given, and the jury had been taken away to deliberate, and I wanted to stand up and cheer. I could actually see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Once the jury came back in, there'd be an end to the case--an end to everything. If they found Khushrenada innocent (please, God--no), he'd have no reason to come after me, 'cause he couldn't be charged with Zechs' murder more than once.
Although, knowing his penchant for revenge, I didn't think he'd let an infraction like testifying against him go unpunished. Good thing he thought I was dead, huh?
On the other hand, if they found the bastard guilty, he'd be locked up for good, and I honestly couldn't see what use the Feds would have for me beyond that. I didn't know much about Oz besides what Zechs had let slip here and there. And they had Trant tucked away to provide the real meaty stuff--right?
Wrong.
Alexander called a few days after closing arguments, to tell my two babysitters that Trant's team had been compromised (as in "killed along with him") and to beef up security for me. They promptly scurried about doing as he ordered (which was the most activity I'd seen outta them all week), while he got me on the phone and told me I was going to be moved shortly--as soon as he could set up a more secure location.
I tried to put a halt to his elaborate preparations by pointing out how freakin' useless I'd be in a federal case against Oz.
"I'm tellin' ya, Al--I don't know enough about the behind-the-scenes stuff to be any good as a witness," I argued. "You may as well just relocate me and give up on Oz."
"I'll never give up on Oz," he hissed angrily--the first true emotion I'd heard from the man. "I'll take the bastards down if it's the last thing I do!"
I frowned, wishing I could see his face through the damned phone. "So--spill it," I ordered. "What'd Oz do to you that's personal?"
"Nothing," came the short, sullen response.
"Right," I scoffed. "C'mon, buddy. You want my help, you gotta share. It's obvious you've got a real thirst for their blood. Why?"
"I--was married once," he said haltingly.
Fuck--not another sad story like Chang's!
"And what happened to her?" I asked with a sigh.
"Her and our son," he said flatly. "Officially, it was a car accident. But I'd been working the Oz case--getting close to nailing them for drug trafficking. Based on information I'd collected, we intercepted one of their ships coming into port, and found a fortune in cocaine on board. But the crew blew it to Hell before we could seize it for evidence. Cost us a bunch of good agents along with our conviction--but it also cost Oz millions in profits. The next day I got a delivery of flowers at the office, with a sympathy card attached--" He paused, obviously gathering his thoughts. "I tried calling Jenny on her cell phone--but there was no answer. And before I could even leave my desk to tear out of there and find her, the hospital called--"
"Shit, man," I said hoarsely.
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, and then he continued. "So--don't give me any song and dance about how little you know, okay? You're all we've got, and I'm not fuckin' letting you go until Oz is history! Y'got that?"
"Yeah, I got it," I muttered.
Webster had just come back in from the garage, and gestured for the phone, so I made an exaggerated kissing noise and said "bye-bye" and "love ya, too" to Alexander, before passing the receiver over to the grimacing homophobe.
Then I headed for my room, figuring it was time to think about slipping my leash. The trial was over, and the verdict could come down any day. When it did, Alexander would move me again, and it sounded like he'd have a sharper team of agents to watch over me this time around.
And while I had some serious suspicions about Webster, and his past connection to Sims, I at least felt like I could handle the asshole. I didn't know about another team or different agents; they couldn't all be as lazy and stupid as these two, could they?
So, I threw my few belongings into the backpack Alexander had brought them in, and hung out in my room, thinking I'd wait for nightfall to make my escape.
'Course, things just never go as planned, do they?
Somewhere around supper time, Webster stuck his head in the door and gestured me to follow him.
"What's up?" I asked.
"There's a box out in the shed I need a hand with," he told me.
I looked at him warily. "Why can't Davis help you?"
"He's on the phone with his girlfriend."
"So tell him to call her back."
"He's working on supper, too. I figure he may as well do both at the same time."
Well, that sounded innocent enough, but I'd been avoiding Webster ever since the day I heard him and his partner talking about Sims. More than once, he'd asked me to help him with something outside or in the garage, and every time, I'd found an excuse not to. It was becoming increasingly obvious he was trying to get me alone.
Now, I'm accustomed to guys wanting to "get me alone," if you catch my drift. Usually they want something. More often than not, it's a piece of ass.
But Webster was a freakin' homophobe of the worst kind. There was no way he wanted any "quality time" with lil ol' me.
So, what did he want?
Yeah. See where this is headed?
"I'm not your servant, dumb-ass," I sneered. "Get your bum of a partner to help you when he's done makin' dinner!"
Webster actually took a step towards me, a dark scowl on his pudgy face. "Damn it, Solo, just get off your lazy ass and gimme a hand!"
I was leaning back against the headboard, one hand half-under my pillow, where I'd stashed a jackknife I'd found during one of my forays into the shed. If the bastard took one more step, I was seriously considering using it.
But he paused and ran a hand over his face, letting out a gusty sigh. "Look--Alexander's all over our asses now that he lost his other witness, kid. I really need a hand with this, and Davis has got other things to do right now." He gave me a phony attempt at a reassuring smile. "Please?"
It musta just killed him to say that.
So I played along.
"All right. Sure," I said with a shrug, sliding off the bed with that jackknife tucked unobtrusively in one hand.
I strutted past him, sticking my hands in my jeans pockets to transfer my only weapon to a new hiding place.
It was fuckin' hard to walk down that hallway with the sonofabitch behind me, since I totally didn't trust my back to him. But I couldn't let him know my level of suspicion. If he and his partner were in this together and I put up a fight, there was little chance of winning.
But if I got Webster alone--maybe I could get the drop on him, instead of vice versa. And if he didn't try anything, well there'd be no harm done, right?
No harm indeed!
We walked past the kitchen, hearing Davis yakking away on the phone, and made our way out the back door.
It was nearly twilight, with shadows deepening around the buildings and next to the fence, and I glanced over my shoulder to see Webster watching me way too intently.
"Did ya bring a flashlight? It's gonna be dark in the shed."
"Not that dark," he shrugged. "Won't take a minute, anyway."
I pulled open the door, loathe to precede him inside.
"Go on," he said, his tone harsher. He even gave a shove to the back of my shoulder to propel me inside.
I made a show of stumbling over the sill, and cursed about how dark it was, using the distraction to fumble with my hands on the workbench until I felt the solid bulk of a brick and grabbed hold of it.
At the same time, Webster closed on me from behind, and slung a loop of some rubbery material over my head to settle around my neck.
Fucking shit! I'd been waiting for him to pull the classic bad guy blunder and either tie me up, or go for his gun. Instead, he was trying to strangle me with a loop of garden hose he'd obviously prepared earlier.
What was it I'd said before--I really, really hate being right? Yeah, wasn't that the God's honest truth?
I flailed about with my legs, trying to reach Webster even as my breath was choked off by the thick, flexible garrote. When that didn't work and my vision began to go gray around the edges, in desperation I took the brick by both ends and brought it up and over my head, striking backwards and praying I hit him.
There was a muffled curse, and the noose around my neck loosened, giving me a chance to twist free, gasp for air, and then cold cock the sonofabitch.
He fell like a ton of bricks, and I staggered back away from him, pulling out the knife and holding it at the ready in case he got back up.
But I needn't have bothered. Seemed like he was down for the count. And that was damned lucky for me.
"Fucking hell!" I blurted, rubbing my neck and sucking in grateful gulps of air. "Bastard!"
I kicked him as hard as I could in the ribs, shaking with anger and adrenaline. I mean, I'd been stabbed in a lung just a coupla weeks ago, and I did not need this kind of shit to deal with. If my swing with the brick had missed, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have succeeded in fighting him off.
Goddamned Feds!
My brain finally kicked back into gear, once my trembling subsided, and I fumbled around in the dark looking for rope or something to tie the prick up with.
I finally found a big-ass roll of duct tape, and bound his wrists and ankles--slapping a piece across his mouth for the finishing touch. Then I took the gun from the waistband of his pants and shoved it into my own, grateful for a more substantial weapon than the jackknife.
Finally, I shoved his fat ass into a corner, and headed for the house to round up his partner, before he got suspicious and came looking for us.
When I eased into the house, Davis was off the phone, and noisily tossing plates onto the table.
"Done out there?" he asked, not bothering to look up.
"Yeah," I said flatly. "All done." I leveled the gun at him, waiting until he caught sight of it and froze, his eyes going wide and his face paling.
"Wh-what's going on?"
"That's what I'd like to know," I said with a cold smile. "Your buddy Webster just tried to fuckin' strangle me with a piece of garden hose. You know anything about that, do ya?"
He shook his head, his chubby cheeks wobbling with the motion. "What the fuck you talkin' about? Webster and I are supposed to protect you--"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" I asked icily. "But frankly, I'm not convinced of your sincerity any more. So, we're gonna take a walk, you an' me, out to the shed. And you're gonna help reassure me that I'm safe."
"O-okay," he stammered nervously. "H-how am I gonna do that?"
"First, in order for me to feel confident you won't put a bullet in my back, toss your gun over there in the corner. Slowly."
He did as I said, and I gestured him towards the door. "Now grab a flashlight, why doncha? I'll need to see what I'm doing out there in the shed."
He obeyed, taking the light from the table by the door, and stepping outside. "What did you do to Webster?" he asked, glancing carefully back at me as he walked.
"I hit him with a brick and knocked him out," I answered calmly. "Then I tied him up and came to get you."
"'S he alive?"
"He was breathing when I left."
We found Webster right where I'd left him, though he was beginning to stir.
Davis knelt by his partner, examining the big goose egg the brick had made on his forehead and the bruise my fist had left on his cheek. "Wow. You really nailed him one."
His eyes strayed to the short length of hose and the brick lying a couple of feet away. "Seriously--he tried to strangle you?"
"Yeah."
"I can't imagine why--"
"I can," I snapped back. "He's on Oz's payroll, idiot--just like his buddy Sims and most of the rest of you stinking Feds."
Davis turned towards me, and I hastily stuck the gun in his face. "Don't even think about it, dickhead."
"I wasn't!" he blurted. "Just--don't be saying all FBI agents are crooked. You're wrong. Totally wrong!"
"Yeah, well, I can't afford a mistake right now," I said evenly. "So I'm gonna have to treat you both like the enemy."
I glanced around, wondering how long I could detain the two agents in order to make my escape. I'd need at least half an hour to grab what I needed from the house. And while I had some pocket money I'd won playing cards with them, it wasn't going to last long once I was out on my own.
"What are you gonna do to us?" Davis asked warily.
"Make sure you can't follow me," I told him with a dark glare. He could take that any way he wanted--I didn't much care.
"You think you can make it out there on your own?" he asked incredulously. "Jesus, kid--you're in protective custody, for fuck's sake! You need us!"
I stared him down, jerking my chin towards his groaning, waking partner. "I didn't need Webster there tryin' ta choke me to death."
He started to argue some more, and I waved the gun impatiently, trying to keep him from messing up my train of thought. Then it hit me--the perfect plan!
"Take off your partner's clothes," I told him. "Everything."
"What? Why?"
"'Cause I said so--and I've got the gun."
Whoa--I had a flash of déjà vu--but it was for damned sure I wasn't planning on repeating what had happened with 'Ro when I'd pulled a gun.
Davis started to do as I said, but stopped in frustration. "How am I supposed to get his shirt off? You've got his wrists taped together!"
I tossed him the jackknife. "Cut it off then--the shirt--not the duct tape." I smiled nastily. "The pants, too, including his undies. And don't make any sudden moves. I'm a damn good shot."
He obeyed, darting me nervous sidelong glances all the while, and when he was done, I retrieved my knife and made him strip down to his own birthday suit as well. Then, despite his protests and threats, I had him haul his squirming, wide-eyed partner upright and hug him tightly.
Yep, Webster had gradually come around during the undressing process, and he was making muffled, horrified noises behind his duct tape gag. But that didn't keep me from making Davis wrap his arms around him so they were in a full-body embrace.
Then I taped Davis' wrists behind Webster's back, and vice versa. And I taped their ankles together, too, and their knees. I even bound one strip of tape around their heads, so they were kinda cheek to cheek, and another around their waists, pressing their chubby tummies together. Then I made sure to take a turn around their butts, so they were forced into groin-to-groin contact; damned homophobes deserved it!
I might've gotten a little carried away after that, winding loop after loop of that tape around them until they resembled one big, unhappy mummy.
Oh, I made sure their faces were free so they could breathe. But if they hadda take a piss, things were gonna get real messy for the two of them.
Heh, heh.
Before I left, I made sure there was nothing in that shed they could use to free themselves. I wanted them to have to wait until Alexander sent help--and that wouldn't be until after the next scheduled check-in, whenever that was. I hadn't been able to pin down a timetable; Alexander seemed to call at random times, damn him.
But I solved that little problem by taking both the cell phones with me--Davis' and Webster's. That way I'd know exactly when their boss called, and how much of a lead I had by then.
I packed up some snack bars and sports drinks, helped myself to a sturdy parka from the hall closet, and then made my way out to the garage, figuring I might as well take the Feds' car for the start of my journey. I'd have to ditch it pretty quickly, or risk them checking the GPS unit and realizing it had left the safe house. But I thought I could at least drive far enough to find a gas station where I could procure a map and figure out exactly where I was.
Then it would be a simple matter to drive to the nearest highway, leave the car parked in a commuter lot, and see if I could hitch a ride from a passing truck. With any luck, I hoped to be in Euphoria before the end of the week!
TBC...
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