‘He is going to find a way out.’ The kid had said Frank was going to find a way out.
At first Jack had fed on Alvaro’s whispered words like a gluttonous tick satiating itself on the life-blood of hope. But as the hours passed the words lost their potency, as his first pangs of hunger were alleviated.
Now he found himself sitting at a smorgasbord where worry was served as the main course, followed by side dishes filled to over-flowing with anxiety and disquiet. A heaping serving of pragmatic dessert completed the meal. Help yourself, Jack, there’s plenty more where that came from.
So many things could go wrong and if the events thus far on this mission foreshadowed a rescue attempt, disaster was not only a probability, but a given.
He lay on his bunk, his body refusing to join his mind on the endless treadmill upon which it was running. Unfortunately, it was an exercise in futility and like the treadmill, his thought process was working hard, but getting him nowhere.
Over and over Jack struggled past his pounding headache to develop a plan of attack when Frank signaled. He may have failed miserably to get himself out of this mess, but he’d be damned if he’d be a liability.
Normally he was a hell of strategist and could have figured out exactly what Frank had in mind. They’d worked together for so long and knew each other so well that one didn’t move without the other knowing which direction they were going before they took the first step. It was a natural as breathing to know what Frank was thinking. How he was going to react. How he was going to handle a situation. But there wasn’t anything normal about this and it had left him feeling like he was lucky to draw even one lungful of air much less breath normally.
There were just too many unknown variables to calculate. It wasn’t even a matter of shooting blind. He was shooting without the fucking gun.
His arm was a useless lump of pain, radiating spears of agony with each breath. He couldn’t even hope to bend the elbow. He knew he was feverish which was only aggravated by the effects of dehydration.
Infection from any number of abused areas was sapping his strength and making it hard to think clearly. The open wounds were a welcome center to a plethora of bacteria, parasites, and any other creepy-crawlies that inhabited the cell with him.
Overall he figured he looked like dog shit on the sole of the boots he no longer owned. He felt like it too. And probably had the smell down pat, as well.
Yeah, that about covered it.
And so he lay there and waited for a rescue that didn’t come and as the hours passed the treadmill sped faster until his exhausted thoughts were forced to endure a race in which there seem to be no finishing line.
Frank would come. There was simply some small problem. Some insignificant, miniscule, no-friggin-way-it-was-gonna-stop-him problem.
Frank would come. The kid said so. And even if he hadn’t, Jack knew there was no fucking way, as long as he had breath in his body, that Frank would leave him in this hell hole a minute longer than he had to, no matter what it cost him. No way in hell. It was just a matter of time and he’d be so out of here.
Just a matter of time.