"Why do I follow you into these things?" Guerrero said loudly, hoping to be heard through the material of the sack over his head. He was lucky; the plastic straps they'd used to bind him were easily enough to overcome with a lot of friction from the shard of his broken glasses and some good old-fashion patience. Guerrero had a surfeit of both.
"Because you're as messed up as me?" Chance quipped. His voice was raw and as he coughed, Guerrero heard the fluid in his friend's lungs. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about this..."
"Let's save the apologies for later, dude."
"I don't know how you two can be so calm at a time like this," said a voice to his left. A two-time loser and perpetual snitch, Johnny "The Fox" Berner, had blown their cover, not because he held them any animosity, but because he'd smelled a quick buck.
"Shut up," he and Chance echoed each other.
The binders snapped, freeing Guerrero's arms. He sagged forward and he groaned as his left shoulder dislocated. He sat for a second or two before pulling the bag off his head. Berner chuckled.
"Your hair is all sticking up: static electricity."
"The question you have to ask yourself..." Guerrero's mouth fell open, ready with the rest of the quick comeback, but then he spotted Chance, swinging from the chains attached to the ceiling. "Two ticks, dude, and I'll be out of the binders on my ankles."
"One million dollars if you get me out of here, Guerrero," Berner bartered.
"Seriously uncool bro, ..." Guerrero's thoughts swirled and he couldn't think of anything else snappy to say, so he let the thought die.
It took only seconds of steady concentration to slice through the plastic binding his ankles and then he lurched to his feet, swaying unsteadily. Between the broken, useless glasses and the knot on the back of his head, he wasn't sure which of the two Chances that swam before his eyes was the real one. Pain pulsed in his skull as he stumbled into the bound man.
"Easy there, Guerrero, you look almost as bad as I feel," Chance said, his fake good-old-boy smile was lost on his blinded friend. "Get out of here, find Winston and come back -"
"Don't make this into a me or you thing, dude. I'm not that far gone." Guerrero steadied them to the best of his ability and closed his eyes, letting muscle memory do the work of picking the lock since his brain refused to cooperate. He crumpled under the heavier man's weight, falling to one knee before he was able to slow his descent enough to maneuver Chance into a chair.
"Two million since one didn't move you, Mr. Guerrero," Berner added. "Your friend is done for. It's a race to see what will kill him first, the bullet wound or the collapsed lung filling with blood. I'd bet on the latter, even though drowning in blood is really a nasty way to go."
"You'd know about that wouldn't you, Fox, but dude, that's why I never gamble." Guerrero got down on both knees and checked the door. The knob turned slowly and as he cracked it open, he felt the cool sting of winter air on his battered face.
"You ready to do this, dude?"
"Ready as I'll ever be." Chance coughed.
"Look, I have ten thousand in cash in my wallet. It's yours, you can get him some medical attention, whatever, just cut me loose if you won't help me escape."
"Cut you loose, dude?" The glare in Guerrero's cold blue eyes was mitigated by the blown-wide pupil. Guerrero pawed through Berner's pockets and claimed the large wads of cash. "You gave us up. I should cut your throat, but you still live on Prado Street, right? If you make it out of here, I'll pay you a visit, say hello to Sharon, your wife, and the boys - John and Mark."
Guerrero pushed Berner onto his side, and exposed the man's three hundred dollar cashmere socks. He felt along Berner's ankles until he reached the tendon and sliced through it and the bindings in one merciless stroke.
Berner howled and Guerrero pushed through the pulsing pain in his head. He got his good shoulder under Chance's arm.
"What was that all about?" Chance asked.
"I cut him loose," Guerrero said through gritted teeth. On a normal day, and with Chance's help, the seventy-pound difference would have been nothing to him, but today all two hundred-pounds weighed more heavily than he thought his sprained knee could handle. Now all that stood between them and freedom were thirteen very angry guards and a mile over open country to the getaway vehicle. "Just chill, bro, we're almost home."