11. In the Eyes of the Hare
"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear." -- H.P. Lovecraft
Smoke curled lazily through the dark, illuminated briefly as it passed through an intruding beam of light. Charlie watched enviously as it slipped through a hole in the window and fled. For the hundredth time, his eyes darted around the room, alighting on three shadowed figures seated around a rickety card table. They themselves were eyeing each other warily, scrutinizing each individual component of their expressions to accurately determine who was bluffing.
Following the plumes of smoke drifting from their lit cigars, he observed the TV, a small black-and-white set perched precariously on a bowed cardboard box between him and his captors. Besides the broken window, it was the only source of light in the cramped apartment; also, in the absence of the men's conversation, it provided the only sound present. The screen showed a man, dressed entirely in black, approaching a metal detector, which tripped almost as soon as he stepped into it. A bored-looking security guard came over, armed with a search wan and an unenthusiastic expression.
"Please remove any metallic items you are carrying: keys, loose change—"
His spiel was suddenly interrupted as the man pulled open his coat to reveal just about every firearm known to mankind strapped to his torso. The security guard's eyes went wide.
"Holy shit!" he managed, before a punch by Keanu Reeves sent him flying. Hearing the conflict, one of the Russians glanced back at the TV in time to see the shooting begin; he laughed and turned back to the game.
Charlie, too, was watching the set carefully, although not because of any affinity for The Matrix; on the contrary, he had to push aside memories of the assault on the office brought on by the rattle of gunfire. No, his attention was instead held by the slim, silver cell phone lying ignored on the box beside the TV. If only he could reach it… he closed his eyes and prayed for an opportunity, some distraction to cover his actions. He felt the sudden urge to laugh himself; he was starting to think like a Russian mobster after only three hours in their company.
Just hen, there broke out some chatter in Russian. Eyes flicking hopefully to the gathering at the table, Charlie didn't have to speak Russian to decipher the suddenly angry expressions worn by two of the players: someone had cheated.
The exchange in Russian became more and more heated, one player insistently denying the others' accusations until one of them grabbed the table and flipped it, sending cards and shot glasses flying and pinning the other one quite permanently and gruesomely to the wall. The impact rocked the apartment, jarring the cardboard box just enough to make the cell phone fall; the clatter it made was lost in the angry, interrogating shouts of the cheated players.
As quickly as he could manage with two hands bound behind his back, Charlie crawled forward, biting back a reaction to the pain flaring in his arm; the shot at the office had been close… too close. Nevertheless, he worked his way forward, inching closer and closer to his salvation. Reaching it, he checked to make sure the group was still arguing fitfully before pinning it to the floor with his chin and beginning to slide it back to his previous position.
A sense of urgency was instilled in him as he realized a moment later that the argument was coming to an end. Hastily, he curled himself into the pain-ridden ball they had left him in, concealing the phone beneath him as one of his captors made his way towards him. He lay perfectly still as the man looked him up and down; then the Russian tutted, turned, and adjusted the volume on the television. Charlie's muscles unclenched themselves, and he relaxed as the man moved off to help his comrade collect the ruins of the table.
Rolling over, he groped around with his hands and found the phone; fingers studying the surface, he oriented it beneath him and held down the key he postulated to be number 1. The dull dialing tone was muffled by his body, as was the distant ringing one the other end. So his heart almost beat right out of his chest when, on full speaker volume, a familiar voice said, "Eppes."
An explosion on the television masked the sound, but Charlie knew he would not be so lucky next time. Scrambling around, he tried to get his mouth as close to the speaker as he could.
"Ssssh," he hissed quietly. "It's me."
"Charlie?" came the loud reply. "Where are you? Are you hurt? I—"
No happy action scene blaring from the TV could cover up that racket. The Russians turned, taking in their captive and his newly acquired means of communication with a mix of blind rage and surprise. One of them drew his gun, but the other one slapped it aside, and the shot landed somewhere in the wall; to their annoyance, they needed him alive. Flipping the gun around, he struck Charlie a good blow across the face with the butt; something went snap, crackle, pop, and he could only gasp and moan wordlessly as his dislocated jaw flexed uselessly.
"That should keep you from talking, yes?" inquire done of the Russians with a small smile. Standing, he took the phone from the other one, the device still vibrating with Don's alarmed shouts. He looked from it to Charlie and back again, observing with interest the pleading in his eyes. Then, very gently, he set the device on the ground and, not so gently, proceeded to smash it with his heel.
"Bring him," came the order. "We're leaving."
Head still spinning from the pain in his jaw, Charlie barely registered the strong hands heaving him up. The last thing he did comprehend was the distant, garbled sounds of his brother's voice, blaring through the tortured speaker of his smashed and yet still-functioning cell phone.