Taken
Glimmers
Glinda would never, for the rest of her days, be able to look at a seam ripper in the same way. Of course, this particular seam ripper was broken, now, but she knew that she could get another. The white handled Clover was a classic.
What she'd never be able to duplicate was the sheer joy she'd felt when the Colonel had used the seam ripper and a stylus to pick the lock on the sliding door. About the manner in which the other woman had come to know how to perform such a function, Glinda did not want to speculate. Suffice it to say that she had felt a certain amount of reticence about the attempt when the Colonel had bent close to the lock, and then pure elation when she'd heard the telltale snick of the lock releasing itself.
They had made sure to be prepared before attempting the action. Sam believed that the reason that their kidnappers had not removed the purse was that it appeared to be clothing. And it did, Glinda allowed, as it was made of cotton, blue paisleys with white and green accents, and her shirt contained many of the same colors. It could have been a scarf, or an odd vest, had their captors not paid close attention. And as they'd been taken from the parking garage, Glinda assumed that time would have been in short supply. Picking up two unconscious women from the floor and hefting them into a vehicle of some sort could not have been an easy task.
Not that the villains had wasted any time in stripping the Colonel of every one of her belongings. When they had met by sheer accident at the café in the mall, Sam had been carrying a parcel, as well as a small handbag. Both of those were now gone, along with the contents of the pockets in Sam's maternity jeans.
And so the attention had turned to Glinda's purse.
After a quick perusal through the heavy bag, Sam had made an impromptu inventory, setting aside key items that could be useful. Glinda hadn't known that a measuring tape could be utilized as a weapon, and quite frankly hadn't gumptioned up the courage to ask exactly how. Same with the crochet hook she'd forgotten was in a zippered case where she kept pens. Gouging, she supposed. And Glinda fervently hoped that it wouldn't be necessary.
Why the Colonel had palmed the four inch long key chain accessory that was in the shape of a rotary cutter ruler, she couldn't imagine. But the translucent green plastic doo-dad had ceased to be innocently appealing as soon as Sam had slid her middle finger through its ball chain and took a practice swipe through the air.
Several of the items, including the rotary cutter, had found their way into Sam's pockets. They had split one of Glinda's three granola bars, and tucked the rest back into the bag for later. Glinda had also produced gum, a small packet of peanuts, and some butterscotch candies, but they, too, were designated for later consumption.
Glinda slung the purse back over her shoulder. They stood at the sliding door, Sam's hand hovering over the light switch. The more experienced of the two had been allowed to make the tactical decisions—and if the Colonel thought it necessary to turn the lights off before opening the door, so be it. To be fair, Sam had explained it was to prevent a sudden glow from alerting someone that the door was open, but Glinda had still internally resisted. She just hated to voluntarily lose the light. And although she had never feared the dark before, and the emotion seemed like a knee-jerk reaction to their circumstance, still, there it was.
Glinda had, however, held fast to her opinion that she should carry the bag. The Colonel had offered, kindly positing the notion that the heavy purse just might prove unwieldy, but in this case, the secretary had emerged victorious. Once she'd explained that Sam would need freedom of motion in the event of an attack, the younger woman had nodded with a grim smile.
"Are you ready?"
Glinda drew herself up to her full five foot-seven inch height. Squaring her thin shoulders, she reseated the purse, then grabbed the strap firmly. "I believe I am."
"Remember—stay behind me, and try not to speak unless it's necessary. We need to keep quiet and avoid detection."
"Yes, Colonel Carter." Glinda's nod was earnest.
Sam flicked the light off—and, placing her fingers in the notched handle, slowly slid the panel aside.
They had both listened for a long while at the door before attempting the escape. No noise or hint of movement had penetrated the wood, and both Glinda and Sam felt certain that the outer portions of the basement had been left deserted.
As the Colonel pulled the door aside, Glinda fought against the urge to hold her breath. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this—for this rush of terror. The accompanying surge of excitement confused her—she wasn't supposed to be having fun, was she? Her hand tightened on the strap of the purse. She needed something to hold onto. Something to ground her.
The hallway outside the door lay quiet, dark, and still. A staircase ascended to the right of the door, while a short wall containing two doors stretched a short distance to the left. Sam exited, walking softly, and sidled to the left. Approaching the first door, she leaned close and touched her ear to it, listening intently. After a moment, she hurried a few paces to the next door, and repeated the process.
Glinda followed with some hesitation, pausing as Sam soft-stepped back towards the staircase. The Colonel walked back over, her feet silent in the carpeting, and stood at the edge of the staircase, peering upward before turning back towards where Glinda had stopped in the middle of the hall.
Her voice was practically a whisper. "There's no noise coming from either room. There's another door at the top of the staircase, and the light is coming from some sort of transom window up there."
"So we're alone down here?"
"It appears so."
"Should we try to go upstairs?"
Sam let loose a rueful kind of smile. "Well, actually, I'm kind of hoping that one of these rooms is a bathroom."
Glinda nodded. "That would be extremely beneficial to us both, at the moment."
Sam held up a hand in a "wait" gesture, then turned back towards the near door. Taking the handle carefully in her left hand, she sidled up against the jamb on the opposite side. Turning the knob, she shoved the door open, allowing it to swing wide.
Glinda stood, quite frozen, in her place, as the door gaped. Sam pushed the door wider with the side of her foot, then posed herself at the door, using is as cover as she peered more fully into the darkened room. Finally, she backed out and padded back over to where Glinda still stood, silently clutching the purse.
Quietly, Sam reported. "We got lucky. You go first, Glinda. But don't flush."
Glinda frowned. "Why not?"
"Because the sound of water in the plumbing might be audible. This seems like an older house—it's not going to be well sound-proofed."
"I think we're in rural Virginia." Glinda glanced towards the stairs.
The Colonel's face relaxed into another smile. "Well, regardless of where the house sits geographically, it's still of older construction, and flushing might give us away. There might be people upstairs. And don't turn the lights on until you've closed the door."
"Because they might see?"
Sam nodded.
Gathering herself together, Glinda handed the purse to Sam. Resisting the urge to tip-toe, she entered the lavatory and shut the door as quietly as she could behind her, then turned on the light. The bathroom appeared older—typical of a country ranch house. The toilet was sandwiched between a tub devoid of any curtain or accessories, and a single spigot sink set into a wooden cabinet. A decorative doweled stand held hygienic paper directly in front of the toilet. White porcelain tiles lined the walls from floor to about mid way, and then peeling wallpaper took over, faded from what had to have been a rather virulent shade of yellow into a muted puce. A quick glance up at the ceiling revealed a single vent directly over the commode, and a double light fixture tilted drunkenly on the wall above a medicine cabinet.
Something on the tank caught her eye, and she bent forward to get a better glimpse of it. A Reader's Digest—and closer inspection revealed it to be from October of 1987. Refusing to contemplate the last time the maid had visited, Glinda instead focused on relief. Her first order of business was her—business, as it were. She finished as quickly as possible, then turned towards the sink, but stopped herself just as her fingertips skimmed the knob. The faucet might alert someone as would the flushing of the toilet—and she had antibacterial hand sanitizer in her purse.
Somewhat proud of the fact that she had expounded upon Sam Carter's rules of tactical bathroom usage, Glinda turned off the light and exited, ready to accept stewardship of the purse. Her eyes widened when she saw that the Colonel already had the little bottle of clear liquid ready for her.
"I forgot to tell you not to wash."
Glinda shook a liberal portion of the cool concoction on her hands and, tucking the bottle in the crook of her elbow, rubbed it in with gusto. "I very nearly forgot—but then I deduced that water rushing through old pipes would be noisy—regardless of from whence that water rushes."
"I should have known that you'd figure that out." Sam's voice, while low in volume, still carried evidence of pride. Accepting the bottle from Glinda, she tucked it into her pocket. "Jack said from the beginning that you were one of the smartest people he knew."
Glinda ducked her head against the heat that rose, unbidden, in her cheeks. She fitted the straps of the handbag over her shoulder, fighting the smile that threatened to beam—a highly inappropriate reaction onsidering their present circumstance. She peeped a look at the Colonel, who had taken the ponytail out of her hair and was presently occupied with re-securing the long blond strands. With a few deft movements of her hands, she had braided the long mass, then wound the elastic band around the bottom.
Moving as if to circle Glinda, she paused and caught her gaze. "You'll be okay?"
"I'll be fine, Ma'am."
And the Colonel sighed. "Glinda, please call me Sam."
Glinda nodded. "Yes, Ma'am."
The Colonel sighed again, her mouth in an odd twist, before passing by the secretary and entering the bathroom. The door shut silently, and then a faint glow seeped out from around the frame.
Intent on fulfilling her purpose as guard, Glinda stepped out from the hallway and angled a look up at the staircase. All seemed well. She waited another moment before peeking again.
Through the transom she saw a shift in shadows, then a heard a slight noise. Horrifyingly, the knob turned, and Glinda ducked back into the darkened room and slid the door almost completely closed just as she saw a single man come through at the top of the stairs.
His treads were light on the steps—Glinda doubted that the noise would even register in the lavatory. She considered options—weighing possibilities with the swiftness of one used to thinking quickly. She found that it was impossible to deal with her fear, with her own doubts, when confronted with such a circumstance, so she tramped it down and focused on the Colonel—keeping her safe.
She dropped the purse to the floor and took a few steps in the dark, using her memory of the room's outline to guide her to one of the end tables. It took only a moment for her to grasp the lamp and yank the plug out of the wall. Thankfully, the shade fell noiselessly to the floor, not having been secured to the fixture. She hurried back to the doorway, her heart beating ready to burst, her hands clammy on the base of the cheap piece. She edged the door ever-so-slightly with her toe, and swallowed her panic when she saw the figure alight at the bottom of the stairs and turn, his face a question, towards the bathroom door.
"What the—" His mutter seemed like a shout in the quietness of the basement. Glinda watched as he reached into a holster of sorts on his side and withdrew a strange, rounded gun-like thing, and when he depressed something on the handle, she flinched. She'd heard that noise before. Just before she'd seen the blue light in the parking garage. This, then, was a zat gun.
Shoes muffled by the carpeting, the man reached out a hand and touched the knob on the bathroom door, zat gun ready. Glinda waited until his fingers were twisting the knob before sliding her own door wide with her bare foot and emerging, the lamp raised aloft in both hands. She tried not to think as she aimed for him, tried not to be horrified at what she was about to do. Hurrying with a purposeful stride, she crossed the narrow hall to where the thug stood at the bathroom door.
She'd never hit anyone before—her karate classes had been strictly non-contact—appropriate when dealing with older people with porous bones—so when the lamp came down hard on the man's head, Glinda wasn't prepared for the sickening sound, or for the reverberation of the lamp down her own arms and into her body. She stumbled backwards, fighting to stay upright even as the man hit the wall next to the bathroom door and bounced backwards. The zat fell free from his hand and dropped with a thud on the carpet next to the wall, but still he turned, one hand flying to the back of his head, a few choice words escaping his twisted lips.
His gaze searched the tight quarters and found her, and he started forward, raising a hand with the intent of aiming at her. Perhaps the knock on his noggin had thrown him off—he obviously didn't realize the hand was empty until Glinda had already scampered back into the darkened cell.
"Come back here!" His voice sounded brash in the hall, muted only slightly by the thick carpeting.
Glinda threw herself at the wall directly next to the sliding door, holding the lamp before her in readiness. Heart pounding, she waited, listening as his shoes brushed over the carpet in the hall until his steps paused at the doorway. The wedge of light from the hall reached into the room about six feet—Glinda's panty-hose covered toes hovered just inches from the left edge of illumination. Struggling to remain calm, she dug her toes into the rough nap of the rug, adjusting her fingers on her impromptu weapon.
The man's large body came to a stop just outside the doorway, obscuring some of the light. His breathing cut the silence, heavy—wet sounding—he made no attempt at stealth. "Come on, old lady." He took a single step forward, pausing again just at the threshold. "We did you a favor not zatting you twice, anyway. Stupid broad."
Glinda flinched, and something inside her reared. Those were fighting words. For all of her sixty-seven years, she had behaved herself with the strict intention of demonstrating grace and etiquette in all her endeavors.
Nobody called Glinda Baldrich a broad.
Without thinking, without anything raging within her but blind fury, Glinda reached back and gathered her anger, her fear. She adjusted the lamp until her grip was like that of a major leaguer and swung out high, and to her right, the weighty lamp striking the rogue directly on the forehead.
The sound of it would remain with her for the rest of her days—the crushing-bone squitch of his nose breaking, of his head colliding with the cheap brass object. The impact stopped him in his tracks, and just enough light ringed around him that she could see his eyes shift backwards into his head as his body fell limp and he collapsed backwards onto the carpet.
The partial granola bar Glinda had eaten earlier threatened a resurgence when she saw the distinct lump in his head, the twin trails of blood that welled up from his nostrils. His body lay limply, in an unnatural pose, one arm flung wide and the other sandwiched between his body and the floor. His out-spread legs fell lax, toes pointing at each other. Chin drooping, mouth open, the tip of the man's tongue shined with fresh blood.
Fighting back breakfast, she nudged him with a foot, then repeated the action, harder, but he simply lay there, as if dead.
Had she killed him? She could feel the blood rushing from her head, and her vision narrowed to a precarious pinprick—all she could see before her was the unconscious man, bleeding, his face already bruising.
She faltered, and the lamp fell from hands that could no longer feel. Reaching out, Glinda steadied herself on the wall, her thumb inadvertently striking the switchplate and turning on the multicolored lamp hanging in the corner.
From the corner of her eye, she could see the Colonel, standing outside the door with what Glinda forced herself to recognize as the toilet roll holder in one hand, the zat gun in the other.
Without really meaning to, she gestured towards the man on the floor between them. "I hit him."
Sam stepped forward, her feet coming to a stop near the man's head. "I see you did."
"I hit him." Glinda squelched the hysteria that bubbled up like cheap champagne. "He was going to go into the bathroom, and had that zat thing, and so I grabbed the lamp and I hit him."
"Glinda, you did the right thing."
"But he's hurt."
"He would have hurt us."
"He's bad."
Glinda had the inane thought that she'd never been reduced to monosyllabic communication before, but found more genteel speech quite beyond her at the moment. Thankfully, the Colonel didn't seem to notice. She slid the panel closed behind her and nudged the man with her own bare foot, and, apparently satisfied that he was, indeed, beyond consciousness, she stepped over him and closer to Glinda.
"Yes, Glinda, he's bad." Toeing the lamp aside, Sam gently set the toilet paper dowel on the floor, and tucked the butt?—end?—tail?—of the zat gun into the stretchy waistband of her maternity jeans. "And you did the right thing."
"Oh, my goodness." Was all Glinda could reply.
But the Colonel had obviously been through this sort of thing before. She placed one hand on either one of Glinda's arms, forcing her attention back to the present. "Glinda, I know that you're a little bit shocked just now, but I need you to focus. I need your help to tie this man up. There are still people upstairs, I think, and they might be wondering where he is. We need to hurry."
"Goodness." She blinked several times, fighting back the ridiculous urge to giggle. Her fingers suddenly started tingling, and she discovered she'd been clutching her hands into fists. Releasing the tension, she wiggled them experimentally, then forced herself to be still. Breathing deeply, she looked up, and found her strength return as she looked into Sam's clear, intelligent eyes. With one long, last tremble, she imagined the General's face. Imagined his joy in seeing his wife again, his pride in an administrative assistant who could perform with bravery in the face of danger.
She was Glinda Baldrich, for heaven's sake! She had withstood more Generals than any other single secretary in the history of the Pentagon support staff. She had once earned one hundred and ninety four points for the word 'conifers' on her last play in a Scrabble tournament, crossing two triple word scores, a double letter space, and using all seven of her letters. She had just coshed a villain on the head with a brass lamp of very dubious origin.
She was the administrative assistant to the General in charge of the security of the entire planet Earth!
Reaching deep down within herself Glinda Baldrich found her mettle—discovered, after sixty-seven years, the kind of woman that she really was.
A Warrior.
And this time, when she met the Colonel's clear blue gaze, she did it with power. "Let's get this show on the road, Colonel."
And she wasn't a bit surprised when the Colonel grinned, cocking an eyebrow. "You go, girl."
