Cautiously, Richard slipped a shoe off his foot, allowing more space to part his ankles. He wriggled his feet subtly until finally he managed to free a foot from his bounds. Peter hadn’t noticed. “They will—as long as you promise to give me the baby. Otherwise she’s an accessory to murder.”
Peter shook his head in denial, clearly unable to comprehend what was being said. He sat heavily on the sofa chair, as if his body carried the weight of his problems. His head dropped and the grasp of his gun loosened. “He’s mine,” he mumbled quietly. “He’s my baby.”
Richard’s wrist was merely an inch from freedom. He pulled and pulled, all the while trying not to show any strain on his face. He could feel the flesh under the rope blister as it rubbed back and forth. “You have to do what’s right. It’s not too late.” He gave one last tug until he finally managed to slip his hand free; his wrist was bright red and sore. This was his chance to make a break for it. Leaping to his feet, with his heart beating fiercely against his chest, he made a dash for the front door directly behind him. Grabbing the handle, he frantically turned it. Locked. Panicked, he unbolted the large sliding-lock at the top of the door. Pulling at the handle again without luck, he reached down to unbolt another lock, but stopped suddenly when he felt something hard touch the back of his head.
“You stupid fucker!” Peter yelled, pressing the end of the shotgun against the back of Richard’s skull. “You think I’m stupid enough to leave that door unlocked.”
Richard didn’t reply as he raised both hands up in surrender.
“Turn around. Now!” Peter ordered.
Richard slowly turned as Peter backed off slightly. “Don’t try anything clever, ’cause I swear to God, I’ll blow your head off.”
Terrified, Richard followed him back toward the living room. Just as Peter approached the stone archway, leading back into the living room, he accidentally backed into the wall, causing him to lose focus of Richard. Using the distraction, Richard leaped forward, grasping the gun and pushing it so that the end was pointing up at the ceiling. The two men wrestled to the floor, with Richard on top trying to prize the gun from his grip. But it was no use, he was no match for Peter’s strength. Using the gun’s stock, Peter smacked Richard’s chin, causing him to lose hold of the gun and roll off Peter in agony. Clutching his jaw, Richard reached for the gun again, but Peter drove his thick leather boot into his face. Richard tasted blood as he flew back, hitting his head hard on the stone archway.
Panting with exhaustion, Peter got to his feet and glared down at Richard’s semi-conscious body. “You stupid idiot. You’re gonna get yourself shot.”
Lying on his side, Richard tried to look up at him but couldn’t. Every muscle in his body had gone limp, and his eyelids weighed a ton. The back of his head felt cold and wet where he had collided with the thick stone. He could feel blood slowly drip down the back of his neck, down onto his tee shirt. Stay awake! a voice in his head cried out. Don’t fall asleep! Whatever you do, don’t fall asleep! But the more he fought it, the more his eyes closed. Open your bloody eyes. You have to—he’s going to kill you. Come on, Gardener—focus. You have to stay focused. What’s the matter with you? You have a job to do. You have to take the baby out of here. If you don’t do it, then no one will. Come on…
He started to lose focus of his thoughts. Come on, Gardener, you’ve got a job to do…This company won’t run itself. The room darkened as his eyes fully closed. Come on, Gardener—Leah’s waiting…for that report. The baby is…waiting… for…