The Heart of the Jungle, стр. 58

Frank fingered his chin thoughtfully. "What do you think?" he asked.

Jason considered for a few moments, remembering the conversation, searching for any sign George had been duplicitous. "Hard to say," he finally responded. "He sure seems willing to cooperate."

Frank nodded. "I guess we'll know if he follows through on his promise to send the letters."

CHRIS feigned sleep. It was more difficult than he'd expected to keep his breathing even and measured. Brunner came and went from the room several times, making a series of telephone calls. Though Chris could hear him speaking in hushed tones on the walkway outside the hotel room, he couldn't make out the details of any of the conversations.

His heart raced madly when, after reentering the room for the fourth time, Brunner moved to the side of the bed and stood next to it for a long while. Chris held perfectly still, focusing on keeping his breathing deep and even. Finally, he heard Brunner walk away. The creaking of the springs on the other bed announced that Brunner intended to sleep.

This was his chance. Despite his misgivings, despite the fear Brunner had instilled in him, this was his moment to act. It was now or never.

Carefully, cautiously, he worked his wrists within the belt. The leather rubbed at his flesh but did not loosen. Undeterred, he kept at it, pulling for all he was worth, muscles straining against the unyielding bonds. The belt bit into his skin, rubbing it raw. His arms felt like they had been set on fire. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and continued to tug back and forth, back and forth, making as little noise as possible.

When Brunner started to snore, he worked more frantically. With their captor asleep, he could afford to be less cautious.

A hot trickle of blood ran over his hands, and still he worked. Did there seem to be just a bit more give in the belt? Did his arms move just a little further apart than they had before? Was he imagining it?

It came as almost a surprise when the fleshy part of his hand slipped into the loops of leather about his wrist. He yanked hard, harder than he had yet, and it slipped further. He sucked in his breath, held it, and drew against the force of the bindings with every ounce of strength he could muster. The bones in his left hand compressed painfully, the bottom joint of his thumb slipping free from its socket. He bit back a cry of agony. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and spots swam dizzily before his eyes. Slowly, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, his bloody hand slipped, slipped, slipped....

Suddenly, he was free. His abused hand cleared the thick leather belt. A million tiny needles stabbed into him as circulation returned. He gulped air quietly, flexing his fingers.

For several minutes, he lay perfectly still, listening for any indication that his struggles had disturbed his sleeping captor. Brunner's soft snoring in the other bed continued unabated.

With infinite care, he rolled over and stared at the inert form, watching, nervous anticipation building. He would have to strike fast and hard. There was no margin for error. He peered through the deep blackness, searching for something he could use as a weapon. The flimsy lamp on the bedside table would never do. It was cheap glass, and if he attempted to use it as a bludgeon, more damage would be done to it than to Brunner. His eyes fell upon the telephone. It was practically an antique, made of hard plastic with a thick metal base. It would be unwieldy, but it would work.

Slowly, carefully, he reached out, certain the pounding of his heart was audible in the stillness, certain that his cautious movements would awaken Brunner. Finally, his fingers connected with the phone, and he gingerly slid it closer to the edge of the table, wincing at the noise it made as it moved across the laminate surface. He fumbled at the back, releasing the cord that bound it to the wall. Still, Brunner did not stir.

Chris held his breath and sat upright, slid his legs over the side of the bed, and pressed his feet firmly into the soft carpeting. Saying a silent prayer, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and dove into action.

In a series of swift motions, he yanked the phone off the table, crossed the distance to the other bed, swung, and slammed the base into Brunner's head with incredible force.

There was a satisfying crack as the impromptu weapon connected with the man's skull.

Not hard enough.

Brunner rolled out of the bed and hit the floor with a hard thump on the other side. He groaned and struggled to his feet. Even though the room was bathed in darkness, Chris could see the murderous rage on his face.

Brunner wavered, stunned nearly senseless. Chris could see him shaking his head to clear the fog of sleep and violence. He was becoming more coherent with each second that passed.

Chris didn't back down, didn't allow fear to freeze him in his tracks. The phone still clutched in his hand, he scrambled around the bed, crying out as he attacked. Brunner ducked. The phone slammed into the wall with a crack, and Chris was thrown off balance.

Brunner made a clumsy grab for him. Chris flung himself backward out of his reach. Brunner staggered along the bed and came at him, fists flying, missing him by only inches. Chris backed into the dresser and stumbled. Brunner caught him then, hitting him in the face with a powerful jab.

White light exploded across his vision as the solidly landed punch jerked his head backward. He fell, somehow managing to maintain his hold on the telephone. He kicked out as he landed on the floor, his foot smashing hard into Brunner's kneecap. He heard the other man hit the ground and scream in pain.

Brunner's scream awoke Brianna. She wailed in