Bridge of Sighs

Chapter

Sweating It Out

Beads of sweat raced down the young man's face. It was hot out here, under the mid-afternoon sun. HIs black shirt and dark heavy pants only served to make him all the more uncomfortable in the unforgiving heat. Texas in August was a special kind of hell if you didn't have an air conditioned room in which to seek shelter from the solar blast this time of the day. A swimming pool made life even better, but he was not fortunate enough to avail himself of that pleasure anymore. His prematurely balding head was now well on its way to being sunburned, as there was no shade to be found here, in the middle of the bridge. His dry mouth cried out for water, juice, ice...hell, anything wet and cold. A demand for a drink would instantly be honored, but at what cost to himself? Would it be handed over with drugs swirled inside? Would his vision begin to swim and his mind wander if he dared to drink despite his great thirst? Then what would happen? Damn it all to hell and gone! This had not gone to plan and now the whole goddamned city was baying at his heels, like a pack of frenzied wolves, longing for blood and gore. Did they need his blood? Did they want his death? God forbid anyone should listen to him and get his side of this shitty story. A heavy sigh caught his attention and his eyes swivelled away from the crowds assembled at either end of the old steel bridge spanning an otherwise unimportant little river. He refocused his attention on his companion. Was he a companion at this point or just more detritus to shove away in disgust when he was no longer a viable resource? The poison tipped dagger hovered at the other man's throat, sometimes almost touching the skin, other times wavering wildy behind his head at the base of his skull where it joined his spine. Just a quick thrust of pressure and a cut would open up and expose bone, allowing poison inside the tender exposed flesh and then it would Good Bye World, it's been good to know ya! No more 'companion', or hostage, whatever this man was. Alone then, maybe he could manage to escape from this bunch of local yokels.

Curious farmers, housewives and kids too young or disinterested to be in school this time of day were clumped together at both ends of their largely forgotten bridge. Sirens sounded in the distance but for now it was just the two men on the bridge facing down these confused but excited locals, who against their better natures, hoped for a dramatic and bloody ending to this standoff. Sweat made the knife hard to hold onto, and the desperate young man kept readjusting his hold on his weapon, muttering to himself while his "companion" stayed unnaturally still. The poison on the knife edge was real, and lethal without the antidote available instantly should anyone be sliced open either by design or by accident. Both of the men could in fact be the victims of the business end of the knife before this day was over.

A cloud of dust rose up in the distance and soon an old Ford pickup truck slammed on the brakes and disgorged its passengers. A rancher and his two sons spilled out and ran for the near end of the bridge, accompanied by an excited and straining coonhound. The large smooth-haired hunting dog was howling and drooling at the end of his rope, desperate to be set free to pounce on one or both men stuck in the middle of the bridge.

"Let'em go Wardell! Sick that fuckin' dog on those two bastards and we'll all go home in time for supper!" shouted a short, bespeckled farmer eager for this whole fiasco to be brought down by a homegrown hero.

"Yeah Wardell, let old Buzzard loose on'em and we'll have our bridge back before those jackass Sheriff's deputies finally get their asses outta those chairs back at the station!" howled a thin and frazzled woman in a too-large housedress. Buzzard the coonhound was famous for his tracking skills and so what if he brought down two unwanted and most likely terroristic city folks out here in the backcountry? Hell, if you weren't born in this county, you might as well be a terrorist to that woman's way of thinking. The dog lurched and strained against his rope but his handler kept a tight hold on him as the next vehicle to pull up was the Sheriff's car followed closely by several black Federal SUV's. A group of agents dressed severely in black suits stepped out into the dust and pushed through the unyielding group of people clogging the end of the bridge closest to the assembled cars. If there were a hundred people staring at the sweating men on the bridge, at least 80 of them had arms extended high in the air live-streaming the whole incident on their cell phones for all the world to see on Facebook and Youtube. This is what had brought the FBI out today, not the notification of the Sheriff who also tried to make his way through the rowdy crowd.

"Nice ya finally showed up Clem!" chided Wardell. "I was gonna get Buzzard here to bring'em down for ya!"

"You just keep that dog under control Wardell and we'll get along fine" the Sheriff warned the farmer calmly.

The sweating man holding his silent hostage viewed the crowd parting to allow the FBI agents and the Sheriff closer access to the end of the bridge nearest to him.

"Shit!" he mumbled to himself, grasping his companion's upper arm all the tighter. "Now what do they want?" he managed to squeak out to no one in particular. His hostage was wisely silent.

The Sheriff, Clemson Arkell, stood with his hands on his hips and was joined by Senior FBI Agents Cho, Lisbon and Director Abbott. All three agents stared in astonishment at the scene playing out in front of them, just as it had when IT tech specialist Jason Wylie brought it to their attention back at FBI headquarters not 20 minutes earlier.

"How's it going?" Cho called out conversationally to the men at the centre of the maelstrom. "How can we help you resolve this problem?"

"Shut the fuck up and go away!" warned the man in black. His companion dared to turn his head fractionally and stared at the fire power assembled at the end of the bridge. His eyes grew larger when he noticed the Federal Agents staring back at him.

"May I?" he whispered to his captor bravely. "Can't hardly hurt just about now, wouldn't you agree?"

The young desperate man glared at him but couldn't find a good enough reason to make his hostage stay silent now, not now at last.

"Are you alright Sir?" yelled Abbott to the hostage. Lisbon just kept her gun aimed squarely at the young kidnapper's forehead.

The hostage cleared his throat but dared not move an inch, as the poisoned end of the knife was still within striking distance of his jugular vein.

"Ahh...yes...I'm alright. Just peachy. A bit thirsty but otherwise we are just fine. Thanks for asking!" he added brightly. His message was meant to convey fear but also calmness. He hoped it was understood by the assembled law enforcement personnel. After all, he had absolutely no cards left to play to get himself out of this mess, which was not the usual situation for one Patrick Jane to find himself in.