Caught in the Middle

Chapter 5

"How hard can it possibly be to crack a door open? You're getting on my nerves, bitch!" I use my anger towards the man that keeps waving his gun at me and a defenseless baby, to swing the Pulaski with all my strength into the gap I've managed to make since I started. "Whoop. Got her angry now, buddy."

The guy in the front slaps his lap while he mocks me with a high-pitched voice and flailing arms. I press my already bruised arm and side into the fiberglass handle, for what feels like the thousandth time. My muscles are straining from the exertion I've been placing on them, my back is covered in sweat from the sun pelting on my dark turnouts, and the calluses on my palms start to tear with the last try.

I finally hear the familiar sound of metal breaking away from its hinges. The gap between the door and the window gives way but I can't catch myself from falling forward, as all resistance falls away. I catch myself on the asphalt, bruising my palms further and feeling the sting of the gasoline absorbing in my wounds.

"Fucking finally." The guy in the backseat gets excited when I crawl on my hands and knees, drenching my legs in the spilled liquid, to get the Pulaski onto the metal rod that moves the seat forward and back. I know I won't be able to lift the center console on my own, so sliding them out from underneath it is the best option without getting other people involved.

I try to get the necessary grip to hook the axe into the metal bar, but it keeps slipping. The guy in the back thinks he's being motivational by threating me with a gun in my face, through the small space between the seat and the bent door. The tremble in my hand actually helps and I'm able to get the thin edge of the Pulaski underneath the seat. I leave it to stick out horizontally, parallel to the floor of the SUV.

"Strike three means dead hostage, blondie. Don't try anything." I ground down on my teeth and glare at him. He mock-shoots the driver, making the bang sound with his mouth before he turns the gun to me. "Bang-Bang." Then he turns the gun to the baby, tickling them with the nozzle of the gun. "Bang." Ten seconds. It will take him ten seconds to kill all of us. I have never hated my OCD brain more than in this moment. Counting down the seconds of my possible death is morbid as fuck.

The driver tries to twist around in his seat to grab for the gun, having had enough of hearing his baby being threatened. But he dislodges the axe in the process, making me growl in frustration. "Stop! Sir, stop please!" He thrashes in the driver seat, screaming in pain when the center console presses deeper into his thighs. "Sir, calm down!" I lean into the car and grab him by the shoulders, pushing him back into the seat.

"Let me go! I don't care what they do to me, but he's not pointing that gun at my baby again." I press my elbow into his chest while I try to keep the knife's blade from his throat. "We can't help your baby if you force their hands. They will kill us." I hiss it into his face, while struggling with the other arm wielding the blade. He finally falls back against his own door, laughing at how out of breath I am from fighting him.

I slump against the metal of the roof when a painful spasm settles between my shoulder blades, making it hard to breath through the slightest movement. The passenger in the back throws me with a stuffed animal before taking the safety off the gun. "Down on your knees, cunt." I fight a wave of nausea when one knee involuntarily drops to the floor, to adjust the axe back to its former position.

I kick at it a few times, while ignoring the threating and crass remarks the kidnappers are making towards the father. I feel the metal start to give way and try pressing down on it with my arms. But I'm too weak from the amount of effort I needed to get the door open. I get back up to kick at the handle with more force, sweating from the effort this is taking. I stretch out my back, hearing it pop before delivering the next kick. The guy in the back smiles and starts to clap when the driver's seat moves back an inch.