Objekt 825 (Tracie Tanner Thrillers Book 9), Allan Leverone [books to read for 13 year olds txt] 📗

complete. But after risking her life and freedom to successfully recover the submersible communications decoder from Objekt 825, the notion that she was within hours—maybe minutes—of delivering it right back into the hands of the KGB was galling beyond belief.

She closed her eyes again and breathed deeply, in and out, counting to ten and then starting over. Her panic and fear had begun building to the point they threatened to overtake reason and crowd out rational thought. There was nothing wrong with fear; it was a natural human emotion and could actually help an operative by ensuring she remained cognizant of danger.

But panic was something entirely different. There was no scenario in which panic could be in any way helpful, and Tracie concentrated on pushing it away, walling it off in a tiny portion of her brain, then slamming an imaginary door closed and locking it.

There would be plenty of time for panic later, if she were not able to free herself. Right now, she needed a clear head and a calmness of spirit, as hard as that might be to accomplish. Anything less, anything, would ensure her death or capture.

After several rounds of deep breathing, Tracie opened her eyes, determined to examine her surroundings with fresh viewpoint.

Think outside the box. There is always a way.

Her plan had been to access Lukashenko’s gun and fire as many rounds into the steel chains as necessary to break them apart. The cuff would still encircle her right wrist, but it would no longer be attached to its partner.

Since accessing the gun had become impossible, maybe she could accomplish the same thing—breaking apart the metal links—using a different method. Something sharp to cut the links, or something heavy to smash them over and over until they finally snapped.

The problem was that most of the detritus littering the ancient manufacturing plant could be eliminated immediately as a potential knife or battering ram. It was either too small to be effective, or contained no sharp edges, or…

Wait a minute.

What about the length of chain Tracie had focused on before? Would that be heavy enough to batter the links into submission?

Maybe. It definitely held possibilities. She examined the chain as it lay on the table several feet away. Caked in a heavy coating of rust, the metal links were thick. Whatever the chain’s purpose had originally been, Tracie thought there was at least a chance she could use it to bludgeon the much smaller links connecting the two sides of the metal bracelets.

The slightest glimmer of hope ignited inside her.

But there was a problem, and it was a big one. The length of chain was coiled on top of the table several feet to Tracie’s right, well out of reach even if she lay on her back atop the table and stretched out with her left arm and hand.

She felt the panic threatening to return and forced it back. Think outside the box. There’s always a way.

Her position, back against the metal table with her arm trailing behind her, was causing her feet to keep slipping on the smoothness of the concrete floor. She regained her footing, annoyed, and then gasped as she realized exactly how she was going to retrieve the chain.

Outside the box.

She lifted her left leg and pushed off with her right, slipping her left leg onto the table as she rotated her hips. Then she braced herself with her hands and lifted her right foot onto the surface as well. Now she lay flat on her back atop the table, her right arm stretched painfully over her head.

Her feet rested a few inches shy of the prize.

Goddammit. Nothing can be easy.

She gritted her teeth and inched toward the chain, pulling herself along the table with her heels as she pushed with her hands and arms. The pain from her earlier attempt at sliding her hand out of the cuffs came rushing back as she stretched.

It felt like hours but was probably not more than thirty seconds, and then Tracie’s left foot hovered over the coiled chain. She lowered it slowly, carefully, trying to position her heel so that it descended into the middle of the coil, as if dropping it into a tiny open volcano.

Then she arched her back and began retreating. The pain gradually eased as the chain began to slide along the smooth metal. It was uncoiling slowly as she pulled, but also moving closer. The plan was simple: move the length of chain far enough with her foot that she could reach it with her hand.

At last she lowered her feet to the floor and pushed herself to a standing position, once again facing the table. She massaged her throbbing right hand with her left, and then reached across her body, smiling despite the pain as her fingers wrapped around the rusty links.

She had no idea whether her desperate plan would work, but she was taking action, and that was Step One.

Now, she would discover whether Step One would lead to a Step Two, or if she’d just wasted much of the dwindling time she had remaining.

43

 

June 25, 1988

3:15 p.m.

Abandoned factory north of Sevastopol, Russia, USSR

 

Immediately, she could see there was a problem.

Of course there was.

The iron equipment arm was bolted to the table via a thick metal support bracket attached to each of its four sides. Those brackets were preventing Tracie from placing the links flat on the table when she stretched them taut.

Her plan had been to grind the heavy links of the chain over the top of the smaller handcuff links, forcing the handcuff links against the metal surface. Theoretically, Tracie believed, the friction created by that action would eventually cause the lighter links to break apart.

But her plan was contingent upon getting the damned handcuff links flat against