Free Wired by Douglas E. Richards Page A

arms, and torso being repositioned, and his body being
dragged a few feet across the floor like a one hundred and eighty pound sack of
cement, and then heard the apartment door shut quietly. He could see Kira
Miller out of the corner of one eye. She was holding a large black duffel with
three zippered compartments. Her hair was now longer than in the photos he had
seen and she had dyed it blond. She was wearing bulky clothing that was far too
large for her, in such a way as to add ten pounds to her appearance, and
wire-rimmed glasses. Even dazed as he was, Desh was impressed with the
simplicity but effectiveness of her disguise. Unless you had reason to suspect
this woman was Kira Miller, you’d be hard pressed to pick her out of a crowd.
    Matt
Griffin was a massive speed bump on the carpet a few feet away; unconscious or
worse.
    Desh’s
attacker knew his paralysis would only last about five minutes and didn’t waste
an instant. She moved as if a Guinness Book official had a
stopwatch on her, removing his windbreaker and watch and frantically conducting
a full body search, not leaving a single inch of David Desh unchecked. She
immediately found both guns and both knives and relieved him of them expertly,
along with his shoulder holster.
    With
this completed, Kira Miller pulled a pair of stainless steel fabric shears from
her duffel and hastily cut through Desh’s button-down shirt and white
undershirt, tossing both garments aside and producing a large gray sweatshirt
from a bag beside her. She pulled the sweatshirt over his head and slipped his
arms through as if he were an infant, with remarkable facility but with a
decided lack of gentleness. Finally, she produced an assortment of thin white
plastic strips from the bag, between two and four feet long.
    Desh
recognized these thin strips instantly: plastic handcuffs. These plasticuffs,
also called zip-strips, could only be removed if someone cut through the
hardened, injection molded nylon plastic; a surprisingly difficult task.
    She
pulled Desh’s right arm out from his body as far as it would go, wrapped the
bendable plastic stick around his wrist, and ratcheted it tight. She pulled
Griffin’s heavy, lifeless left arm closer to Desh and used a long plasticuff
bracelet to cuff the two men together.
    Finished,
she quickly backed fifteen feet away; showing tremendous respect for Desh’s
training and abilities. She was smart and careful. Even the fastest, most
accomplished street fighter or martial artist couldn’t disarm a vigilant
assailant as long as they maintained a respectful distance. In addition, she
had tied him to a virtually immovable anchor—the three- hundred-pound
dead-weight of Matt Griffin—who, Desh noted with relief, was breathing
shallowly, indicating that at least he wasn’t tied to a corpse. For the moment,
anyway. So far, her tactics had been flawless.
    When
the effects of the stun gun were beginning to wear off, Kira Miller held up a
sheet of paper on which she had used black marker to write a message in large,
block letters.
    SAY
A SINGLE WORD, EVEN BREATHE TOO HARD, AND I’LL PUT A BULLET IN YOUR HEAD.
    She
put a finger to her lips to underscore the point and pointed his own gun at him
meaningfully. She held up a second sheet.
    NOD
IF YOU UNDERSTAND .
    Desh
nodded warily. From the look in her eye, he didn’t doubt for a second she would
carry out her threat.
    She
pulled out a third sheet, already prepared, an indication that she had planned
her attack with military precision.
    STRIP.
WAIST DOWN. COMPLETELY NAKED. NO WORDS. NO NOISE .
    Desh
kicked off his shoes and clumsily pulled off his socks, pants and briefs: a
difficult task from a supine position and anchored to Griffin that involved
flopping about like a fish out of water and contorting like a circus performer.
    Desh
was focusing too hard on the imminent threat to his life to waste any energy
feeling self-conscious or humiliated about his nudity, but it was human nature
to feel more