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He needed to calm his spiraling thoughts and figure out a damn solution to this latest fuck-up.
If the Shirleys found him, they wouldn’t hesitate to slice his fucking throat or plug a bullet between his eyes. No different than what the Fury had been doing to their clan these past couple of months.
He tried to kick his boot free from the snare, but it only tightened even more around his ankle. His attempt at wiggling his foot free of his boot got him nowhere, either. With a groan, he tried to fold his body up enough to reach the loop and loosen it.
Fuck, he needed to start working out or something. He couldn’t even pull his own weight up to where he needed it.
His reach was just short. He groaned as he curled himself up again, stretching his arm and fingers as far as they could. With another groan, his body flopped back down like a fish dangling off a fisherman’s line. He took a few breaths, gathered his strength and tried again.
He got a hold of his cargo pants below his knee and shimmied his pant leg up, uncovering the Buck knife he had strapped to his ankle. He needed to stay calm and take his time, so the knife didn’t fall out of the sheath, just like his fucking phone, and land out of reach.
Because then he really would be fucking fucked.
If he could get a grip on his Buck knife, he could cut himself free. The snare wasn’t wire but seemed to be made of paracord or something similar he could saw through. Whatever it was was strong enough to hold his weight. Only, once he cut himself free, the drop to the ground would hurt big time. Especially if he landed on his fucking head. But it was better than being caught helpless and swinging in the breeze for any Shirley to come along and find him.
He walked his fingers slowly, pulling the fabric of his pants higher up his leg until the knife was almost exposed.
Steady, keep it fuckin’ steady.
The hem of his pant leg caught on the hilt of the blade. He grimaced as he tried to work it free without the knife dropping out.
Slow.
Slow.
Slow.
He released a sigh when it unhooked and the knife was finally accessible.
Christ, he’d been hanging upside down long enough that his head felt like it was going to pop off or just explode.
“Fuck!” he shouted before he could stifle it as he watched the knife slide free and tumble to the forest floor. Just like his fucking phone.
Now both his phone and his knife laid there, mocking him. Just out of fucking reach.
This was all Jet’s fault. If she hadn’t caught him last time with a knife on his hip, he wouldn’t have felt the need to hide it on his calf. If he’d still had it on his fucking hip, he’d be cutting his own ass free right now.
But, of fucking course, she had to fuck this up for him, too.
He took a couple of deep breaths trying not to let his hatred for that woman distract him from his current dilemma.
He’d survived his childhood.
He’d survived his time in concrete boxes.
But, fuck him, if this was how he was going to die.
In the goddamn woods on Hillbilly Hill.
Chapter Eight
If he died like this, he was going to haunt that fucking bitch for the rest of her fucking miserable life. And if her life wasn’t already miserable, that would be his first goal as a ghost.
Rook closed his eyes and ground out a “fuck” that would sear the hair off most men’s balls.
He needed to think. To form a plan. To somehow get his foot free.
He refused to die like this. Not here. Not now. Not by a Shirley hand.
The last time he’d taken this part of the path, either the trap hadn’t been there, or he had somehow miraculously missed it.
He was guessing the first one. He also guessed he or Easy were the target, not Bambi. He doubted the Shirleys trapped any animals, they just used their shotguns or semi-auto rifles to blast whatever they wanted to kill.
He opened his eyes. “Okay, now what, dumbass?”
If he could hook his one free leg around the snared one, then curl his body up enough to use his pants as leverage to pull himself higher, he might be able to eventually reach the noose encircling his boot. Somehow, he’d need to pull himself up higher than his foot, grab the paracord and relieve some of his own weight from that snare to loosen it.
Fucking easy.
Right.
He was really kicking his own ass for not working out more in the small gym Trip had set up in one of the sheds. If he got off the mountain alive tonight, he’d make sure to start using it more. Maybe start drinking and smoking less, too.
