J. Jance - Minor in possession

"I can't raise my arm," he called back. "I think my arm's broken."

"Get the other one up, then," I said. "Behind your head and keep it there."

While holding the semiautomatic on Monty, I directed Rhonda to bring back both the AK-47 and Guy Owens' Colt. Once she did so, I motioned Monty out of the Isuzu. One-handed and wounded, he still made it out in only one try. That son of a bitch was tougher than nails.

Hurrying over to where Michelle lay motionless on the ground, Rhonda shook the girl and spoke her name, but there was no response. Anxiously, Rhonda looked to me for advice.

"Is she still alive?" I asked.

Rhonda took Michelle's wrist and checked for a pulse. "Passed out, I think. Maybe drugged. What should I do?"

"Leave her for now," I replied.

"Hey, man," Monty interrupted. "How about helping me with my arm before I bleed to death? At least let me sit down."

He had dropped the insolent attitude in favor of an affronted whine. His injured arm was still spurting blood and he swayed like a falling tree, but the sudden change in attitude made me wary. Compared to me, Monty was a mountain, six-seven at least with a girth to match. I knew if it ever came down to hand-to-hand combat, I wouldn't stand a chance. Not only was he huge, he was also cagey and determined. Despite his injuries, he had still tried to make off with the briefcase full of money. That kind of single-minded tenacity doesn't evaporate within a minute's time.

"Strip off your clothes," I ordered. "All of them. Throw them on the ground."

"Hey, man, wait a minute," he objected. "You can't do this. I know my rights."

"The hell with your rights," I growled back. "The only right you've got at the moment is the right to a bullet between your eyes if you don't. Strip, and strip now! Do it!"

Slowly, one at a time, keeping a watchful eye on the gun, he began to peel the clothes off his massive frame. The arm continued to bleed, but he seemed oblivious to it. He was focused on me and the semi-automatic in my hand. I could sense him wondering how good a shot I was and whether or not he should make a break for it. Finally, when he stood there naked except for his shorts, I had him step away from the pile of discarded clothing. He shrugged as if I had gone crazy, but he complied.

"Check them, Rhonda," I ordered, "and stay out of my line of fire."

"Check them?" she asked with a frown. "What do you mean?"

"For weapons," I said. "He may have another gun or a knife."

Frowning doubtfully, she hurried over to the wadded pile and brought it back to me, pawing through it as she came. The switchblade had been hidden inside a sock. So I had called the shot. I nodded in satisfaction.

Wonderingly, Rhonda held up the knife. "How did you know it was there?" she asked.

"And educated guess."

She glanced at Monty, whose impassive face suppressed all indication of the fury he must have felt.

"Remember Ringo?" I asked.

Rhonda nodded.

"This character needs to be handled with about the same amount of care."

"What about my arm?" Monty asked again, still whining.

Rhonda had dropped the roll of duct tape at my feet, but I didn't take my eyes off Monty long enough to reach down and get it. I wasn't taking any chances.

"Toss him the tape," I said to Rhonda, and to him, "Put a tourniquet on it. Use that."

Just then, Guy Owens' crew-cut head slowly emerged from the top of the Trooper. He seemed dazed, and there was a long jagged cut along one side of his jaw. His face screwed up with pain as he made the effort to hold himself erect.

"Are you all right?" I asked.

"My leg," he said. "I think it's broken. What about Michelle?"

"She's all right, I think." I turned to Rhonda. "Can you keep our friend here covered while I go help Guy?"

"With pleasure."

Guy moaned low in his throat as I lifted him out of the Isuzu and eased him onto the ground near his unconscious daughter, then I went back to the Trooper, crawled up on top, and checked on the other occupants. In the back seat, the duct tape and seat belts had held. Paco, leaning against the far window, was out cold. Tony, his lips bleeding profusely where he had torn away the super glue, dangled crazily to one side.

When my face appeared above him, he yelled at me in incomprehensible Spanish then switched to enraged English. "That sumbitch left without me!" he screamed. "He took the money and went without me!"

"He didn't get far," I told him, leaving him there, still dangling in midair, still ranting and raving at the injustice of it all, learning once and for all that there is no honor among thieves.

As I turned back to the disaster on the road, I realized I was dealing with a case study in triage-who was hurt worst and needed the most attention? The problem was, I didn't dare do anything about injuries while mountainous Monty was still on the loose. Rhonda was holding the gun on him, but even with him covered, I didn't dare get too close. I longed for a pair of handcuffs, but the only thing available was still that old reliable handyman's helper-duct tape.

It seemed to be working fine as a tourniquet- the bleeding on Monty's arm slowed to a trickle. The prisoner stood staring at us defiantly, one arm raised over his head and the other hanging uselessly at his side. The swaying, an unsuccessful ruse, had stopped.

"Sit down," I told him, still aiming the semiautomatic squarely at his chest. "Wrap the tape around both ankles. Tight."

The wonderful thing about duct tape is that it is designed to bond best to itself, although it did all right on Monty's hairy ankles. Once his ankles were wrapped, I handed Rhonda the gun.

"If he makes any sudden moves, if he does anything at all that you don't like-shoot him."

She nodded grimly. "You bet," she said. "With pleasure." She sounded as though she meant every word.

While Rhonda kept Monty covered, I directed him to lie down flat on the ground where I bound his wrists to his thighs and his elbows to his ribs, mummy-style. As I stepped back to survey my work, he gave a tentative, testing pull against his restraints, followed by a howl of pain at the self-inflicted punishment to his wounded arm.

The result was precisely what I wanted-a clear case of cause and effect, a variation on a theme of that old parental prerogative. Any attempt to escape would hurt him far more than it would hurt me.

Reasonably assured that Monty would now stay where we left him, I returned to where Guy Owens sat on the ground, close to the Trooper. He was holding Monty's fully loaded AK-47 and keeping a watchful eye on the two remaining occupants of the disabled Isuzu.

"They still haven't gotten loose," he said.

"You're right. We'll leave them there for now. That duct tape works like a charm. What are we going to do about you leg?"

"Is there any tape left?"

"Some. Why?"

"Get the other assault rifle from the Isuzu. Maybe we can use the tape to turn the rifle into a splint."

Which is exactly what we did. The splint was only a make-do measure, but at least it stabilized the bone so Guy could be moved without damaging the leg any worse than it already was. That done, I carried Michelle over close enough to him so he could hold her head in his lap. We all tried to waken her, but she was either seriously injured or in a drug-induced stupor. We had no way of knowing which it was or whether or not she'd ever come out of it.

"What now?" Rhonda asked, standing up with her hands on her hips and surveying the damage around us. By now we'd been in that same spot for nearly forty-five minutes without another vehicle passing.

Of the three of us, Guy Owens lived nearest to this deserted stretch of potholes that doubled as a pretend road.

"How far to civilization?" I asked him.

Owens shook his head. "I don't know. There's probably a ranch or two on up the road, but I have no idea how far."