Racing the Clock by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Author:Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WMG Publishing

Introduction to “Play the Man”

Dan C. Duval is known for his short fiction. So far, he has appeared in three volumes of Fiction River: Risk Takers, Hidden in Crime, and Last Stand.

Dan’s “Play the Man,” which was originally published in Risk Takers, opens up right in the middle of a kidnapping. The tension ratchets up from the first lines and grows until the very end.

Play the Man

Dan C. Duval

* * *

Brenda, being six months pregnant, thought she looked hideous, huge and bloated, though I never thought so. However, being tied to a dining room chair with a ball gag strapped to her face did not help any.

Not that I looked much better, tied to another chair, without the gag.

We faced each other, in our own dining room, with only a corner of the dining table between us. I wished I could say something that would make her feel better, to slow the tears that trickled down her cheeks.

The only comfort I could give her came through my eyes. I tried to project calmness and patience. I couldn’t think of anything else and there was nothing else I could do at the moment.

I didn’t look at the chubby man that stood behind Brenda. His T-shirt did not quite make the turn around his belly to meet the top of the shorts that stopped at his knees. His socks weren’t high enough to cover the tattoos on his legs: those were enough to identify him by themselves, so the ski mask over his head did little more than make him sweat.

The man behind me also wore a mask, but his dark pants, long-sleeved shirt and leather gloves did not leave any skin exposed at all. Brenda glanced at him once in a while.

The real problem in the room, though, sat on the other side of Brenda, opposite me at the table.

This third man did not wear a mask and I knew that he had no intention of leaving Brenda and I alive to testify against him. But then, a mask would not have disguised him from me, not with his high-pitched, whiny voice. I had heard it enough at one tournament table or another, while he used insults and just plain obnoxious chatter to try to tilt the other players.

Jason Blick was his name and poker was not his game. Oh, he often finished in the money but seldom at the final table. He barely knew how to play his cards and little more about playing the players.

“Nice house you have here, Billy Goat,” Jason said.

I don’t go by Billy or by Bill. My name is William Choat and I go by Will, having listened to that Billy Goat crap since grade school.

The dark bags under Jason’s eyes and basset hound-jowls made him look like a tired old dog, but his eyes were never still and gave me the impression of the sneakiest member of the pack, number three or four in the pecking order with pretentions of becoming number one. Without the ability to even hold his own position, though, much less move up.

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