Try as he might, he couldn’t wrest from the ropes that bound his wrists, and struggling only seemed to tighten the knots. He took a tentative breath. If he was careful, he could keep the searing agony in his ribs at bay. He inched backward on his side until his shoulders and hips touched the steel wall of the freight ship’s hold. Light trickled in from the portholes that rimmed the wall and through cracks in the metal. Maybe with a little maneuvering he could sit up, out of the icy water sloshing about his chin. He grimaced. It was the water that had pulled him from unconsciousness, brought him sputtering and coughing to aching awareness. The bitter storm must be more than the rusted old tub could handle. He shivered, then groaned as the movement brought a fresh wave of torture. McCleod had been skillful with the pipe. Luckily he’d broken no bones except possibly some ribs. Still, he’d caused enough damage to make movement distasteful.
