Chew Toy

"Here, kitty, kitty. I brought you a new chew toy!"

The man shoved Jack into a ten by ten cage like he was pushing meat into a badger's den. Shove and lock and run. He stumbled forward a few feet and landed on one knee, coming up nose to whiskers with a sleeping cat.

This was not your average house kitty, and it wasn't some half-tame ocelot or something else fairly small. Nope. Even in the gloom, Jack could see he was up against a full-sized white tiger.

Chew toy. God save him from former KGB agents who owned stock in some fly-by-night circus somewhere in the Ukraine. Man, he missed the days when people found out you were a CIA agent and just shot you. The Russians always had to be so creative.

Was being eaten by a hungry tiger better than being buried under two tons of concrete or being shredded in a wood-chipper?

The cat opened one eye and pondered him in the way of a very lazy predator. The tiger surveyed him thoroughly, then yawned, showing a set of teeth that made Jack recoil, his back pressing against the steel bars.

"Enjoy your last meal, Agent Calloway!"

Piotor ran after that, and Jack figured he was glad that the fat, perfumed uncle hadn't stayed around to watch. Shit, did that make him old, that he could remember why KGB agents were called that whole smelly and avuncular nickname? Maybe it just made him old-fashioned.

Jack kept a wary eye on the tiger, who didn't seem too interested, thankfully, and moved along the cage door, checking out the locking mechanism (automatic) and the hinges (just rusty enough to make it a problem).

Damn it.

"It won't work, you know. If I can't get out of here, neither can you."

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