Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59413 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
He steers me through the barn, boots crunching over old leaves. I keep my head down, but I scan everything—the spray-painted tags on the wall, the busted light fixtures, the brown glass shards scattered near the entrance. There, on the ground, is a broken beer bottle. The perfect shard of glass to cut my ropes.
If I can get to it.
We’re almost past it when I make my move. I stumble hard, pitching forward and twisting sideways so I hit the ground on my ribs. The air goes out of me all at once. He curses and starts forward, but I’m already rolling onto my back, bound hands reaching for the glass. It bites into my palm, but I curl my hand around it, holding tight.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shakes me, hard enough that my teeth slam together.
I say nothing.
Glaring, he shoves me closer to the middle of the barn. That’s when I see it, there in the middle of the space. An old, rusted out chair. Next to it, is a duffel bag. Heavy, lumpy, wires snaking out of the zipper. I don’t need to ask what’s inside. I already know the answer.
Vomit rises in my throat.
But I stay calm.
He forces me into the chair and ties my ankles again, before putting another rope around my hips and tying it at the side. He’s shoddy, and his effort is pathetic. He checks the ropes are secure, before standing back. “Don’t bother trying to get the chair to move, it’s bolted to the back wall.”
I glance down and see it is fixed to a plate that has a chain running to the back wall.
I guess they thought of everything.
Except the fact that their guy is so stupid he didn’t see me pick up a shard of glass.
I squeeze my hand tighter. My only escape curled in my palm.
“Don’t try anything,” he mutters. “We got men at every exit. You can’t escape. Don’t worry though, it won’t be long. You have two hours before that thing blows.”
His words hit me hard.
Two hours.
I only have two hours to get out, save the clubs and try and stop all of this from happening.
That seems like an impossible task.
Especially when they have eyes on the place. They will see me exit and probably kill me on the spot.
Still, I have to try.
The plan is coming together, but I am the only one who can stop it.
I have to stop it.
Otherwise, it is the end...for all of us.
The man checks my ankles and waist one more time, before turning and leaving the barn. A truck starts up, and then I am left in complete silence. I don’t think the cartel would have cameras on me, they want no risk of it coming back on them, so I can only hope I have the next two hours free to get myself out of this.
I start working on the top. Slowly, carefully. If I rush, I could drop this glass and everything would end. Every time a fiber frays and pops, the rope shifts, making it trickier, but I don’t stop. I keep at it, every grind of glass carving into my flesh. My blood drips onto the floor, but it isn’t enough to stop me. I clench my jaw, my heart racing, and keep going.
I twist my hands in a way that is so painful, I’m certain my wrist is about to snap, but I push myself to my absolute limits. I cut and cut, feeling like I’m getting nowhere, but after what feels like an eternity, there is give. A small amount. I grind again. Another pop. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to keep from sobbing as the rope finally slacks, just a little.
I have to stop, hang my head, take a few steadying breaths to calm myself. My vision goes splotchy, black creeping at the edges. I breathe through it. I can’t lose it now. Not now. I get back to it. On the next twist, the glass cuts through the last fibers. My wrists yank apart. I nearly shriek when they do. I hunch over, wild with pain, tears burning from the corners of my eyes. I let them fall, let myself taste every ruined, terrifying second.
The barn is silent except for the occasional bird chirping outside. I flex my hands, one at a time. The left’s dead, but the right has movement. I shift the glass to that hand, and I keep working. I cut the rope around my waist, then ankles, and when I stand free, my heart swells.
I got out.
Now, I just have to stop this.
How, I don’t know.
But I will.
Oh, I will.
16
I stalk to the duffel, my knees wobbling as I try to get my legs to function. There’s no time to hesitate, so I grab the zipper and jerk it, half-waiting for some tripwire to pop and take my hands with it. The thing unzips easy, more casual than a gym bag, and inside I find exactly what I expect, a handmade bomb that looks lethal. It reads 1:06:37. I have a little over an hour.