They looked at the door.
“Bravo Two, Sierra One, we’re inside.”
“Why are you ignoring me?” I screamed.
“We’re not.” Nathan’s gruff voice pulled my attention away from the brothers. “Are you hurt?” His hands were already checking for injuries.
“No, did you hear me?”
“Yes.” Nathan still hadn’t made eye contact. “Help me untie her,” he said to his friend.
“Fucking listen to me,” I screamed again.
“Hold up,” his friend said. Havoc walked over and sniffed around the chair. He barked once and sat.
Nathan stopped moving. Stopped breathing, from the sounds of it.
He’d untied one arm, so I used that hand to lift his face.
I stared him in the eye, making sure he heard every word when I said, “There’s a fucking bomb under the fucking chair. If I move, it’ll fucking explode.”
His eyes rounded. Then he blinked twice before sucking in gulps of air.
Nathan’s chin dropped to his chest as he whispered, “Fuck.”
“Fuck is right.”
“I’m going to run my hands along the seat to see what we’re working with.”
I really didn’t want him doing that because my ass was wet from losing control of my bladder. “I’m sitting on a pressure plate. Fucknut wasn’t shy about sharing the details.”
Nathan nodded, his eyes glued to the bottom of the chair. “Fucknut?”
“Fucknut,” Jack said, chuckling. “Glad you’re okay, Flirty.”
I wasn’t. Okay and I weren’t in the same state. “I’m going to be blown to smithereens or starve to death in this fucking chair. I’d hardly say I’m okay.”
“That won’t happen,” Nathan growled. “We’ll find a way.”
“You keep being feisty. Let us worry about the chair,” Jamie said, resting his hand on my shoulder.
I wanted nothing more than to believe them. Literally nothing. “Easy for you to say.”
“Kroup, think you can disarm it?”
“We’d have to dismantle part of the chair, and it might be rigged.”
Nathan dropped his head before looking at me, his hands resting on my knees. “Do you know if Al rigged the chair?”
“He didn’t mention it.”
“Doesn’t mean he didn’t.” It’d be typical for him to give her most of the details and leave a major one out.
“He really hates you,” I said.
“I know.”
“He’s a fucking psychopath.”
