She panted for air, suddenly feeling like there wasn’t enough oxygen inside the hood. Her stomach pitched, and she forced it to settle. The last thing she wanted to do was be sick.
Then it hit her.
The tracker.
“Backup is coming.” Her voice sounded stronger.
“How do you know?”
“I swallowed a tracker.”
“Okay, and?”
“It belongs to a SEAL team.”
“Now we’re talkin’. Let’s dislocate our thumbs.” The noise of chair legs grating on the floor seemed way too loud in the silence.
Anxiety surged in her veins. “I have a hood over my head. I can’t see my wrists.”
“So do I. I’ll tell you what to do.”
“I don’t think I can do it. The cuffs are too tight!”
“Listen to me,” the man said from somewhere closer. “You want out of those cuffs, you’re going to have to make your hand smaller.”
Her pulse roared in her ears. “That’s not possible.”
He slid his chair even closer. “It is. But it’s going to hurt.”
Cold dread slid down her spine.
“What do I do?”
A beat of silence. Then, his words came out steady. Clinical.
“You’re going to feel for the joint at the base of your thumb. When I say go, you don’t hesitate. You force it. Don’t think about it. Thinking will stop you.”
Her stomach flipped. “Force it how?”
“You don’t need details,” he said. “You need commitment.”
Tears burned behind her eyes. “Will I be able to use my hand after?”
“If we stay here,” he said quietly, “that won’t matter.”
She swallowed hard and began to work.
Only seconds later, a cold hand touched hers. She jerked her head around. “You’re free!”
“You will be too in a second. On three. And whatever you hear—whatever you feel—don’t scream.”
She gave a frantic nod, bracing herself. Sweat rolled down her spine.
Slamming noises reverberated through the building. It sounded like doors were blasting off the hinges.
Her heart soared. “It’s the team. They’re coming!”
“One. Two.”
