Page 60 of On Fire

“Stand on that.”

I can’t move. He kicks my feet out from under me and shoves the box in place. The moment I stand on it, the pressure on my arms is relieved and I take my first large gulp of air. But relief is short lived.

Like some diabolical madman, he moves behind me again and the sound of a gear coincides with the hook lifting me another three or four inches.

Between the heat, the gag, and the compression on my ribcage from being fully extended, I can hardly catch a breath. I’m stretched to where I’m nearly on tiptoes. I try to tilt my frame up slightly to relieve some of the pressure.

Graham is in sharp focus. He’s working behind me again whistling under his breath like he’s working a lathe. I know enough to say nothing. I’m in no position to deflect anything he might want to do to me. I’m not clear enough to make a profile, but my bet is that he’s getting off on this. I have to remain completely nonreactive.

Assess the situation.

I glance around, this time more focused. This is the quarry. I’m at the gravel company compound. I know this area well. If I could escape, I could easily evade him. Normally I would jackknife and use my legs to slip off the hook—but all strength has left. I can barely keep my head up.

I try again to take a deep breath. He notices and stops what he’s working on for a moment to watch me struggle. Saying nothing, he begins again.

The heat is intense. When he comes back into my line of sight, sweat beads his brow and stains the front of his shirt.

“Okay, faggot,” he says slowly, like he’s reading instructions. “These are trip lines.” He stretches one at two o’clock and then a second at ten o’clock from my chest and walks back into the shadows and kneels on the floor to anchor each.

“When your friends move in, they’ll trip the bomb. Like an IED. The gag is so you can’t warn them. I hope Dave makes it and those faggot lovers make it. If not, I’ll get them with the next one.”

The next one.

Glancing at the hook he says, “Any movement will set off that trip wire. I want it to be a party. You’re going to have to hold very still. If they don’t find you, though, sooner or later you’ll lose your footing.”

Or I’ll suffocate.

That’s when I know what I have to do. For Finn, for Keller, for anyone stepping through that door. For anyone who might be his next victim. I need to take us both out: now.

I thrash, as hard as I can, waiting for the moment they say you never hear—

But nothing happens except the chain creaks above and my sides burn.

He says nothing. “It’s not armed yet, asshole. You’ll have to guess when.”

After bagging up what’s left on the table into a cardboard box, he pauses, standing in the doorway. “You all love a party, right? Parties where you all fuck each other?”

The door closes. It takes a moment or two to understand that I’m alone. Utterly alone.

Sweat pours down my back and nausea starts churning, a side effect of the chloroform.

I try to look down to see what’s strapped to me, what I already know is there.

The duct tape is thick and unyielding. The vest is heavy and pulls on my arms even more. When I look down, I try very hard not to use my stomach muscles. Nothing can trigger what I know is there, just below my chest, a soft blue light blinking in the twilight of the stifling room.

A bomb.