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Charlene wasn’t going to swoop in and rescue her, and even if she did, it could be a while before the CIA noticed she was missing.

She ran her tongue over the back of her teeth. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. “Look, I’ll tell you what you want to know. I’m not stupid. Just please put the knife away.”

He smirked. “You ain’t too bright if you tried to bomb Silas.” A beat passed. “Now tell me who you’re working for.”

She stretched her wrists apart behind her back. Why, oh why, did they have to use plastic? Her skin protested with every movement. “I didn’t know there were bombs. I almost didn’t get out of the hotel myself. I was set up.”

Perry looked at her carefully. “That’s not what I asked.”

She inhaled a frustrated breath through her nose. “My job is to confirm Silas’s whereabouts in the club. As you’re probably already aware, I got here an hour ago and know he was on the second level. I also saw him enter his office . . . and I haven’t reported to my boss.”

“That don’t mean shit,” he snarled. “Tell me who the fuck you’re working for.” He closed the distance between them and caught her around the throat again. He pulled a gun from the small of his back and pressed it to her jaw. His fingers pinched her flesh. “Now,” he hissed.

Her body turned rigid. “I’m working for the—”

Crack, crack, crack!

Gemma jumped in her seat, but the explosion of shots wasn’t aimed at her.

Screams came next. Perry cursed, and his gun swiveled away from her face as he glanced at the wall separating the room they were in from the bar. He relaxed his grip slightly, allowing her to get a breath into her lungs. He turned his menacing stare back on her. “Don’t try anything stupid.”

Flinging his hand off her, he strode to the door they’d entered moments before, and it clanked shut behind him. Sweat moistened Gemma’s temples as she flexed her arms apart. The edges of the plastic dug into her flesh, scraping her skin, but didn’t break.

She bit her bottom lip and continued.

She had to get out of here and find Dallas. If shots had been fired next door, there was a damn good chance the CIA had shot Silas and all hell was breaking lose.

Crack! Crack!

Every muscle in her body jolted. Each blast struck terror in her heart. Hysteria caught hold of the functioning part of her brain, making her muscles numb and her movements slow and clumsy. More screams erupted, and the rush of dozens of footsteps running shook the building. Gemma’s heart rate slowed and her nerves buckled.

If she didn’t pull it together, things would only get worse. Dallas was a fighter. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—die, and with Cole there, he had the odds in his favor. She just needed to escape before Perry got back.

She moved her wrists ferociously. C’mon, c’mon . . .

Her gaze landed on her purse, cast away on the floor. The moron had left the gun and knife in the same room as her. Getting the bag open and the weapons out with her hands and feet bound would be a nearly impossible feat, but the plastic wouldn’t budge on its own. She needed something sharp.

She swung her gaze around the room and took in the array of tools lying around. Paint cans and other gear sat in the far corner. Too far away and probably unlikely to be of any help. Tarps and drywall sheets were leaned against the wall closest to her—those too would be no use. Her gaze inched away, but something beneath the white tarp brought it back.

A makeshift worktable—two horses with plywood on top—held an arrangement of tools, including a saw.

Halle-freaking-lujah.

She stood, lifting the chair with her, and shuffled toward the table. Her dress shimmied up her legs and she cringed. She didn’t need Perry seeing her so exposed. The short dress already revealed much more of her skin than she was comfortable with.

Stopping at the table, she dropped the chair down and took several deep breaths. Her next attempt, she’d have to go hard until she cut the plastic. She’d already stretched the restraint as much as she could. At least now all she had to do was rub it along the sharp teeth of the saw.

Summoning all her remaining strength, she stood and rotated so her hands faced the saw. She watched over her shoulder as she stretched her arms as far as they allowed. Her fingers bumped into the cold metal, and she gripped the saw between both hands. She grunted as she maneuvered, twisting her arms so the plastic hooked onto the sharp edge of the tool. She let out a grunt as it cut her skin.

She gasped. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Holding the saw with her fingertips so she didn’t nudge it off the table, she worked her wrists up and down along the teeth.

The muscles in her arms screamed, and her wrists burned from the friction of the plastic. Tears stung her eyes as she unhooked the zip tie from the saw and flopped back down. She let out a shallow roar of frustration.

No. She wouldn’t die here, with a saw at her fingertips, because she didn’t have the stamina to cut the plastic.

She pulled in another breath and stood.

CHAPTER 25

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