It was late a few nights later and he had the bed pushed aside. The piece of plaster guarding the puncture in the wall had been removed. He was on his knees, anxious to get results.
His substantial weight loss had sapped his strength. If he didn’t try something now, he feared he wouldn’t have the energy for another attempt later.
He reached out to a chunk of insulation and pushed it aside. Then another section and another.
Some forty-five minutes later he was drenched in sweat. Dust seemed to fill every cavity, from his ears to his nose to his mouth. He examined his watch. Its gold-plated sides had been scratched beyond recognition.
His only chance of making progress, he decided, would be to reverse positions. This way he could use his feet as a battering ram. He lay on his back, brought his legs in, then kicked as hard as he could.
If this was to be his last chance, he was going to take it. He used both legs together, then one at a time. Until…
Disbelief threatened to crush him. His right foot had become stuck. No matter how he tried to free it, it wouldn’t work. Finally, he leaned in with his upper body and dug at the plaster with his hands. The strain on his back became unbearable. He lay flat for a minute or two before going at it again, this time using his free leg, a frenetic effort, giving it everything he had.
It wasn’t working.
He began to imagine the worst case scenario: his foot remaining wedged in place until the morning, when Yassin would walk in and find him.
This image set him off.
But no matter how he clawed at the wall, his foot wouldn’t budge. He alternated between his hands and his leg, until he actually considered giving up.
That’s it, he teased himself. Just quit. Show everyone what you’re really made of.
He let his breath out slowly.
No! He shook his head.
He mustn’t quit.
He went back at the wall, the noise no longer mattering to him. He grunted aloud and kicked for all he was worth.
When the door to his room flew open, Blair held his breath and waited. He had purposely kept the lights off. The bedspread had been bunched up so it would appear he was beneath it, asleep. The bed may have been moved out of position, but it still blocked him from view.
He remained still.
Unfortunately, the dust that had settled in his nose now began to tickle. He clamped both hands over his face. Instead of muffling the sneeze, it came out as a snort.
In a rush, the bed was jerked aside. Arms took hold, and tried yanking him free.
There was no give.
Yassin’s look was one of disgust. “What were you trying to do?” he asked. “This wall doesn’t lead anywhere. You were wasting your time.” He turned to the other men. “Get him out of there,” he instructed. “No matter what it takes.”
Blair couldn’t say how it happened. The men relentlessly pounded on the wall and on him. One minute he was stuck in the hole, helpless, the next he was strapped back into the all-too-familiar chair.
“I warned you about trying something stupid!” Yassin said, fury masking his face.
Blair knew any comment would be pointless.
The table that was used before to hold the Cyber-tech sample was now rolled in and positioned next to him. It contained a butcher’s block, masking tape, and a pair of scissors.
“I never should have trusted you,” Yassin muttered as if talking to himself. He gripped Blair’s right hand, splayed the fingers out on top of the block, and began to secure each digit in place with the masking tape. He trimmed the tape with the scissors.
Blair noticed the machete for the first time.
“I gave you freedom and you abused it.” Yassin continued to lecture as he took the machete in hand. “You are not a man of honor, Blair Mulligan. You must be taught a lesson.”
What flashed in Blair’s mind was a life without fingers. Not being able to write or play golf. Not being able to feel or touch.
Yassin’s hand rose above his head. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Blair’s thought process had shuttered, rendering him mute.
Say something! Anything!
Too late. The machete came down.