My arms hurt, I thought, blinking awake. Why do my arms hurt? And my lip. Actually, everything hurt.
“Mars?” Brett called. “Sweet thing, you have to wake up.”
“I . . . where . . .”
“We’re in Fenwig’s basement,” he said. “Just remember to breathe. We’ll be okay.”
“How long . . .”
“Only a couple of minutes.”
“Are you . . .”
“I’m fine.”
“T?”
“He’s not as good. He’s tied on the bed and bleeding.”
“Bleeding? Fenwig? Bomb? Mac? Bob?” I blathered like an incoherent buffoon, which I was.
“We’re fine,” Mac said.
“Just uncomfortable,” Bob added.
“And Fenwig is on the chair in the corner,” Brett finished.
I scanned the room to see Bob lying on some sort of table with Mac tethered facedown on top of him.
“If we weren’t friends, this would be uncomfortable,” Mac said, trying to stretch his head as far away as possible.
“It is uncomfortable,” Bob groaned under Mac’s weight.
Fenwig sat ramrod straight on an obnoxiously large throne. He wasn’t locked down like the rest of us were.
“Why doesn’t he escape?” I asked.
“Because he’ll blow this entire house to toothpicks along with himself.”
“He’s sitting on the bomb?” My eyes drifted to my cuffs and then back to Fenwig. “You’re a rather screwed-up man.”
His gaze slowly flickered over to me, sweat dripped down his forehead. “Would you care for me to stand?”
I shook my head. “No. I was just wondering how you’re still free when your wife is behind bars.”
“Ah, yes. My wife and the scandal. We’ve all returned to the scene like we’re at a big, happy reunion.” His seething glare was anything but happy.
“Except for your wife. She’s behind bars where you should be.”
“She’s happy there. All those women to torment in her . . . unusual ways.”
I didn’t want to know about that. I had a feeling she had enjoyed this torture room more than her husband, who was perspiring profusely.
“Why didn’t you stand trial?”
“Don’t you know?” he sneered. “I was the insider at the gambling ring. It was my only leverage, so I used it.”
“Then why are Bob and Mac here?” I asked. “I thought Bob was the suspected insider.”
“He was,” Fenwig said. “I put Sims on his scent weeks ago.”
“If that’s the case, why are you down here too?”
“They had figured out it wasn’t Bob. He was too blinded by a pretty little waitress to have any other thought in his head, let alone to work on digging up inside information. By the time his big oaf friend came charging in to save him, I was already on the chopping block, and we were escorted here for cleanup. All loose ends under one roof.”
“And a bomb,” I added, then turned to Bob. “A girl? Really?”
“She’s pretty,” he replied simply.
“Who’s the creepy guy with the odd voice?” I asked Fenwig.
Fenwig’s brow furrowed until his lips curled. “Creepy ain’t half of it.”
“I seem to be on his hit list,” I hissed. “Who is he?”
Fenwig shivered. “I wouldn’t want to be on the list . . . oh, wait. I am,” he said sarcastically.
“How do I get off the list?”
“Die.”
I already figured on that answer.
“I’m so sorry, sweet thing,” Brett said. “I’ll get us out of here.”
“How?”
“I’ll come up with something.”
“You don’t have much time,” Fenwig said.
“As long as you don’t move, we’ll have enough time,” Brett said.
“You don’t understand,” Fenwig said, his voice suddenly strained. “They forced laxatives down my throat.”
Oh boy.
“My insides are twisting. I don’t know how much control I’ll have.”
“Just do your best,” Brett said. “Stay sitting no matter what. We’ll hose you down after.”
“Mrs. Janowski is outside with the ladies,” I said. “I’m sure they’ll call the cops if we don’t come outside soon. If they don’t get caught.”
“Caught?” Brett asked. “Don’t tell me they’ve prepared for battle.”
I kept silent.
“Mars?”
“You told me not to tell you.”
He cursed. “They’re going to end up down here with us or worse.”
“Or,” I said cautiously, “they’ll actually stay put and call the cops.”
“Those ladies?” Mac asked.
“Stay put?” Bob added.
“We’re doomed,” T groaned.
“T?” Brett called. “How are you doing?”
“I feel like someone stabbed me.” His speech was labored.
“Someone did stab you,” Brett said. “Just hang in there.”
“How did you get caught?” I asked.
“Sims already knew we were coming. He set the trap perfectly. As soon as we slid through the window, T was stabbed.”
“What about you?”
“I’m fine,” he said. “T took more of a hit than I did. By the time they stabbed him, I was defending myself.”
For the first time, I noticed a slick spot on the black wall near his torso. “You’ve been stabbed.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just a scratch.”
“There’s blood on the wall.” I panicked as I scanned his ashen face. How did I not see it before? Well, I was passed out for a couple of minutes so I couldn’t scold myself too much.
Brett was losing blood and was sagging against his restraints.
“No! Do not die on me.”
“I’m not going to die,” he soothed, but he could barely lift his head to make eye contact.
I fought against my cuffs, rattling the chains. “Help!” I screamed.
“Shit!” Fenwig muttered, holding his fingers to his ears. “Stop yelling. This room is soundproof.”
“I’ll scream my head off until someone comes to help!” And so I screamed. And screamed. And then screamed some more . . . until . . .
“Jesus!” Hank said, coming down the stairway with what sounded like a platoon. “Who’s dying?”
“Brett and T,” I called, fighting my restraints.
Hank came through the doorway followed by several bikers, all with Mrs. Janowski’s weapons in hand. “Damn, I didn’t mean . . .”
“I know! Just check on T and Brett. And get Edna in here!”
“Edna?”
“She can pick the cuff locks,” I said.
One of the bikers nodded and disappeared.
“And call the cops!” I yelled to him. “We’ve got a bomb in here.”
“Where?” Hank asked.
Fenwig let out a very long, disturbing fart.
“Oh, sweet Mary,” Hank said, covering his nose with his shirt collar.
“It’s not his fault,” I said. “They sat him on the bomb and gave him laxatives. Go check on T.”
Hank walked past Mac and Bob, who were still sandwiched together. “Well, there’s a new story for the bar.”
“This will not be making the rounds,” Mac warned.
Bob groaned under his weight.
Two bikers helped Hank over by T. One stopped at Brett. “Where’s the injury?”
“It’s just a knick on my lower back,” Brett said.
The man nudged Brett from the wall and peered behind him. “You’ve got a gash,” he said, stripping off his shirt and wadding it behind Brett. “Lean against it firmly.”
“Coming through!” Mrs. Janowski announced, with Edna on her heels.
Edna drained to a ghost white when she looked around the room. “Oh dear!”
“Not really welcoming, is it?” Mrs. Janowski said and then plowed over to T.
“Edna,” I called, “unlock T and Brett’s cuffs first. Then come back for me and the boys.”
She nodded and hurried over to T.
“Sweet thing . . .” Brett started to argue.
“No,” I stopped him. “You’re injured, and it will take longer to get you and T out of the house.”
Fenwig shook as he tried hard to keep everything inside. I actually felt sorry for the man. There have been a couple of roadside emergencies that I remember, and it wasn’t something I’d want to relive in a roomful of people and a bomb as a toilet.
“Done!” Edna exclaimed then zipped over to Brett. “Hold on just a moment. I’m getting better at this.”
To my surprise, she freed Brett in thirty seconds.
Brett rubbed his wrists and sank against the wall.
“Go unlock Mac and Bob before Bob passes out,” I said to Edna.
She gave a nod to Bob’s audible relief.
“I’ll help you up the stairs,” the biker said to Brett.
“I’m not leaving until Mars is out,” Brett said.
“With Edna picking locks, I’ll be upstairs in less than a minute,” I said.
“Then it won’t hurt to wait.”
“Please.”
“No.”
Two bikers, Hank, and Mrs. Janowski walked by with T in tow. He had passed out again, his shirt caked with blood.
“Oh my God.” I gulped. “Is he going to make it?”
No one said anything. They just watched as he was taken from the room.
“You’re free,” Edna said to Mac and Bob.
“Get your heavy ass off me,” Bob groaned to Mac.
Mac rolled off, and they each took a moment to take a deep breath before helping each other to their feet.
“You have to go on a diet,” Bob said.
“How about a beer first?” Mac asked.
“You’re buying.”
As they limped to the door, Edna made her way over to me. “Look at me go,” she said. “I could be a professional lock pick.”
Brett whimpered. I hoped that it was because of Edna’s new profession and not because he was in pain, but I knew otherwise.
“Oh dear,” Edna tisked. “I think these locks are rusted.”
“They aren’t rusted. They’re antiques,” Fenwig said, his voice shaking as violently as his body. “You have to use the key on those. It’s the only way.”
“Where’s the key?” she asked.
“It’s been lost for years,” he said.
Brett lurched from his spot and grabbed at the chains bolted into the wall. “Give me your bat,” he said to the biker.
“I’ll do it,” the biker said, pushing Brett out of the way.
“Use the gun,” Fenwig said, pointing to a medieval-looking cabinet on the far end of the room. “It’s loaded.”
Brett lunged at the cabinet, revealing the slash on his back. There was too much blood to see how deep it was.
He dug through the cabinet, littering the floor with its contents until he found a handgun.
Fenwig was shaking so hard the chair began to shift. He gasped for air.
“Take Edna and get out of here,” Brett said to the biker. “I’ll get Mars out.”
“Hurry, man,” the biker said, swooping Edna off her feet and flying out the door.
“Fenwig, let it go,” Brett said. “We won’t say a word to anyone.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” Fenwig gritted. “They wouldn’t give me laxatives just to make me uncomfortable. I’ve become the timer. When I go, it goes.”
Brett cursed and whipped back to me. “Mars, I’m going to shoot this chain and the one at your feet. Close your eyes because brick will fly everywhere.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I don’t want to hurt you, sweet thing,” he said, kissing my forehead.
“Just do it.”
“On the count of three.”
“Three!” I yelled.
He shot the chain twice, blasting shards everywhere. “Stand still,” he ordered, shooting the chain at my feet.
He yanked hard on the chain, tugging the stubborn bolt from the wall. I was free from the wall but not the cuffs, which had a foot of chain still stuck to them. At least I could move.
“Come on,” I said, grabbing Brett’s arm.
The only thing keeping Brett upright was adrenaline, and I could see it was already starting to wear off.
“Get out! Hurry!” Fenwig yelled.
“We’ll send the police down for you, Fenwig,” I said, shooing Brett out the door and up the stairs.
Fenwig gasped.
I tugged Brett through the house; his steps were getting heavy and slow.
“Don’t stop!” I yelled. “Don’t you ever stop!”
I ripped open the front door and shoved him out. A biker ran across the lawn, grabbing Brett from one side while I took the other. We were halfway to the street when the air shifted and a fireball blasted from the house, sending us flying through the air. We tumbled and fell.
The last thing I remembered was a burning smell and bikers surrounding me, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.