Free Burn by Sarah Fine Page A

against my side—probably one of the five places he could nail that would leave me bleeding and broken but not dying—and swings the bathroom door open. It’s a dingy little space, and he shoves me inside. “You have five minutes.”
    I groan. “It might take a little longer than that.”
    “You have five minutes.” He slams the door.
    I flick the light on with my elbow and am thrilled when the blower fan comes on as well. I need every bit of cover for the noise I might make. As quick as I can, I shift the lid off the tank and moan loudly as I reach into the water and fumble with the chain and hook that lift the seal cap when the toilet is flushed. Closing my eyes to focus, I operate by touch, using the S-shaped hook to pick my cuffs and blowing quiet relief through my pursed lips when I feel them give. I only want them loose, so that’s good enough. I replace the hook and groan again, hoping Graham is too grossed out to hover close. After another minute, I flush the toilet and run the faucet, then dry my hands. I make sure my cuffs look locked, and then I kick at the closed door. “I’m done!”
    A moment later, the door opens, and Graham ushers me into the hall, pausing to look into the bathroom to see if anything’s out of place, but not looking too close because he thinks it would stink to high hell. His weapon is holstered, so I guess I’ve convinced him I’m not a threat. While he does his cursory inspection, I peer up and down the hall to confirm we’re pretty much alone in this corridor full of closed office doors and stairs on either end. Leo said he was next to the stairs, but that doesn’t help me too much.
    All it tells me is that I need to move fast. “So,” I say. “What’s it like to work for your dad?”
    Graham doesn’t answer, which tells me that I’m totally right. He’s Congers’s son.
    “I bet he’s a hard-ass. Difficult to please. Maybe impossible to please.”
    No answer. But he does press his weapon against my ribs, a warning. I’m getting to him.
    “Seemed like you were trying to impress him earlier. Especially with that roundhouse shot to my head. Did it earn Daddy’s approval?” I glance back to see Graham’s jaw become rigid with tension. “I guess not.”
    I’m braced and ready when he swings at me, and I duck beneath his arm and jerk my right wrist free of the cuff, leaving the other hanging from my left wrist. I strip him of his weapon before he has a chance to fire a warning shot. It clatters to the floor as I elbow him across the jaw. As he staggers, I spin behind him and loop the short handcuff chain around his neck, then pull it tight. With me on his back, he slides to the floor, his knees hitting hard. He tries to arch and knock me backward, but I use all my strength to push him facedown on the ground. Saliva shoots from between his lips as he tries to gasp for air. He struggles like a wild man, but I press my chest to his back and flatten his cheek to the linoleum while his face turns purple.
    I totally get it, I almost say to him. I wanted to impress my dad, too.
    That’s going to make this doubly painful for Graham, who made one simple mistake, the same one his dad did when he left only his son to guard me—he underestimated me. As soon as he loses consciousness, I drag him into my interrogation room. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to cuff him to the chair. I rip a wad of fabric from my T-shirt and shove it in his mouth to muffle the sound of his shouts when he wakes up. I only have a few minutes before that happens, so I steal Graham’s keys and scramble into the hallway, where I scoop up the gun and lope in the opposite direction of the bathroom. “Leo,” I call softly, the weapon at the ready.
    Just before I reach the stairwell, there’s a scraping sound from behind one of the closed doors, and I pause. “Tate?” Christina’s voice calls from inside.
    My hands are against the door in the next second. “Here,” I say, touching my