Free Burn by Sarah Fine and Walter Jury Page A

nothing’s broken in there. I wiggle my hands—standard metal cuffs. Same around my ankles. My eyes scan the floor, searching for a paper clip or an old ballpoint pen, anything I might be able to use to pick the cuffs. But this chamber’s been swept, and they probably expected me to try something like that. I grit my teeth and scoot my chair backward toward the radiator against the wall. Leaning back, I search for loose wires or metal fixtures with the right shape . . . nothing. I’m going to have to find my means of escape outside this room, and I know one place to do it, but I need more information first.
    Leo. Christina. Mom. I have no idea where they’re being kept or what condition they’re in. Or if they’re even here. But Congers said he was going to go work on Christina, and the idea makes bile rise in my throat. She was supposed to be safe. But I’m guessing she used my dad’s phone and finally reached my mom, and together they figured out where I was. I think hard, trying to determine how they could have done that—and then I remember Leo’s phone. He had it when we were captured. Maybe they used Dad’s phone to trace Leo’s, which is now probably in the pocket of one of the Core agents. Christina could have told my mom he was with us. And then Mom and Christina came after me. I wish they hadn’t. My fingernails scrape across the radiator, making an echoing
tink
in the silence.
    I freeze. Then I tap—three quick, three slow, three quick. SOS. It’s just an impulse, a shot in the dark, but when your hands are cuffed behind you and you’re in a windowless room, even the most primitive means of communication are better than nothing.
    As I’m musing about this, tapping away, I realize that the sounds I’m hearing aren’t echoes of my own taps. I curl my fingers against my palm and close my eyes, focusing on the faint sounds. Quick-slow-quick-quick . . . quick . . . slow-slow-slow.
    L-E-O.
    I guess I shouldn’t be surprised he knows Morse code. Somewhere in this building, he’s heard my SOS. He taps out two quick, two slow, two quick. A question mark. He’s wondering who he’s talking to. I start to type out the first letter of my name . . . and then I wonder if I’m talking to Leo at all. I pause.
    I-T-S-M-E,
he taps out.
It’s me.
I almost laugh. I tap out my name, and his response comes immediately:
knew it.
    Where?
I tap.
    Basement. Next to stairs.
    And then he taps out something that makes the breath whoosh from my lungs.
With C.
    My fingers are unsteady as I tap
hurt?
    No,
comes his response. I hunch over in my chair, the relief heavy.
    My mom,
I tap.
    Unknown,
he replies.
    My relief is gone.
H2? How many.
    Six.
Suddenly his taps come so quickly I can barely make them out.
Outside,
he taps. Then it’s a jumble of noise and I lose the thread and all I can make out is the final words:
more here.
He’s maybe trying to tell me something or someone is approaching.
    I have to get out of here. I have to get
them
out of here.
    I scoot my chair back to the middle of the room. “Hey!” I call out. “Hey!” Each word hurts as my aching stomach muscles tighten.
    After a few moments, the door squeaks open, and Graham pokes his head in. “What?”
    â€œI need to use the facilities.”
    He stares at me. “Hold it.”
    â€œSeriously, dude? I’m not joking. Whatever you guys shot me up with is hell on my stomach. Oh, and I probably swallowed a lot of blood when you rearranged my face.”
    He rolls his eyes, then disappears for a second, but his fingers stay curled around the door. And I smile. He’s most likely been left alone to guard me, and he’s looking up and down the hall to see if anyone can help him figure out what the hell he’s supposed to do. He looks only a few years older than me. I’d bet good money he’s