Every Second

45

Somewhere in New York State

Sweat webbed along Dan’s brow, stinging when it hit his eyes.

Under the tarp in the back of the SUV, the drone and hum of the wheels vibrated against his rib cage like a dark opera. The ride was smooth now. They were on the freeway, rolling to the next step.

The final step, Dan thought.

In the darkness, his fears assailed him. He’d seen his captors’ faces and knew what that meant.

It’s over.

Even if they reunited him with his family, it would only be so they could die together, or force him to watch Lori and Billy die.

If they’re not already dead.

Dan struggled to push the thought from his head but it was futile.

They win. No police are coming. No one can help us. We were dead from the moment they invaded our home.

He swallowed and the image of shallow graves in a wooded area flashed before him.

Please, let Lori and Billy be alive. Let me talk to them one last time.

Suddenly the SUV thudded over a bump and Dan felt a weighty, hard knock on his ankle. His breath caught as he remembered.

The knife!

At the gas station near the restroom he’d stolen a small utility knife from the electrician’s toolbox and tucked it in his sock.

He shifted his body slowly so he wouldn’t disturb the vest or alert his captors. Carefully he drew up his knees while reaching with his bound hands for the edge of his sock. It was a difficult movement. It took several agonizing moments before he was touching the knife and even longer until he got the fingers of his right hand around the handle.

He held it tight.

His heart lifted and he breathed deeply. Now he had hope.

He estimated the knife was five inches long, with a button to extend the retractable blade. By the feel of the padded non-slip handle, the contour and weight, he could tell it was a professional-quality knife.

Something solid.

It felt good in his hand.

In the darkness, he took great pains to move the knife around until he had it where he could get his thumb on the spring button and extend the steel blade. He brushed his finger over the edge, testing its sharpness.

Like a razor. Good.

Holding the knife between his fingertips and positioning it just so, he began cutting at the tape around his wrists, forcing them apart just a little so he could get at the plastic handcuffs underneath.

As he worked, the tape and cuffs began to give way but still held.

He took surgical care to ensure his bindings remained connected and in place, but weakened enough so that he could free his hands at will in an instant.

Each small rip, each tiny twist, was a victory.

It’s working.

Satisfied he’d gone as far as he could, he stopped.

He had a plan now and he reached deep down inside of himself, using his fear and anger to forge the courage he needed to act.

Dan slid the knife under the cuff of his sleeve, wedging the blade under his watchband.

He was ready.