Read Killing Time for Free Online

table. Once she did, he’d let her think she’d softened him up enough to get the upper hand. Then she’d find out how tired he was of playing with a stacked deck.
    “I’m a journalist,” she said after several long moments.
    Tip of the chin. Tap of the finger.
    Liar, liar, pants on fire.
    “A journalist?” He grunted. “Give me a break.”
    “Freelance,” she insisted. “I’m writing a retrospective piece that chronicles Spec Ops military units and their deployments in Afghanistan.”
    He actually laughed. “Right. And to accomplish that, you make it a practice to seduce, drug, hold at gunpoint, and”—he lifted his arms as far as the restraints would let him—“cuff your potential sources to a bed. Try again, Pamela. ”
    “You have a reputation as a loose cannon.”
    “Ah . . . so this was all for your protection. What a line of bullshit. You could have walked up and asked me.”
    “And you would have told me to take a flying leap.”
    She had a point. “So, rather than risk that happening, drugging me was the next logical alternative.”
    “I’m on a tight schedule. Expediency is what matters here, not your tender sensibilities.”
    She was a ball breaker, all right. New tactic. “Do we have a timetable for when these cuffs come off?” he asked point-blank.
    No answer.
    “Okay, fine. Could I at least have a drink of water while you work it out in your head? I’m bone dry here.”
    She thought for a moment, then finally stood andwalked hesitantly across the room toward a door he suspected was the bathroom.
    The fact that she was willing to show him a little mercy told him reams about her. No self-respecting tango, street thug, or banger would give two rips about his poor parched throat. While it was clear she could handle herself, this particular skill was not her bailiwick—and knowing that only made him more pissed that he’d let her get the drop on him.
    As soon as she turned her back to him, he went to work on the flex cuffs, hoping that all the hours of competitions he and the guys used to stage paid off. There had been a lot of down time between missions, a lot of hurry up and wait. You could only play so many games of cards and basketball, so you got creative. Flex cuffs were plentiful and tying each other up and trying to beat each other’s escape times provided not only a diversion but a skill set that might come in handy one day.
    Looked like today was the day his uncontested speed record was going to be put to the real test. And when she closed the bathroom door behind her—a stroke of luck that the lady needed some privacy—he made full use of the window of opportunity.
    Pressing the inside of his wrists together, he wedged his right thumbnail under the edge of the first of a line of tiny teeth that locked into the plastic band on the catch on his left hand. Stretching, he tipped his head back so he could see what he was doing, then glanced toward the bathroom door when he heard a flush and then the sound of water running.
    He had to move fast. Straining to get the right angle, he repeatedly worked his nail over the first tooth until it finally gave and slipped under the catch. The left cuff loosened a fraction of an inch. He repeated the process. Another tooth gave. Another breath of room.
    He had the feel of it now. Like riding a bicycle. He repeatedly wedged his thumbnail under the next tooth, pressed, felt it give and immediately loosened another tooth, then another, and another . . .
    The bathroom door swung open. He let his wrists go limp so she wouldn’t suspect what he was up to.
    She walked to the bed, a glass of water in one hand, his gun in the other.
    Tricky, but doable.
    Eyes narrowed and wary, she hesitated.
    “Like I can do anything trussed like a chicken on a spit,” he grumbled. “Please. Give me a drink.”
    He put plenty of helplessness in his tone. Added a dose of self-pity in his eyes.
    Scowling, she finally leaned over him, extending the glass