’VE GOT TO USE the john,” Shaw called out into the darkness. “Now.”

A minute went by and he thought that no one was going to respond. Then the door opened and the same man appeared. “I told you about the toilet in the corner over there.”

“I don’t think I can hit the bowl from here. Go figure.”

The man stepped forward. “Then I guess I’ll have to untie you.”

“I guess you will.”

“Firing line,” the man reminded him.

“Right, got it.” Shaw kept his gaze dead on the man as he approached, his muscles tensing, his mind burning through every possible angle and point of attack on the primary and secondary targets. He would put the man between him and the shooter and work his way out of here. It was as solid a plan as he could concoct under the circumstances.

Unfortunately, he never got a chance to execute it.

The man punched the syringe in his arm, right through his shirt.

When Shaw awoke, he was on the floor, his arms tucked under him. He slowly rose, flexing his limbs, trying to bleed circulation back into them. He did his business at the toilet and looked around. The room was empty except for the bolted-to-the-floor chair and a mattress lying in one corner and the toilet. He paced off the parameters of the square. Eight by eight. Sixty-four square feet with a ceiling that was not much higher than he was tall. Walls were stone and solid, no chinks in the mortar, slab floor. He lifted his hand up. The ceiling was plaster.

A rattling sound behind him made Shaw whirl around in time to see a tray of food come through a hinged slot in the lower part of the door that he hadn’t noticed before.

He picked up the tray and carried it over to the mattress, sat down and ate, finishing off the bottle of water in a couple of long gulps. He examined the residue on the tray. No utensils, so no sharp edges. Styrofoam plate, plastic bottle.

A few minutes later a voice called out, “Slide it through.”

He rose and passed the tray through the slot. It was barely three inches high and he had to lay the bottle of water down. He resumed his pacing, examining every square inch of his prison. His gaze returned to the toilet. He walked over, lifted the tank lid in back, and felt around. A minute later he’d worked free the long piece of metal. He walked over to the door and examined the lock.

Deadbolt. Made things problematic but maybe not impossible.

Plopping down in the chair, he began fashioning the metal into the instrument he needed to attack the lock. Well, actually two instruments since it was a deadbolt. He had no idea what time it was, day or night. They’d taken his watch. But he did start counting off the seconds in his head. He would work from the notion that the meal he’d been given was either lunch or dinner and time it out from there. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than nothing.

After he’d broken the metal in half and worked the pieces into proper shapes using the hard surface of the walls to bend them, he ventured quietly over to the door. He listened for a moment, his ear right against the two-inch-thick wood, at least judging by the width of the slot. The hinges were on the outside of the door, so they were no help to him. It was just him and the lock.

He got down on his hands and knees and edged open the slot a few centimeters. He listened for sounds of breathing, of movement, of a heart thudding too fast—other than his own, that is.

There it was. A foot grazing across the floor. He retreated to the chair and sat down, continuing to count the seconds. He needed to get out of here, fast. But that was obviously not going to happen.

Slow it down, take your time. Speed means mistakes.

His only problem with that philosophy was that Janie might not have a lot of time left. Even if Waller had nothing to do with his kidnapping, the guy was now free to do whatever he wanted to with her. And it sickened Shaw to think what the guy must want whenever he looked at the young woman.

Patience, Shaw, patience.

He fingered the pieces of metal and kept counting the seconds.