Burn by Sarah Fine and Walter Jury

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 forehead to it as I begin to check the keys. I’ve just found my first likely candidate when Leo’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
    â€œGet away from here!”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThey’re coming! I can hear them on the stairs!”
    I freeze, halting the jangling of my keys in time to hear the footsteps and voices echoing in the stairwell. For a moment, I’m paralyzed—Leo and Christina are still locked inside, and I’m out in the open.
    Then I realize what I have to do. My heart simultaneously pounding and aching, I slide the handcuff key under the door, knowing the two of them will be able to find a way to help each other out. And then I back a few steps down the hall, seeking partial cover against another closed office door, and aim. It’s a Glock 19, so assuming Graham is operating with a full magazine, I have fifteen shots plus the one in the chamber. If this is it, I’ll take as many out as I can and hope that Christina and Leo can take it from there.
    My finger closes over the trigger as my first target swings the door wide.
    Race Lavin, his face severe and cleanly shaven but bruised, his eyes bloodred, jerks to a stop when he sees me there. The corner of his mouth twitches. “I told you,” he calls over his shoulder.
    My mother appears behind him. “So did I,” she says to the man at her side.
    Congers frowns. “So you did.”

SEVEN
    I DON’T LOWER MY WEAPON AS MY MOM EMERGES from the stairwell, flanked by Congers and Race. I look her over for signs of injury. Her arm is in a sling and she’s streaked with soot and dirt, but she seems okay otherwise. Except she looks really unhappy.
    â€œThere is research to show that physical abuse and torture is an ineffective means of interrogation,” she says, glaring at Congers.
    He doesn’t answer. He’s got something behind his back, maybe a weapon, and he starts to bring it out but freezes as soon as my finger tightens on the trigger. I’m sorely tempted to shoot him out of sheer aggravation and hatred.
    Race raises his hands. “We’ve come to negotiate.”
    I ignore him and