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Trev looked over Juicy’s head. The bleeding appeared to have stopped, but he grimaced when Juicy turned around, flashing his bare ass. He grabbed the jacket off the floor. “Here. Tie this on, okay?”

“Oh, well! If you insist.” Juicy shrugged.

Trev leaned against the desk with a groan, quickly taking a closer look at the office.

It was small and eerily reminiscent of the room he’d been chained up in.

No windows and only one door.

Great.

Wonderful.

The door did have a sheet of frosted glass in it, but Trev didn’t think smashing it would be a good idea. It would be too loud and would certainly draw way too much attention. Not to mention that Emil or any of those other suited pricks were probably waiting for them on the other side.

Trev searched the walls for any kind of weakness and found nothing. He looked up at the ratty ceiling tiles and waved Juicy over. “Hey! Hey, come here. If we…”

Juicy had tied the sleeves of the jacket around his head like a cape.

“Right.” Trev cleared his throat. “If we get up on the desk, do you think you can crawl up through there? I can help give you a boost or pull you up! We might be able to find a way out!”

Juicy stared blankly. “The ceiling won’t hold us.”

“Come on!” Trev pleaded. “We have to fucking try!”

“No.”

“Juicy!” Trev hissed frantically. “I’m not staying here to fucking die!”

“It’s not like the movies, kid.” Juicy shook his head. “Do you see how rotted out that shit is? We’ll collapse back through and hit the damn floor! Probably break your fucking neck!”

“Okay!” Trev threw up his hands angrily. “Do you have any better fucking ideas, huh?”

“Not really, but oh…” Juicy sighed and looked off into the corner with a grimace.

“Oh God. What?” Trev groaned. “What is it now?”

“Barkie just had an accident.”

“Of course he fucking did.”

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Ignoring the imaginary dog accident, Trev continued to search the room for anything that might help them escape.

The desk was empty except for more paper, a stapler, and a roll of yellowed masking tape.

Yes, good.

Trev could beat Emil in the head with a stapler and shove some of the papers and old tape down his throat. That would work so beautifully. That would be just fucking great.

With a growl, he sat down on the desk and pulled the knife out from his sleeve.

Think, think, think.

The knife was a restaurant steak knife, so he felt it was a slight upgrade to the butter knife he’d previously stolen from Cold’s breakfast table.