Sweat dripped off Malcolm’s forehead. Tears blurred his vision. Saliva coated his throat like hot tar.
“You like that, Agent Kinnison?”
The man was right in Malcolm’s face, but the room was dark, and Malcolm couldn’t make his eyes focus. Was the guy young? Old? Athletic? Fat? He just couldn’t tell.
“My own personal formulation. Distilled right here in my lab. A compound of hydroxy-alpha-sanshool and zanthoxylum.”
Was the guy armed? Were there others in the room? One problem at a time, Malcolm reminded himself. Free your hands first. Then work out your escape.
“Burns, doesn’t it? And that was just a single drop. Next time it will be two. Then four. Then eight. Then sixteen — you get the idea — until you tell me the truth.”
Malcolm’s palms were slick with sweat. He worked it into the ropes. Not much of a lubricant, but maybe after another dose or two. He could take the heat.
The sound of glass vials clinking together, then a dropper was being forced between Malcolm’s lips. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried not to swallow, but it was no use. Fire erupted in his mouth. The ropes. Work the ropes.
“Yesss…” the guy said as tears streamed down Malcolm’s cheeks. “Yes, Agent Kinnison. You will tell me all your secrets.”
Air came painfully — like breathing through straws — but Malcolm continued wetting the rope. One hand was nearly free. “You want,” he rasped, his voice thin, “to know a secret?”
The guy leaned in close, their heads nearly touching. “I do. Tell me everything.”
Malcolm took a long, shallow breath. “The truth is…”
“Yes. Yes?”
“The truth is, I love this stuff!” The last of the ropes fell away, and Malcolm sprang from the chair.
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