I did a lot of research for this chapter: namely crawling around on the floor with my hands and feet tied up. My dog is still confused about what was happening! I hope it's enjoyable for you all! Remember to review and let me know what you think. I've already started a sequel, so I want to iron out any kinks in this book before diving into another!

Frank:

Frank was incredibly uncomfortable in his position on the floor. His long legs were extended out in front of him, tied at the ankle. His back was pressed up against a pipe of some sort, and he had to stoop slightly, because there was a shelf at head height, and he couldn't rest his head against it. He also couldn't use his hands to move, because they were bound tightly in his lap.

As Ted Hollis spoke on the phone, Frank let his brown eyes wander around the room. It wasn't much. There were buckets and cleaning supplies. And, across the small space, he could see a workbench. Ted Hollis had laid his gun on top of it, next to Frank's phone. There was also a toolbox in the shadows, gleaming tantalizingly, as the Hardy imagined being able to get his hands on a tool or two. That box, that phone… they were his ticket out of this cramped, dusty place.

"I'm heading out." Hollis hung up the phone and Frank realized the words were being spat in his direction. "You stay put. Don't try anything stupid, you hear. I've dealt with your girlfriend. I can fix your brother up too. You remember that."

Frank's eyes widened and he tried to cry out through the gag, but it was jammed painfully up against his tongue and he couldn't get the words out.

Hollis sneered and picked up a bag, then exited the storage closet. As a cruel parting gift, he switched off the light, plunging the room into darkness.

Frank tried to adjust to the sudden pitch black. His eyes could discern a tiny, grubby window. He closed his eyes, remembering the walk. The storage closet was just off the parking lot. But it was hidden by a tall wall of foliage. Frank doubted anyone could hear him. Not with the secluded location and the sounds of families and cars in the lot outside.

He was on his own.

His phone lit up, buzzing against the workbench. Maybe he wasn't alone. He imagined Joe was calling him, starting to get concerned. Or maybe, he hoped against hope, Nancy was looking for him. He couldn't believe she'd been hurt. He just couldn't. He'd have to give up if he let that thought in. It would sap the strength from his limbs. His heart would break into pieces. He'd just curl up in a ball and wait for that explosion. That light, that pain, that dark, endless relief.

"Stop it, Frank," he said to himself. "You're being a fool. Nancy or no Nancy, there are innocent people out there. And they're going to die if you don't stop him."

He'd get to Nancy and Joe. But he had to make a plan first. Where was the bomb? Frank had to assume it was in the bag. Hollis had brought it in and taken it out with him. Who had made it? Frank knew Hollis had tried to find someone to do it for him, but if he hadn't, the older Hardy didn't want to assume he'd given up. There were videos on YouTube, 4chan and 8chan. Hell, if Hollis had tor (the open-source software that allows people to use the dark web) there'd be no limit to the things he'd find. Frank had seen some of it with his own eyes. Curiosity might kill cats, but it also almost got him. He'd seen stuff that had almost made him quit the internet for good. Almost. He was too much of a nerd to take such drastic decisions, but he'd needed a cleanse.

Frank leaned forward so that he was lying on his side. Then, he rolled onto his stomach. Bringing his arms forward he used his elbows and core to pull himself across the rough ground. He tried not to think about the dirt and grime on the concrete ground. And his shirt traveled up, exposing the flat surface of his stomach to be exposed. He groaned as his skin scraped against something sharp. Tears pricked his skin as he felt that sharpness bury itself in his skin.

He reached the workbench and realized why Hollis had left his phone behind. There was no way he could reach it. He went to the gym when he could, but he wasn't strong enough, couldn't get the momentum to get to a standing position. Not when he was bound tightly at foot and hand.

He curled up in the fetal position and managed to maneuver himself into a sitting position. Then, with his buttocks planted firmly against the floor, he looked up at the workbench.

It had two levels and four supporting legs. If he could just wedge his elbow between the lower level and one of the legs… he wriggled closer and hooked his elbow in. Then, moaning, feeling sweat gather on his brow, he managed to wrench himself upwards.

He managed to pull the toolbox to him and leaned down, used his chin to knock it over. Tools clattered across the workbench, and he swore as some fell to the ground. He tried to repress his rising panic, moving his hands across the tools on the surface, hoping to find a sharp edge.

Pliers. His bound hands folded around a pair of long-nose pliers, the kind he'd used in computer repairs when he was a teen. He awkwardly turned the nose to face him, nudging the pliers around the rope at his wrist. It was slow progress, and he dropped the pliers too many times to count, trying to use the wire cutting groove, situated between the plier's nose.

He cried out when he felt the rope give way. Tears gathered in his eyes. But, as he turned to his phone, he realized his luck had run out. The red battery icon flashed once, valiantly, then the screen went black. He'd have to find help on his own.

Joe

Joe Hardy followed Nancy back into the art fair. He twisted his brother's keyring in his hands, feeling helplessness and dread spread through his veins like poison. It disabled him. Made him feel like lead. And there was pricking in his wrists and ankles like someone had tied him up and he couldn't move. He wondered where Frank was if he was okay.

"Where is Callie?" Nancy asked him.

"I let the ex guard the ex." Seeing her puzzled look Joe explained. He noticed that her puzzled look became one of disappointment. Obviously pushing a pregnant woman into a restroom wasn't his proudest moment, but what else was he supposed to do?

Luckily Nancy got over it quickly.

"Ned, take Callie. Just go, okay? Here…" she grabbed Frank's keys and pressed them into Ned's hands and reeled off Frank's address. "Take her to the apartment, okay? She'll be safe there."

Poor Ned. His face was ashen, and his eyes were bugging out of his face.

"I'll send an agent to check on you. But don't open the door to anyone else, okay? I'll call. I know this is a lot to ask, but you have to do the right thing. Can I count on you?"

Ned nodded. He tried to get a cheek kiss too, but to Nancy's credit, she slipped smoothly out of the way. "I'll call you," she repeated.

Joe felt her cool hand curl around his wrist and then he was being pulled along, back into the crowd. She was searching frantically in the crowd. He could see the panic in her eyes. She was almost overflowing with it. And she was all desperation and love. If she lost Frank… if they lost Frank… Joe couldn't go, there. He couldn't.

"What's he doing?" she asked.

"I don't know. I feel like he's locked up somewhere. But I don't know where to look-"

"No, you dummy. What is he doing?"

Joe followed her pointed finger to a stall up the back of the hall. It was bigger than the others. There was a bigger crowd, all assembled around the miss-mash of sculptures and paintings. A few assistants were showing people the features of each piece, helping to pack things up in neat boxes. It looked like business was booming. But despite all the activity, Michael Camaro was slipping away with a bulging briefcase tucked under his arm.

"It looks like he's doing a runner." Joe grinned suddenly. "Lucky I can run faster."

Before Nancy could ask, Joe took off. He felt that familiar burn in his legs relished in it. He launched himself toward the man with as much momentum as his strong legs would give him. Even then, he was unprepared for the force of the impact that came as Camaro turned at the last moment.

"Mr. Harding-" his mouth started to say as Joe smashed into him.

The impact sent the briefcase flying. Joe and Camaro watched in horror as it flew, slow motion, through the air. With a clatter, it made contact with the floor. The force of the blow smashing the locking mechanism and sending the contents of the case sailing out across the glossy sea of the floor. Joe wasn't sure what he expected to see, but it wasn't thousands of dollars of notes. Bound in tight little mounds, the cash skidded across the floor and formed a sort of ring around them.

"What's this?" a security guard asked, arriving beside Nancy.

"It was how I was going to save every person in this place," Camaro screamed. "And this idiot has ruined everything!"

Nancy

Nancy tuned out of the drama unfolding around her, as Joe and the security guard pinned Camaro down. Something didn't add up. Or did it? She'd had her doubts that this was all about Callie. Hollis could have harmed her at home, after all. She'd seen domestic violence: it could be a stab wound in the kitchen, severed brakes on a hill. No, if Hollis had just wanted to kill Callie, he would have done it already. He'd always wanted money.

"Camaro," she said urgently. "Did Ted Hollis threaten to bomb this place if you didn't pay him?"

Camaro nodded, pale. "He sent me photos. He's got a bomb. It's real."

"Show me."

She knew her voice was ragged and sharp, but she ignored Joe's surprised look. She was coming undone. She knew he hadn't seen it before, but she didn't have time to gather herself. She didn't want to. There was so much at stake. Sweet Frank…

Camaro passed over a phone. Nancy glanced through the photos and at the call log. There'd been a call two days ago, one today. She used the phone to dial Singh.

"I need a trace," she said quickly. "Can you give me the ID for this number?"

"It's a burner," Singh said after typing in the numbers. "But I can give you a location."

Nancy organized protection for Callie and Ned, then she and Joe hurried to the location on the map. It was in the parking lot. But Nancy knew Hollis wouldn't make a call in public. Her eyes searched the space for a clue. Something.

"How about that?" Joe asked, pointing to an open door.

It led into a supply closet, used by janitors and staff. Nancy could see a broken toolbox, contents strewn across the floor. There was also blood. The drops were trickled across the floor, from the far wall to the workbench in the corner. At the base of the bench were discarded, severed ropes. And Joe held up some papers.

"Instructions for a bomb," Joe said.

Nancy was hardly paying attention. She had found a familiar object atop the bench. It was a phone. One she'd seen a hundred times, held up between two firm, strong hands.

"Frank was here," she said and her voice trembled. "And I think he's been hurt."