The most sickening thing that Forensia had ever seen. Rick Birk, the old reporter taken hostage, was on TV all the time, and you couldn’t miss his thumb. Only it wasn’t attached to his hand. It was pinned to his shirt. A thumb, just hanging there like a bloody brooch, right below his collar. Forensia almost threw up the first time she saw it. Birk looked like he was in seven kinds of agony, propping up his bandaged hand with his good one while he spoke, yet he was so brave. Somehow he’d managed to keep talking all day. Even though he sounded weary and hoarse, he still joked about his fingers: “One down, nine to go.” But it wasn’t funny, and he was shaking so badly that his thumb looked like it had come back to life. But that wasn’t the worst part. Oh, God no. She could barely bring herself to look at the worst part. But how could she not? Only one thing poked out of the blood-soaked gauze hiding Birk’s hand—his index finger! The terrorists had clamped those awful wire cutters on it; any second he might clip it off.
