While he had been successful in freeing his ankles, the tape on his wrists was not as forgiving, no matter how he sawed at it against the posts. He prayed he had made enough progress to break away. Priscilla carried another syringe, a roll of duct tape, a pair of scissors, and her compact handgun with her, laying them all on the bedside table. She still wore the nightie, and he wondered first if he would manage to break free of the tape, and second whether he should go for the gun or the scissors when he was free. The syringe bothered him. If she were to dope him up again, he wouldn't be able to move let alone stage an escape. She selected the scissors from the table. “You don't need these clothes, my dear Mason,” she told him as she began snipping through his t-shirt. She grinned. “You're not going to need clothes for a while.” It wasn't until she was almost completely bent over, the scissors halfway up his abdomen that he kicked out, managing to hit her in the thigh and knock her off balance.
