The harder he tried, the angrier he became. Finally, his roar of frustration erupted— Abruptly, his eyes flew open and . . . he wasn’t falling at all. It was a fucking dream, although the way his heart was hammering, he might as well have been skydiving without a chute. And, shit, his head was pounding. He gritted his teeth and tried to sit up. What the hell? His arms were tied to the bedposts . . . and his feet. Fuck! Whose idea of a sick joke was this? He wrenched on his bindings as hard as he could and didn’t even make the four-poster bed frame creak. His movements stopped abruptly a second later when his gaze fell on the duct-taped and wired harness of explosives that wrapped his torso. He’d seen plenty of them . . . after they exploded, and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Stretching his neck, he peered down to see what the wiring mechanism looked like. There was a timer attached, set at fifteen minutes, but it was inactive. Not that the information would do him any good, trussed up like a roping steer at the rodeo.
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