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“Sure.”
One side of the pouch has Velcro on it.
“Don’t push too hard. We don’t want any blood spilling just yet.”
Hank stands and turns around. Tentatively, I attach the device to his back while he holds the tubing up.
“Now what?”
“We need to fasten the tubing to my chest, cut a small hole in my shirt, and then lights, camera, action!” jokes Hank.
Nodding, I pick up the surgical tape and stick it to Hank’s chest, right above his heart. He slips his shirt back on and does up the buttons.
“Okay, Simon, I need you to cut a hole right here.” He pulls a small penknife out of his jeans pocket.
Taking the knife off him, I hold it to his chest. “Here?”
Hank nods. I push the knife into his chest, then pull his shirt away from his body. The penknife slips easily through the thin material. My eyes lock with Hank, and he lifts his chin and smiles.
“It’s sharp, you cut me.” Immediately, I drop the knife, and it clatters on the floor loudly. “Relax, Simon. It’s a minor cut. I’ll heal.”
Stepping back from him, I shake my head to clear it. Hank eyes me but says nothing, then he straightens up.
“I need you to hit me.”
“What?”
“Right in the jaw… hard.” He reaches into his other pocket and pulls out brass knuckles.
“What the actual fuck?”
“You need to break the skin. These will ensure you do.”
Holding up my hands, I widen the gap between us. “No.”
Hank lets his hands fall to his sides, and he looks up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and bares his teeth, a long sigh escapes him, and then he looks at me.
“Who am I?”
“What?”
Hank raises his eyebrows and looks at me with his hands firmly planted on his hips. “I’m a trained special forces operative. I kill people for a living. Do you think Jonathan Stonewall will believeyougot the jumpon mewithout some kind of altercation? We need this to look as real as possible, or it will all have been for nothing. Man up, Simon. Don’t be such a fucking pussy.”
He throws the knuckles at me, and I catch them in one hand. Slipping them on, I walk toward him, he faces me, and I raise my arm to swing and hit him in the mouth as hard as I can.
“Arrrgh,” I shout as my fist connects.
Hank grunts and spits blood on the floor. “Again.”
Sucking in a breath, I do it again and again. Hank holds up a hand and smiles while blood drips down his chin. He spits, and a tooth hits the floor.
“Good job.”
The knuckles fall off my hand. “Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
“Tie me to the chair.”
Hanks sits down, and I put the tape around his ankles and then his wrists. My gaze drifts to the prop knife, and I pick it up.
