The first blow thudded against Dalgetty's ribs. He didn't feel it—he had thrown up a nerve bloc—but it rattled his teeth together. And while he was insensitive he'd be unable to listen in on....
Another thud, and another. Dalgetty clenched his fists. What to do, what to do? He looked over to the desk. Bancroft was smoking and watching as dispassionately as if it were some mildly interesting experiment. Casimir had turned her back.
"Something funny here, chief." One of the goons straightened. "I don't think he's feeling nothing."
"Doped?" Bancroft frowned. "No, that's hardly possible." He rubbed his chin, regarding Dalgetty with wondering eyes. Casimir wheeled around to stare. Sweat filmed Michael Tighe's face, glistening in the chill white light.
"He can still be hurt," said the guard.
Bancroft winced. "I don't like outright mutilation," he said. "But still—I've warned you, Dalgetty."
"Get out, Simon," whispered Tighe. "Get out of here."
Dalgetty's red head lifted. Decision crystalized within him. He would be no use to anyone with a broken leg, a crushed foot, an eye knocked out, seared lungs—and Casimir was FBI, she might be able to do something at this end in spite of all.
He tested the straps. A quarter inch of leatherite—he could snap them but would he break his bones doing it?
Only one way to find out, he thought bleakly.