He sat down and tried to think if he had anything on him that he could use to remove the cuffs. His belt would have been useful, but they had removed that in the back of the van. He remembered the tracker in his boot. He doubted that it had any juice left and wondered whether he could break it open and find a sharp piece of metal or plastic to use.

He had nothing to lose.

He reached down, unlaced his boots and worked them off his feet. He took the right-hand boot and turned it in his hands until he could rub his finger against the sole. It was too dark to see it, but he remembered what it looked like and how it had been adapted from when Ziggy had given it to him. He felt for the almost imperceptible join where the heel had been split and then glued back together again and worked his thumbnail into it, loosening the two parts until he could fit the tips of his fingers inside. He pulled the heel all the way apart and felt both pieces; the device was nestled into a cavity that Ziggy must have cut out, snug enough that Milton had to pry it free. He felt it: it was a long, thin rectangle, about the size of a credit card and perhaps three centimetres thick. The edges were rounded and the plastic casing was smooth, offering no sharp edge that he might have been able to use against the cuffs. He worked his fingers against it, trying to find where the plastic pieces had been fitted together, but it felt solid, as if it was a single piece.

Milton heard the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs outside the room. He palmed the tracker, raised his hands to his face and rotated them so that the free end of the zip ties was pointing up. He bit down on the plastic and wriggled his wrists until the locking mechanism was between his hands. He kept the plastic between his teeth as he pulled down, tightening the ties until he couldn’t close them any more. Tightening them was a gamble, but he was out of time and out of options. He had one card left to play; it would have to be enough.

98