Keeping his grip on the door handle, Evan ripped the garrote free of his sock. Dex reared back, the weighty door swinging open, then smashing shut again on the hatchet wound of the wrist. His mouth spread in another silent roar, but by then Evan had already looped the piano wire around the arm, sinking it into the deepening gash above the wrist.

Gripping the roughly hewn wooden handles, Evan twisted the garrote. Ligaments snapped. The bones of the wrist started to separate from the base of the ulna and radius. It was grisly, hard-going work.

Evan sensed a blur of movement overhead, found himself looking up into the barrel of the .45. He jerked his face to the side as Dex pulled the trigger, the percussion so loud that for a moment Evan thought the round had in fact penetrated his head.

But he heard it ping behind him—and then again and again, ricocheting endlessly around the small box. It seemed only a matter of time before the bullet would find him.

Evan was dangling from the garrote’s handles, wrenching with all his might, yanking Dex against the door to hold it shut. Dex shoved himself back, trying to widen the gap and position himself for another shot.

And still the round pinged and pinged.

Xalbador gripped Dex around the midsection, fighting a tug-of-war over the mangled arm. Dex jammed the gun through the gap again, and Evan clustered both ends of the garrote in one hand and grabbed for the barrel with the other, forcing the bore to the side of his head.

The gun bucked powerfully—he felt the ache in the bones of his fingers—but didn’t fire. He squeezed the slide assembly even tighter, keeping the pistol from cycling. As long as he held on, it wouldn’t be able to eject the round it had already fired. Torquing his wrist, he managed to wrench the .45 free of Dex’s grip. The pistol skittered across the Lexan floor behind him.

The first shot was still rocketing around the enclosure, whining and cracking off the walls. He felt the air move, the bullet riffling the hair on his head, missing by a whisper.

The world was nothing but the ringing aftermath of a struck bell; his head felt thick and dead, stuffed with rags. Dex reared back again, Xalbador yanking him, the door yawning wide. Evan’s fists ached around the wooden handles. His boots slipped on the slick Lexan. Dex and Xalbador were going to rip him right out of the box.

He lost his feet, swinging around on his ass, pulled by the garrote toward the threshold. At the last minute, he threw a boot wide, wedging it against the doorframe, and hurled himself back.

The tendons snapped audibly. Evan toppled backward. The severed hand fell free, slapping the floor.