Chapter 6 - The Fiery Trap
I woke up to the agonizing, burning sensation of a tight nylon rope cutting deeply into my wrists.
My head throbbed with a sickening, blinding pain as I slowly opened my eyes to the blurry surroundings.
I was tied firmly to a heavy styling chair in the center of the salon, completely unable to move my arms or legs.
Arthur was standing directly in front of me, holding a massive red plastic canister of highly flammable acetone.
Elena was casually tossing expensive styling equipment into a designer suitcase, completely ignoring my bloody, battered face.
Arthur smiled a wicked, terrifying smile as he splashed the potent, foul-smelling chemical all over the wooden floors around me.
He coldly explained that my tragic, accidental death in a salon fire would perfectly solve all of his complicated problems.
He would collect a massive life insurance payout, the police would close the assault case, and the cartel would assume the money burned with me.
I desperately struggled against the thick ropes, screaming at him that the cartel had already taken Victoria and they knew exactly who had the money.
Arthur laughed dismissively, claiming that he and Elena would be safely sipping cocktails on a private beach in Belize by sunrise.
He placed my stolen silver laptop just outside the puddle of chemicals, intending to take it with him as soon as the fire started.
He struck a long wooden match, the bright yellow flame illuminating the pure, unadulterated evil in his eyes.
He casually tossed the burning match onto the soaked floorboards, instantly igniting a massive, roaring wall of terrifying fire.
Arthur and Elena ran out the back door, locking the heavy steel deadbolt from the outside to ensure I burned alive.
The intense heat immediately blistered my skin, aggravating the severe coffee burns already covering my neck and jaw.
I frantically twisted my wrists, ignoring the tearing of my own skin as I desperately tried to loosen the stubborn nylon knot.
The flames began licking the base of the styling chair, filling the room with thick, suffocating black smoke.
I remembered that hairstyling chairs possessed a heavy metal hydraulic foot pedal used to adjust their height.
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I kicked my bound legs violently against the sharp metal pedal, repeatedly grinding the thick rope against the jagged steel edge.
The heavy rope finally snapped, completely freeing my legs just as the ceiling began to collapse into a fiery, deadly inferno.
