A drop of honey formed on the vaulted ceiling.
He strained against his bonds. How much more could he take? The drop slammed into his forehead with all the force of a sledgehammer.
Through his pain, he heard a loud drone. He turned his head.
Two feet away, the yellow-jacketed silhouette of McQueen stared at him, immobile except for her rapidly beating wings. “If you had not meddled, you would not be in this sticky situation. Tell me who hired you.”
“None of your beeswax.” The words scraped his throat.
“Tell me,” McQueen demanded.
The honey began its downward journey.