Another angle

Frank struggled to move, to make a sound, but all he succeeded in doing was making his position worse. His heart rate increased, his breathing deepened and beads of sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes, stinging and blurring his vision which was already star-spangled from the effects of the tightness of his bonds and the lack of air seeping in through his now spit-soaked gag.
Through the crack between the doors he could see his friend enter from the direction of the elevator, and he was his friend, unlike most of the ignorant suits in this building there was a mutual respect there. Both of them had unspoken histories, and yet to each other something of the nature of their stories was tangible and very familiar, and that was enough to make Frank stick his neck out on occasion. His friend would be surprised how many callers got a bum steer at the front desk when they came looking for him, twitchy and anxious and obviously not bringing good news.
He never mentioned such things, there was no need. He knew he could expect the same consideration in return. And more.

Chest heaving against the ropes, he tried to rock, tried to will his friend to hear him only twenty feet away.
He saw his friend stand at the open door and he blinked furiously to try and clear his eyes, as he focused again, the doorway was empty. He held his breath.

A shot.

The sound of footsteps making distance down the street.

Frank tensed and violently shook his whole body in an effort to tear free, tears of anger and frustration blinding him as he yelled silenty to no one.