Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 195(@200wpm)___ 156(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
The work is painstaking, each screw requiring minutes of careful manipulation, of tested angles and applied pressure. But gradually, one by one, they loosen, until finally the grate comes free in my hands.
The opening beyond is dark, confined, but large enough for me to enter if necessary—a last resort if Valentina returns before I can develop a better plan. I replace the grate loosely, returning to the chair to think through next steps now that this potential escape route exists.
The ventilation system might allow movement to adjacent rooms, but without knowing the layout, without understanding where guards might be positioned or exits located, blind navigation would be dangerous at best, fatal at worst.
I need more information, more understanding of the facility and its vulnerabilities.
Returning to the chair beneath the vent, I listen carefully for any sounds that might provide additional insight. Distant conversation, footsteps moving between rooms, electronic beeping that might indicate security systems or communication devices.
Gradually, a picture forms—the facility is not large, with perhaps five or six rooms on this level, minimal personnel present other than Valentina and her immediate associates. Security appears concentrated on the perimeter rather than internal movement, suggesting confidence in the holding cell's effectiveness at containing prisoners.
Overconfidence, potentially. A vulnerability I might exploit.
I continue listening, gathering what information I can, when a new sound captures my attention—faint but distinctive, a rhythmic tapping that doesn't match any natural building noise or human movement.
Morse code. Someone is sending a message through the structure's infrastructure, using the pipes or ventilation system as a conduit.
G-A-B-R-I-E-L-E
My heart leaps. He's here, somehow. Close enough to communicate, to coordinate, to offer hope beyond my own resources.
The message continues:
C-O-M-I-N-G - F-I-V-E - M-I-N - F-I-R-E - D-I-S-T-R-A-C-T-I-O-N
Five minutes. Fire as distraction. Gabriele coming for me, as I knew he would, as I trusted he would regardless of obstacles or opposition.
I tap back, using the key against the metal ventilation duct:
U-N-D-E-R-S-T-O-O-D - R-E-A-D-Y
The exchange complete, I return to the floor, replacing the chair in its original position, concealing any evidence of my exploration or preparation. Valentina must find me exactly as she left me—compliant, contained, unaware of the approaching rescue.
I sit, hands folded in my lap, expression composed but with the appropriate level of fear and uncertainty expected of a prisoner awaiting their fate. Inside, however, I'm calculating, planning, preparing for the moment when distraction becomes opportunity.
True to the message, approximately five minutes later, alarms begin blaring throughout the facility—harsh, insistent, impossible to ignore. I hear shouts, running footsteps, confused commands as Valentina's people respond to whatever diversionary tactic Gabriele has implemented.
Fire, he'd indicated. And indeed, the distinct smell of smoke begins filtering through the ventilation system, not overwhelming but definitely present, definitely concerning to those responsible for the facility and its security.
The lock on my door clicks, the panel swinging open to reveal the false server from the gala, expression tight with controlled urgency.
"We're moving you," he says tersely. "Now."
I rise, maintaining the appearance of compliant fear while inwardly calculating angles, distances, potential weaknesses in his approach. He gestures impatiently for me to precede him into the hallway, unwilling to turn his back on a prisoner even in emergency circumstances.
Professional. Cautious. But also distracted by the alarms, by the growing presence of smoke, by the chaos Gabriele has orchestrated specifically to create such distraction.
The hallway beyond is utilitarian, concrete like my holding cell, with numbered doors suggesting similar rooms along its length. The false server directs me toward a stairwell at the far end, his attention divided between my movement and the commotion happening elsewhere in the facility.
We're halfway to the stairs when the overhead sprinklers activate, drenching us both in seconds. He curses, using one hand to wipe water from his eyes while the other maintains its grip on what I now see is a concealed weapon.
The momentary distraction is enough. I drop to the floor suddenly, using the slick surface created by the sprinklers to slide between his legs, throwing him off-balance as he tries to compensate for my unexpected movement.
He staggers, weapon coming up but aim compromised by the water, by the surprise, by the training that emphasizes capture over killing for valuable prisoners. I roll to the side as he fires, the bullet striking concrete rather than flesh.
Before he can readjust, I'm on my feet, driving forward with the full force of my body, shoulder connecting with his midsection in the precise manner Gabriele taught me for opponents larger and stronger than myself.
He goes down hard, head cracking against the concrete floor with enough force to daze if not disable. I don't wait to find out which, already moving toward the stairwell, toward potential freedom, toward the rescue Gabriele promised was coming.
The stairwell is dark, emergency lighting providing minimal illumination as I ascend, moving as quietly as possible despite the continued blaring of alarms and rushing of water from sprinklers. At the top, a heavy door stands closed but not locked—an oversight in the chaos, a gift I accept without questioning.