CHAPTER 5 #3
The warmth of my own tears began to prickle at the corners of my eyes. The cold floor seeped into my bare soles. Looking at the women around me was like looking into a horrific mirror of my own fast-approaching ruin. If I cried, I was just like them. If I was just like them, I was dead.
I grabbed my own lower lip between my teeth and bit down.
Hard.
I didn't stop when the pressure hurt. I pushed my teeth right through the tender flesh until I felt the skin pop.
I bit down until the sharp, metallic taste of hot blood instantly flooded my mouth.
The intense, localized physical pain acted like a lightning rod.
It grounded me, instantly short-circuiting the emotional spiral that was about to take me out.
I opened my eyes. I reached up and wiped a smear of wet blood from my lip with the back of my hand. I stared at the bright red smudge on my knuckles with a strange, dark satisfaction.
"Pain is real," I whispered. "Fear is a choice."
The fog of the sedative and the suffocating panic instantly receded.
It was replaced by a cold, razor-sharp, furious focus.
My hazel eyes, which had been wide and frantic a second ago, narrowed.
I rolled my shoulders back, my posture shifting from a defensive, shrinking huddle into a rigid, upright stance.
I was not cattle.
"Look for the weak points," I muttered to myself. "Everything has a flaw."
I looked up. I wasn't praying. I was assessing the architecture. I cataloged the smooth drop-ceiling tiles. I tracked the heavy steel reinforcement on the ventilation grates. I examined the industrial silicone seams holding the massive glass panels together.
"Ventilation is too small," I noted, tracing the line of the ceiling vent with my eyes, calculating the vertical jump from the floor. "Glass is tempered. Too thick to break without a hammer." If I couldn't break the glass, I had to wait for them to open the door.
I started counting the cameras. There was one in each corner of the pen—black, unblinking domes.
I stood perfectly still and watched their slow, motorized pans.
I tracked the tiny red light blinking on the side of the housing.
One, two, three... I timed the intervals between their sweeps.
I moved to the back corner of the room, standing exactly where two cameras' arcs almost overlapped.
I raised my hand slightly, a small test movement, watching the lens swing past.
"Twelve-second rotation," I whispered. "Blind spot in the back left corner."
They were watching, but were they actually paying attention? Bored security guards were sloppy security guards.
I turned my back to the wall and gave my full attention to the hallway outside the glass.
There were three armed guards stationed twenty feet away.
They were a completely different breed from the silent handlers who had processed me.
These guys were less professional, relaxed, almost sloppy.
They leaned heavily against the cinderblock walls, talking and laughing about some bullshit.
Their black tactical rifles were slung loosely over their shoulders with a casual disregard that told me everything I needed to know.
Long shift. Uneventful post. They thought their job was babysitting.
I watched one of the guards dig a piece of foil-wrapped gum out of his cargo pocket. I noted the exact way his hand moved entirely away from the grip of his weapon.
"One is a talker," I observed, my eyes darting to the next guy. "The tall one is lazy."
I began to systematically memorize their gear.
Their heavy sidearms were holstered on the right hip.
Level two retention holsters. The keycards were attached to retractable lanyards clipped to their belts on the left side.
I noted the brand of their tactical boots—heavy soles, thick tread.
They stood flat-footed, heavy on their heels. Slow to react if they had to sprint.
"Blue card for the pen," I mapped out loud. The handler had used a blue one to open my door. One of the guards outside had a silver card clipped next to his blue one. "Silver card for the elevators?"
I dropped my right hand to my side and mimicked the exact downward pulling motion of swiping a keycard. Just a small, ghost-movement against my wet thigh. I just needed one of those cards. Just one opening.
I stood perfectly still in the dead center of the weeping room.
I was a stark, vertical line of defiance in a room full of broken, huddled shapes.
The blood from my split lip had already dried into a dark, jagged line down my chin.
My hair was plastered to my skull, the freezing wet silk stuck to my ribs, but I didn't shiver anymore.
I locked eyes with the tall, lazy guard outside the glass. He wasn't looking at me, but I stared a hole right through his skull anyway.
"Come and get me," I thought. "You have absolutely no idea what you've brought inside."
I wasn't waiting for the cops. I wasn't waiting to be saved. I was waiting for that magnetic lock to click open so I could ruin someone's life.