29. Rowan #3
The bathroom offers privacy but almost nothing useful. The towel bar flexes and springs back. The faucet mounts through the wall, while the shower rod is built into the tile. I check behind the toilet tank next and find no loose hardware.
The bed is more promising. An upholstered base hides a metal frame, and one support bracket gives slightly when I push against it with my foot.
Footsteps approach before I can do more. I get back onto the bed, pull the blanket over my legs, and leave the food tray where they can see I ate.
The lock opens. A guard looks inside, checks me and the tray, then remains in the doorway long enough to make it clear this is a scheduled inspection rather than concern. "You ate."
"I'm trying to be a considerate hostage."
His expression doesn't change. He closes the door and walks away.
I count after his footsteps disappear. Another guard passes seven minutes later, followed by the first again nine minutes after that. The intervals vary enough that I stop trying to turn them into a schedule, though the general pattern remains useful.
During the next hour, I learn the closest guard checks my room roughly every eight to ten minutes. A second crosses from the other direction less often. Staff carts interrupt both patterns, which means the building is still operating around my captivity rather than being emptied for it.
I wait for the hall to quiet before lowering myself beside the bed. The upholstered panel attaches with plastic clips. I work one loose using the hard edge of the water-bottle cap, then pull the fabric far enough to reach underneath.
A narrow steel support runs from the center rail to the outside frame. One end is already bent at the bracket, probably from years of people heavier than I am dropping onto the mattress.
I brace my foot against the rail and pull. Pain runs through my shoulder, so I change position instead of wasting strength. The second attempt uses my legs and left arm. Metal scrapes against metal once, and I stop immediately.
Nobody pauses outside.
I wait another minute before pulling again. The bracket gives slightly.
When the next guard reaches my door, I'm back on the mattress with the blanket over my legs. He checks the room without entering, then leaves.
I work through two more rotations before the support finally comes loose. The piece is about twenty inches long, narrow enough to hide beside my leg, with one end flattened where the bracket tore free.
At the private range, Erik taught me never to plan a fight around being stronger than the person coming at me. I need surprise, structure, distance, and one mistake. I set the support beneath the blanket and wait.
My face hurts, my shoulder is bruised, and I'm fourteen weeks pregnant with triplets.
I have no phone, no shoes, and no idea where Orell plans to move me.
At least six men are visible from the window, with more inside the building.
Waiting for Erik to walk into Orell's trade won't improve any of those facts.
The nearest guard passes again. I count until eight minutes, then move beside the door with the steel support against my forearm. The lock opens shortly after nine.
A different man enters carrying a dinner tray. He's younger than Rahil and broader than the guard who checked on me earlier. He uses his hip to push the door wider, annoyed enough by the tray that he lets it begin closing behind him before looking toward the bed.
He finds it empty.
I drive the flattened end of the support into the soft area below his jaw.
He drops the tray, and ceramic breaks across the floor while he reaches for me.
I step inside his attempt to grab my shoulder, hook my foot behind his ankle, and use his forward momentum to drive him into the wall.
His shoulder hits first. His head follows hard enough to daze him.
I rip the keycard from his belt clip and get into the corridor before he recovers.
My socks slide against the polished floor when I run, forcing me to shorten my stride.
I test the first card-reader door and find a linen room, while the second opens into a stairwell.
An alarm begins before I reach the first landing.
The pulsing tone rolls through the building, followed by doors opening above me and men shouting from the corridor I left.
I keep going down. The lower level smells of detergent, hot machinery, and institutional food.
At the bottom, the corridor divides three ways.
A window in the left exit shows the courtyard, where two men are already moving toward the building.
The right-hand route leads toward another exterior path with a black SUV parked beside the fence.
The third corridor drops another level beneath a green SERVICE sign.
Footsteps hammer the stairs behind me, close enough that I don't waste another second comparing exits. I swipe the stolen keycard, shove through the service door, and take the next flight down as fast as my socks and bruised shoulder allow.
Behind me, the alarm changes pitch.