He glances left, away from me. I inch toward him, moving as catlike quiet as I can, knife ready.
My hand shakes.
He turns this way, sees me—it’s too late.
Slash—as hard and as fast as my body will move.
I feel like maybe this is too easy.
It’snoteasy, though. Panic soars in me, bile rises.
I can’t put off the horror. But I have to.
Fuck.
I’ve killed two men with a tiny knife. Who am I?
I grit my teeth and choke back bile as the guard wobbles on his feet, clutching his now-gushing throat. I move behind him, grab him under the arms and yank him backward, haul him. He’s heavy, weighs a ton, but I struggle backward with his weight to the nearest cellblock and into a cell. Onto the bench, on his side facing the wall. Maybe they’ll think he passed out drunk or something.
I don’t bother with his rifle since I can’t carry another one, but I do take his pistol, spare magazines; he has a large folding knife in a pocket, and I take that—if I have to take out any more guards, a bigger knife will give me more reach.
I vomit into the waste hole in the corner, wipe my lips, spit, vomit again. Breathe slowly, until the nausea fades.
Push aside thoughts and feelings—I have to find Apollo and Yelena.
Out, down the corridor to where the now-dead guard smoked his cigarette, the larger folding knife in hand, blade out, the smaller card-knife folded into my back pocket. A right turn only, another long, empty corridor, leading to what seems to be another set of cellblocks identical to the other one.
This place is huge, the underground complex far larger than the structure above. I can see why Spaulding uses it.
The ticking clock in my head ticks faster. The guys won’t wait long. The assault is coming, and I have to be hidden with Apollo and Yelena when it does.
I search the cellblock, but it’s empty, all the doors open, no guard. Back to the previous intersection, where the T leads me to yet another set of cells; here, a T on the other side leads to a short set of stairs leading up; I don’t search all the cells yet, just get my bearings. I do see a few closed doors, and I suspect they’re in this set of cells. Up the stairs, to a corridor with a few doors in it, most of them open, only one closed. One contains videography equipment—the warning video was filmed here.
I hesitate at the one closed door—it’s not bolted, just shut. I hear sounds coming from the other side. Muffled, but distinct.
Whimpers, and grunts.
I don’t know that I have a choice—I haven’t seen a guard in a long time, and we’re far underground. If I close the door, maybe the report will be muffled.
I put away the knife, withdraw my pistol. Check that it’s racked and the safety is off. Visualize the action first—yank open the door with my body behind it, roll around into the opening; sweep the room, locate the target, and fire.
Deep breath.
Wipe my palm on my jeans, secure my grip on the handle of the pistol. Heart hammers faster than ever. Grasp the door handle—nothing but a rusted iron ring. Yank it open, keeping my body shielded behind the metal.
A snapped phrase in a language I don’t recognize—angry.I’m busy, go away, probably.
I sidestep around the edge of the door, pistol held in both hands the way Sasha taught me for close-quarters work—elbows tucked against my sides, bottom hand gripping under the butt to steady the weapon, top hand on the grip and trigger, weapon held about a foot or so from my torso at chest height.
It’s just paintball.
Me and Sasha and Cal.
I see a naked male ass, trousers around his knees. Rings are driven into the wall near the ceiling—chained to the rings, a pair of female hands. Delicate, slender. Pale. Bloody from struggling. She’s chained upright, standing. Rings are driven into the floor as well, far apart, chaining her feet spread apart.
He’s thrusting into her, wildly, violently. She’s not making a sound except an occasional whimper of pain.
Fuck.
