Betrayed (18 page)

SOMETHING'S GOING ON OUT THERE.
Something big has happened.

At first he could tell just by the sounds. Suddenly all these chaotic sounds were pouring through the walls of his room. They'd always seemed to keep complete order out there before, but now men and soldiers were barking at each other like dogs. Engines were starting up one after the other as horns honked endlessly and tires dug into the dirt. But that was just the beginning.

He hoisted himself from his hospital bed, ignoring the awful pain in his chest, and stepped up next to the one small circular window by the sink. He'd thanked God every day for that window. At least they let him look at something other than his bed and those ugly cement walls and that one stupid little travel chess-board they'd let him have.

He crouched down and peered through the crud-covered one-foot window. And what he saw was the first glimmer of hope he'd had in weeks.

There was major movement.
Major.
These weren't the usual little practice ops he'd seen them working on before with the armored cars and the RVs. Cars and jeeps were lining up in droves as the men hollered out indecipherable orders to each other.

Jesus, they're moving out! This is some kind of
abandon-ship.
He was sure of it. What else could it possibly be?

And then all the little pieces of the day started to make more sense. He hadn't had his usual visit from the doctor. They hadn't come in to give him his daily injection.

Wait a minute. Maybe that's why I'm so alert? Maybe that's why things are coming through so loud and clear today? No sedation. God, maybe this is it? Maybe this is my chance to break out of this place?

He tried to run to the door, but running was still a little tough on the chest wounds. He got to the door and tugged with as much strength as he could muster. But it was useless. The door was still locked shut. It didn't matter how much it looked like a cheap, shoddy hospital room; it was still just a prison cell in disguise.

All right, think,
he ordered himself for the thousandth time while pacing around gingerly in the tiny cell.
Think this through. Play it like a game. Play it like a chess game.

Of course, it looked like a stalemate, but
some
new move had just presented itself, he was sure of it. If they were really starting to ship out of the compound, then there had to be some new escape route opening up. Some area that was less guarded now or perhaps not even guarded at all?

Come on. Think of your maps.

He'd mapped whole quadrants of the compound in his head the few times they'd let him out of his cell for any reason. Even when he was still stuck on the gurney, he'd managed a few drowsy observations. Now he just had to turn his observations into a game of chess.

Come on. Picture the stalemate and find the way out.

He flashed back to an ugly stalemate he'd fallen into with Gaia one day at the park, and that left a horrible pain in his chest again. But this pain wasn't coming from his wounds. This was just that same horrid twinge he felt in his heart every time he thought of her. Which was about thirty to fifty times a day. Combined with his wounds, that equaled a whole lot of pain.

But if he could find his way back to her…If there really was a chance developing here, then for God's sake he had to take it, no matter what the risk. He certainly wasn't about to rot to death in this cell just dreaming about Gaia and the day that he'd finally be sitting across from her again in Washington Square Park in the rain. He'd had enough of that for one lifetime.
So think, you idiot. What's your next move? How the hell are you going to get home?

He didn't have his exact answer yet, but he sure as hell had his motivation.

Just picture Gaia at the other end of the board and you'll get there. You will get there.

HE WAS ABLE TO HEAR EVERYTHING.
After months of being trapped in this cold, white cell, he had trained himself to hear it all. Every turn of a key in a lock. Every click of a door. Every footstep. Every word. Every sneeze. Sometimes he even heard a breath. With nothing to see, nothing to smell, nothing to feel, his hearing became honed. Like that of a bat. Like a mouse. Like the lab rat he was.

There was something going on. New sounds. New words. New tones. Things were starting to fall apart, that much was clear. He could tell from the high pitch of his captors' voices. He could tell from the running. The quick clip-clop of their compulsively shined shoes.

He pressed his fingertips and palms up against the glass that closed him off from the sparkling white hall beyond. From the gleaming tile. From the one tiny crack in the plaster on the far wall that he'd studied so hard and for so long that it started to appear in his dreams. It was the only thing of discord in this sterile, regimented place. Until now.

Footsteps came. Rapidly. His heart hit his throat and he pressed his cheek against the glass, waiting. Suddenly a guard ran down the hall, zipping right past him in a blur of color. So close, yet so untouchable.

More voices.

“What are you going to do with them? You can't move them! We have strict orders to—”

“The orders don't matter anymore! We have to contain this!”

A third voice. A scared voice. Possibly the voice of Five Oh Three, the guard with the twitchy eye. “Let's just let them go! If the cops come here and find this place—”

Let them go!
the prisoner thought, pressing his face so hard into the glass it hurt.
Yes! Let them go!

“NO! We have our orders!”

“Aren't you listening to me! Loki's not coming back! He is as good as dead! Our orders don't matter anymore!

There was a loud clatter. A punch landed. A jaw cracked. A body hit the floor. The prisoner had a sinking feeling that Five Oh Three would have been his only ally. He swallowed hard. If Loki was as good as dead, wasn't he as well? Would the morons out there even bother to continue to feed him? Would he rot away in this white room for the rest of his numbered days?

The moment the prisoner stepped back from the glass, Four Five Seven appeared at the side of his cell. Four Five Seven was the round-jawed, pudgy, yet strong Hispanic guard who brought the prisoner his injections. Who held him down while Four Nine Two and Five Oh Three administered the serums. He'd never known his captors by their real names, only by the numbers embroidered in gold thread along their collars.

The prisoner narrowed his eyes as Four Five Seven silently raised the glass wall by remote control and entered his cell. Before he could formulate some kind of reason for this unexpected visit, Four Five Seven drew his gun from his holster and leveled it at the prisoner's heart.

“What's going on?” the prisoner asked calmly.

“You're moving,” said Four Five Seven as he lifted the gun half an inch. “Now step out into the hall and make a right. I'll be right behind you and there's nowhere to go but straight, so don't try running.”

The prisoner's pulse was racing like a thorough-bred's. Was this actually happening? Was he going to move outside the four walls of his tiny cell? He tentatively stepped past Four Five Seven, never taking his eyes off the gun until he was in the hall. It was colder out here. The air was crisper. Sweeter. It was a whole new smell and his nostrils actually prickled. He almost closed his eyes to savor it, but stopped himself.

“Move it,” Four Five Seven ordered.

He walked down the hall, past the other cells. Some were empty. One held a girl, a redhead, who cowered in the corner, rocking back and forth. One held an older man, stooped and tired. He looked up as they passed, his blue eyes hopeful. Why were these people here? What was their offense? Was it merely loving someone, too? Was that all they had done?

The hallway opened onto a larger room where Five Oh Three was just struggling to his feet. A bruise was already forming on his left cheek.

“I thought I put you down,” Four Five Seven said to the smaller man, still keeping his gun trained on the prisoner.

Five Oh Three looked the prisoner over. His eye twitched once. “Just let them go,” he said again.

The prisoner looked at Four Five Seven, who tightened his grip on the gun. “We can't let them go,” he said. “We have orders.”

“Fine,” Five Oh Three said. Then, faster than the prisoner ever would have thought possible, Five Oh Three ripped his gun from his holster and blasted off a shot, sending Four Five Seven reeling backwards.

The prisoner stood there for a moment, stunned and free, as Four Five Seven's gun clattered to the floor. The wound was in his shoulder, but it was bleeding like a geyser. The guard didn't even shout out. He simply looked surprised.

“Well?” Five Oh Three said, the twitch wild now. “Run, you idiot!”

That was all he needed. The prisoner took off through a door at the far end of the room. There was another hallway and a guard came running toward him from the other end. He raised his arms and kept running, ready to give the man a swift elbow to the jaw if he tried to stop him, but the guard sped past him as if he weren't even there.

The next door opened up into a brightly lit room that was three stories high and made almost entirely of glass. He blinked against the harshness of the light, momentarily incapacitated by it. Until he realized it was sunlight. Until he realized that those appalled things on the other side of the glass were trees.

Salivating now, he careened toward the exit door, across a marble floor dotted with black speckles and trimmed with gold. Every second he expected someone to jump out and tackle him to that floor. Every moment he expected to hear a shot ring out or a voice call for him to stop. But nothing came. There was no one. And in moments, he was tasting fresh air.

Outside he found himself feeling almost drunk. There were birds. There was wind. There was grass and asphalt. A fast-food wrapper skittered across the pathway in front of him, its bright red color one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

A slam sounded from the compound behind him and he realized that he had to keep moving. He wasn't safe yet. He ran toward the woods that bordered the building. Ran until the branches had ripped through the soles of his soft slippers. He spotted a large rock and collapsed behind it, pressing his back up against its cool, uneven surface.

His breath was harsh and ragged. He hadn't had this much exercise in months and it made his heart pound dangerously. He sat for a moment and waited, gasping as quietly as possible. Listening. Waiting for the army that he was sure would be sent after him. They couldn't really all be gone. Most of them had to be there still. And when they realized what Five Oh Three had done, they would deal with him and come after the refugee.

He waited. He waited until his breathing normalized. Until his nose stopped running. Until his fingers were so cold he could barely curl them.

But no one was coming.

He stood and started to run again, cutting through the woods, just hoping he was going the right way. All he needed was a road. That, at least would be a start. He almost laughed when he heard traffic up ahead. He was on his way. He was on his way back to her.