Page 137 of Shadow Waltz
The guards who escorted me back to my cell moved with the kind of professional detachment that suggested extensive training in handling dangerous prisoners. But I could feel their eyes on me, could sense the way my conversation with Reddick had affected the entire facility's atmosphere. Word of what had been said would spread, creating ripples of tension that I could potentially exploit.
The corridor we walked through was institutional beige, fluorescent lighting casting harsh shadows that made everything look like a scene from a dystopian nightmare. Security cameras tracked our movement at regular intervals, but I noted the blindspots, the timing of guard rotations, the subtle vulnerabilities that came from overconfidence in technological solutions.
“Bathroom break,” I said as we passed the facility's restroom, keeping my voice casual despite the tension building in my chest.
The guards exchanged glances, clearly debating whether to allow the deviation from standard protocol. But basic human dignity won out over paranoia, and they positioned themselves outside the door while I entered the small space that would serve as the starting point for my escape attempt.
The restroom was a study in institutional brutality—concrete walls, reinforced mirror, fixtures that had been designed to prevent suicide attempts or weapon improvisation. But eight years of survival had taught me to find opportunities in places where others saw only obstacles.
The mirror came away from the wall with careful pressure applied to its mounting brackets, revealing a shard of reflective glass large enough to serve as an improvised blade. The toilet tank's lid provided additional weight, and the cleaning supplies under the sink contained chemicals that could blind or disorient pursuers.
“Everything okay in there?” one of the guards called, suspicion creeping into his voice.
“Just finishing up,” I replied, positioning myself beside the door with the mirror shard held like a scalpel.
When the door opened, I moved with the kind of fluid violence that came from understanding exactly how much force was required to incapacitate rather than kill. The mirror shard found the first guard's throat with surgical accuracy, opening his carotid artery in a spray of blood that painted the institutional walls in abstract patterns of red and desperation.
The second guard had time to reach for his weapon before the toilet tank lid caught him across the temple with enoughforce to crack bone and send him collapsing to the floor in a heap of unconscious flesh and spilled blood. His gun felt familiar in my hand, weight and balance speaking to countless hours of training I'd received from people who understood that survival required competence with violence.
The corridor beyond was empty except for the security cameras that tracked my movement with mechanical indifference. But cameras could be avoided, and I'd already mapped the facility's layout during my arrival, noting exits and chokepoints and the locations where guards would be most vulnerable to systematic elimination.
The first checkpoint was staffed by a single agent reading reports with the kind of bored attention that suggested nothing interesting ever happened during overnight shifts. He looked up just in time to see the gun barrel before I put two rounds through his forehead, painting the wall behind him with brain matter and blood that looked almost artistic in the harsh fluorescent light.
His keycard provided access to the facility's main corridor, where motion sensors and pressure plates would alert security to my presence. But I'd learned long ago that sometimes the direct approach was more effective than elaborate stealth, that overwhelming violence could create chaos that was easier to navigate than careful infiltration.
The alarm that began wailing when I triggered the motion sensors sounded like the facility's death scream, emergency lights casting everything in hellish red that made the blood on my hands look black. Guards began responding with professional urgency, but they were moving through corridors I'd memorized and toward positions I'd already identified as tactically disadvantageous.
The first response team died in a crossfire that caught them between my position and ricochets from their ownweapons. The second team made it close enough to return fire before I eliminated them with shots that spoke to accuracy honed through necessity rather than practice. Bodies began accumulating in the corridor like grotesque artwork, blood mixing with industrial disinfectant to create the scent of death disguised as cleanliness.
But it was when I reached the facility's main security office that I understood exactly how much trouble I was in. Banks of monitors showed federal response teams converging on the building from multiple directions, tactical vehicles and helicopters suggesting resources that far exceeded what local law enforcement could deploy.
“This is Agent Carie,” a voice crackled through the radio system, carrying authority that made my blood run cold. “Subject has breached containment and eliminated multiple personnel. Implementing Protocol Seven immediately.”
Protocol Seven. I didn't know what that meant, but the tone suggested something that would make my escape infinitely more difficult. Through the security monitors, I could see figures moving through the building with military coordination, equipped with gear that made local federal agents look like amateur hour.
I had maybe three minutes before they reached the security office, three minutes to turn the facility's own systems against the people trying to kill me. My fingers flew across the control panel, activating lockdown protocols that would seal blast doors throughout the building, creating chokepoints where superior numbers would become liability rather than advantage.
The first tactical team appeared on the monitor feeds moving through the western corridor, six men in full combat gear with weapons that could penetrate standard body armor. But they were moving in tight formation, trusting their equipment and training more than their situational awareness.
I activated the building's fire suppression system, flooding their corridor with halon gas that would displace oxygen and create visibility problems. Through the monitors, I watched them stumble and separate as the chemical fog reduced their coordination to individual panic.
The emergency lighting cast everything in hellish red as I moved through the security office, gathering weapons and equipment from the dead guards. A tactical vest that was too large but would stop small-caliber rounds. Extra magazines for the pistol I'd taken. A combat knife that felt balanced and deadly in my hand.
The first explosion echoed through the building as the tactical team tried to breach a sealed blast door with shaped charges. But I'd already moved beyond their reach, using maintenance corridors that didn't appear on standard blueprints to navigate toward the building's central core.
The second tactical team was smarter, spreading out through multiple routes and using thermal imaging to track movement through walls. But thermal imaging showed heat signatures, not tactical intelligence, and they weren't prepared for someone who understood how to use their own advantages against them.
The building's electrical system became my weapon, circuit breakers overloaded to create power failures that would disable their night vision and communications. Emergency generators kicked in with thunderous roars, but I'd already mapped their locations, already planned how to turn backup power into backup problems.
The maintenance tunnel I crawled through opened directly above the main corridor where the second team was advancing. They moved like professionals, covering angles and maintaining formation, but they were looking for threats at ground level.
I dropped through a ceiling tile like death falling from above, landing behind their formation with the tactical knife alreadymoving toward the team leader's throat. The blade found its mark before he could cry out, opening his carotid artery in a spray of blood that painted the corridor walls in abstract patterns.
His teammate spun toward the sound of falling bodies, assault rifle tracking movement, but I was already rolling behind cover as automatic gunfire chewed through drywall and concrete. The ricochets created a deadly storm of fragmented metal that caught the shooter across the chest, body armor absorbing impacts that would have killed an unprotected target but leaving him stunned and disoriented.
The knife found his femoral artery before he could recover, and he dropped to the corridor floor in a spreading pool of blood that reflected the emergency lighting like a crimson mirror. His weapon felt familiar in my hands, weight and balance speaking to weapons training I'd received from people who understood that survival required competence with violence.
The remaining team members had taken defensive positions, but they were thinking like soldiers rather than hunters. They expected their prey to retreat, to seek escape rather than escalation. They weren't prepared for someone who understood that sometimes the only way out was through.