I pay little attention to my surroundings as we run. There’s emergency lighting in the halls, which are builder-beige with equally nondescript flooring. What matters is the path I need to take. Down this hall and then turn left to the end, turn right and the door will be there. Freedom will be there.
We get around the corner. The exit door is just ahead. I’m reaching out, as if I can grab the knob from ten feet away. Then I see the keyhole.
The door is locked. It must be. A locked solid steel door. I slow, and Max passes me, and I think maybe he didn’t notice the lock. But when he yanks on the door and it doesn’t open, his expression isn’t shock—it’s disappointment. He saw the keyhole—he just hoped maybe Predator forgot to relock it after releasing Sandy. Did he really think the SWAT team wouldn’t have checked?
He bends to examine the lock.
“Unless you smuggled picks past the metal detector …” I say.
He runs his fingers over the hinges.
“Or a screwdriver,” I say.
He gives me a look to say I’m not helping. It isn’t an angry look. Not even an annoyed one. Just a quick glance and a shake of his head before he goes back to examining the door.
“You’re wasting time,” I say. “We need to search for another exit.”
“One they forgot to lock?”
“I’m not the one who checked this one.”
“I’d be daft if I didn’t.”
“Then we’d be daft if we didn’t search for another way out.”
“That’s plan B,” he says.
“And plan A? Blow up the door?”
“You brought dynamite? Brilliant.” He smiles, and somehow I hate that smile more than if he’d scowled. The smile says he’s got this under control. No, not he. We. It says we can handle this, together. There’s no arrogance in that smile, and I wish there was, because it’s a smile of something worse: faith.
He puts his ear to the door.
“What are you—?” I stop. “Right. The SWAT team.”
Now I get a roll of his eyes. Of course. The SWAT team is out there. All we have to do is let them know we’ve escaped. Communicate … through a solid steel door.
When I mention that part, Max only says, “We just need to let them know we’re in here. They can figure out the rest. I don’t hear anything, so the door must be thick. We’ll need to bang on it to get their attention.”
“And get the attention of X-Files and Predator too?”
He frowns, and I say, “I mean our captors. The masks. They’re from—”
“Ah, right. Predator. That’s a film. I thought I recognized it. I was calling the other Gray. Yes, I suspect they’ll hear us, but it’s more important to let the people outside hear us.”
“Knock on the door and then run.”
A flashed smile. “You’ve got it. Head that way”—he points—“and find a route for us to flee the scene.”
CHAPTER 8
There’s a long corridor at the other end of the hall, with several shorter ones branching off, giving us options for an escape route. I signal Max while listening for our captors. He whales on the door and I hear only a muffled thump.
He puts his ear to the door again. I start toward him, but he lifts his hand to warn me back, while pantomiming that he can hear faint sounds outside the door.
I try to visualize what’s happening out there. I’ve seen hostage-takings in movies and on TV, often with my dad beside me, pointing out everything that Hollywood did wrong, and I’d ask how it really worked, and Mom and Sloane would shush us, but afterward I’d ask Dad again because I knew he couldn’t talk about his actual work, not really, and this gave him a way to share his job, and I think he appreciated that.
Did you, Dad? You liked explaining it, right? You weren’t just being patient with me, because I know you were always patient, always there for us, and now you’re not and I miss you, Dad, miss you so much. It’s not getting better. A year and a half, and it’s not getting better.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I think of those shows, and how the teams are arranged. No one hangs around the front door. Not in real life and mostly not even in Hollywood’s version, because the officers need a wider view and the only reason to be at the door is if they expect someone to come out.
Yet they did expect someone to come out. If Gideon hadn’t opened his mouth, I’d be out there. I’d be free and the others would be waiting their turn and damn you, Gideon. Damn—
I imagine Gideon, lying on the floor. Shot.
My stomach clenches, and I remind myself I didn’t see Gideon get shot. He might have escaped. Either way, he doesn’t deserve any of this, no matter how much I might wish he’d just kept quiet and let me leave.
Had the negotiator known I was about to be released? It seemed not, or there’d be someone outside the door, wondering why it hadn’t opened, close enough to notice that vibration when Max pounded. But there’s a good chance X-Files—or Gray, which was an easier name—didn’t tell them I was coming or he wouldn’t have been able to swap Gideon for me, because it would raise concerns if another kid walked out that door.
Max pounds again. Then he knocks, using his knuckles. I hear that, but barely. He tries his boot next. It’s a Doc Marten, vintage-style, and that’s all I know, not really being my kind of fashion statement. I noticed a slight heel, and I’m hoping there’s steel inside, but when he bangs it on the door it’s only slightly louder than the knock.