My husband had me locked in a windowless subterranean holding room beneath our Chicago estate, claiming I had suffered a severe psychotic break.
The lights inside my subterranean vault died with an abrupt, final click. Total darkness. The backup generators, usually roaring to life within seconds, remained silent.
I heard Captain Cross curse, a low growl swallowed by the sudden void. “What the hell? Generators!”
His voice was muffled, disoriented. This wasn’t part of the plan. This was Felix.
I heard the hiss and click of night-vision goggles engaging. A faint green glow outlined Cross and his mercenaries, making them appear like ghostly figures in the oppressive blackness.
The low rumble of the freight engine outside was my only anchor in the sensory deprivation.
My chair scraped against the wall as I slid, using the sound to mask my movements. My fingers fumbled, searching for what I knew had to be there: the emergency fire axe, mounted on the concrete wall.
My elbow struck cold glass. The brittle casing shattered, sending shards raining onto the floor. The sound was sharp, louder than it should have been in the thick silence.
Cross shouted, “What was that?!”
I ignored him, my freed hands already reaching into the jagged opening. The heavy axe handle was cold, solid. I gripped it, then used a broken edge of the plastic casing to saw at my wrist bindings. The thick nylon frayed, then snapped.
My hands were free.
The adrenaline coursed through me, hot and sharp. I had seconds.
I heard Cross barking orders. “Fan out! Find her! She’s disoriented!”
They were relying on my presumed fear, my supposed mental instability. They expected me to cower. They expected a madwoman in the dark.
I smiled, a grim, silent act. They had no idea who they were dealing with. I was born in the dark. I knew how to move in it. I knew how to use it.
I felt for the leg irons, heavy and cold. They were still in place. But my hands. My hands were free. And I had an axe.
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