Page 90 of The Psychopaths

Probably.

When the camera finally turns away, I’m back at the hole instantly, fingers reaching for the exposed wiring. The conduit’s crack is just wide enough to access the bundle, but not enough to pull them out completely.

I’ll have to strip them in place.

Fingers won’t work—the insulation is too tough. Teeth, then. I wait for the next safe window, then plunge my hand in, pinch the blue wire, and pull it toward the opening as far as it will stretch.

Bending awkwardly to reach, I clamp the wire between my incisors and twist my head, feeling the plastic coating tear. The copper beneath gleams in the dim light, promising both danger and freedom.

I repeat the process with the red wire, timing each movement with the camera’s rotation. Sweat drips into my eyes, but I can’tspare a hand to wipe it away. One mistake, one miscalculation of timing, and Arson will know exactly what I’m doing.

Finally, both wires are exposed. Now comes the truly dangerous part.

During the next safe window, I maneuver the stripped sections close together. My hands are slick with sweat and blood from the concrete cutting into my skin. Can’t afford to slip now.

Three, two, one...

I press the wires together.

The shock hits immediately—a burning jolt that shoots up my arm and makes my teeth clench. I bite back a cry, fingers spasming but maintaining contact just long enough.

For a moment, nothing happens. Did I choose the wrong combination? Then?—

WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP!

The fire alarm blares at ear-splitting volume. Red emergency lights flash, bathing the cell in crimson pulses. I fall back from the wall just as the sprinklers activate, dousing everything in cold water.

“Fuck!” The exclamation escapes involuntarily as water streams down my face, plastering my clothes to my body.

But beneath the curse is elation. It worked. It actually worked.

The sprinklers spray relentlessly, turning the concrete floor slick and washing away the dust and blood from my efforts. Water cascades through the hole in the wall, potentially shorting more systems than I intended.

Even better.

I push soaked hair from my eyes, a laugh building in my chest. This is just step one—create a distraction, test the system’s vulnerabilities—but it’s more progress than I’ve made in weeks.

The water is cold, my cell is flooding, and I’m likely in for hell when Arson discovers what I’ve done.

But for the first time since my capture, I feel something like hope.

The sprinklers show no sign of stopping, turning my carefully executed plan into a waterlogged mess. Water streams into my eyes, my nose, my mouth, making it hard to see or breathe properly. The alarm continues its deafening wail, vibrating through the concrete walls.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, wiping water from my face for the tenth time in as many seconds. This wasn’t exactly how I’d pictured it—I’d hoped to trigger a minor alert, maybe cause a localized system failure. Not transform my cell into an indoor swimming pool.

The floor is already ankle-deep with water with nowhere to drain. The tiny sink in the corner is backing up, adding to the flood. My thin mattress floats pathetically, spinning slowly in the rising water.

Still, the chaos is what I needed. While Arson deals with the alarms and flooding, I can work on the next phase—expanding the breach, accessing more critical systems. Maybe even finding a way to unlock the door.

But first, I need to hide what I’ve done.

The camera continues its rotation, now largely useless through the sheet of water falling in front of it. Still, I won’t take chances. Timing my movements with the spray, I wade to my bunk, yanking the thin metal frame away from the wall.

The water makes it heavier than expected, muscles straining as I drag it across the cell to position it over my work area. It won’t hide the hole completely, but it might make it less obvious during a cursory inspection.

Next, I grab my mattress from where it floats, folding it to stuff into the gap between bed frame and wall. The sodden material is perfect—it looks like I’ve just tried to block the water from coming in, not hide a breach in security.

The spoon goes down the toilet, flushed with a silent apology to whatever plumbing system has to deal with it. The evidence of my digging—small piles of concrete dust—washes away in the deluge, swirling down toward the floor drain that’s proving wholly inadequate for the volume of water.

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