Page 51 of Auctioned Innocence
I’ve been planning this since the moment I saw the blind spot in the security camera network, since I noticed the guard shift change always happens at the same time, and since I realized we had one small window of opportunity.
The plan is simple: create a distraction, incapacitate the guards, make it to the roof, cross to the adjacent building, and find a way down and out.
Five steps to freedom.
Simple doesn’t mean easy.
The guards separate us at the junction of two hallways.
Standard procedure—they never let us travel in groups. Divide and control. But tonight, I start counting steps in my head as I’m led down the plush hallway toward my prison cell.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.
I’ve timed this route before.
Twenty-three seconds from junction to my door.
Fifteen seconds from junction to Maisie’s door.
Forty-five seconds until the security camera above us rotates to its next viewing angle, leaving a four-second blind spot at the corridor’s midpoint.
I wait until we’re just past the security camera’s blind spot—the one I noticed during yesterday’s walk to the prep room.
The corridor bends slightly here, creating a natural shadow where the cameras overlap but don’t quite cover.
Then I stumble, letting out a small cry of pain that echoes off the marble floors.
“My ankle,” I gasp, grabbing the guard’s arm for support. He stiffens at the unexpected contact but doesn’t push me away.
They’ve been warned about damaging the “merchandise.”
No bruises. No marks. Nothing to lower our value.
I lean heavily against him, forcing him to adjust his stance to support my weight. “I think I twisted it.”
He grunts, clearly annoyed but also wary of any repercussions if I’m injured on his watch. “Can you walk?”
“I think so,” I whimper, playing up the helpless girl act while silently counting in my head.
Twenty Mississippi. Twenty-one Mississippi.
Right on cue, Maisie’s scream echoes down the hallway—piercing and terrified, the kind of sound that demands immediate attention.
My guard’s head whips toward the sound, hand automatically reaching for his weapon.
That split second of distraction is all I need.
The heel of my hand drives up into his nose—the fastest way to disable someone bigger, Marco always said during our self-defense lessons.
The cartilage gives with a sickening crunch.
As he reels back, blood streaming between his fingers, I grab his radio and smash it against the wall.
No immediate calls for backup.
The first step of our plan is complete. I’m already running before he hits the ground, collecting his key card from his belt as he crumples.
The hallway stretches before me, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps as I sprint toward the rendezvous point we established through whispered conversations and subtle hand signals over the past two days.
