Page 93 of Rescuing Aria
“Not a sound.” Metal presses against his windpipe. “Blink if you understand.”
Terror widens his eyes. He blinks rapidly.
“How many guards in the compound?”
He hesitates. I increase pressure on his throat, just enough to restrict airflow without crushing the larynx.
“Eight,” he chokes. “Plus Mr. Wolfe.”
“Where’s Aria Holbrook?”
His eyes dart away. The subtle tension in his facial muscles tells me he’s preparing a lie.
I activate the taser an inch from his face. The crack and sizzle of electricity fills the small room. “Try again.”
“Main house,” he gasps. “But I swear I don’t know which room. Security rotation keeps us down here. We don’t go upstairs.”
The micro-expressions match his words. He’s telling the truth—or at least what he believes is true.
“The other prisoner? Marcus Holbrook.”
“Cell B-2. One corridor over.”
“When’s the next guard check?”
“Fifteen minutes. Johnson will radio when I don’t respond.”
I zip tie his hands and feet with his own restraints, gag him with strips of my torn shirt. The radio at his belt crackles to life.
“Check-in, Section C.”
I adjust my pitch, mimicking the cadence and inflection I heard in his voice earlier. “All clear.”
Silence stretches for three heartbeats. “Repeat check-in.”
They’re suspicious. The timing’s off, or my voice wasn’t close enough. I place the guard’s radio into my pocket.
I drag the unconscious guard to the camera blind spot, take his security pass, and check his weapon—9mm Glock, full magazine, round chambered.
The corridor beyond is deserted—concrete walls, industrial lighting, numbered doors. Cameras every twenty feet, positioned for maximum coverage with minimal blind spots. Professional security setup. No windows, cool dry air—we’re underground.
The security station at the end of the hall shows feeds from around the compound. A sprawling estate. Main house, outbuildings, perimeter fence. One monitor displays another cell—Marcus pacing like a caged animal, disheveled and haggard.
I scan the security system, memorizing the compound layout. We’re beneath the main house. Two guards assigned to detention level, four patrolling the grounds, two in the main house, plus Wolfe. Nine total.
Whatever “family reunion” Wolfe mentioned could be happening soon. I need to move.
The stairwell door requires the guard’s keycard. It opens with a soft click that sounds thunderous in the quiet corridor. Three steps up, and alarms begin to wail.
“Security breach, detention level. All personnel, secure positions.”
I take the stairs three at a time, emerging into a service corridor. Red emergency lights pulse along the ceiling. A voice echoes over an intercom system—controlled, professional. Not panicked. These aren’t amateur security contractors. They’re trained professionals.
The corridor splits ahead—left toward the main house, right toward what looks like a utility area.
I move right, staying tight to the walls where cameras are less likely to catch movement. The corridor opens into a maintenance area—tools, electrical panels, a door marked “Server Room.”
It’s locked. The guard’s keycard doesn’t work here. Different security protocol.
