I flinched before a smile crept onto my face. “What?”
“Don’t get excited. You’ll only put yourself in a state.”
“Good one.” I chuckled. By now, we’d reached my chamber. The familiar electronic beep sounded as he scanned his badge, followed by the metal clink. I envisioned kicking him and propelling him into the cell, but I’d be handcuffed with no way to remove the blindfold or pull the door shut. Patience. I’d gotten the dude to tell me a joke. It was progress.
He guided me inside and unlocked my cuffs, then yanked off the blindfold. Usually, he withdrew and exited as quickly as possible. Did he fear another one of my outbursts? Did he remember how hard I’d kicked him that first day? So I had mere seconds and I needed to keep him on my side. “Nice going with that joke, Peterson.”
He shrugged.
“I hadn’t heard that one before,” I said. Then, something shifted in his shirt pocket. “Hey, what’s that?” I pointed as a tiny, white face with pink nose and twitching whiskers emerged.
“Nothing. F-forget it.” Peterson drew a clawed hand over his pocket, hiding the small mouse. He glanced at the surveillance camera before quickly closing and latching the door shut behind him.
Why did the guard have a rodent in his pocket? Was it his pet? And why had he shied away from the camera? He didn’t want them to see the mouse. I had discovered Peterson’s weak spot.
I’d learned a lot about thievery living in Hell’s Kitchen. Swiping things was how we survived. My pickpocketing skills would be a strength.
Eleven
The surprise Dr. Kenmore had promised turned out to be a book, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Normally, I would have devoured it, but my mind was preoccupied.
The next day, I rose as usual, consumed my meager, unsatisfying breakfast, and rehearsed my plan in my head. I needed to make my move against Peterson. Against Kenmore. I sensed another surgery coming, and I didn’t want to delay any longer.
I hid in my corner for a while, out of view. This small amount of privacy was my only luxury here, a ritual I repeated daily. Following my routine seemed the safest way to avoid raising any alarms as they monitored me. Let them underestimate me.
An hour before I knew Peterson would arrive for his usual escort service, I clutched my stomach and groaned. After making a show for the cameras, I climbed into bed and pulled my covers up to my ears. Would they believe I was actually sick this time? I crossed my fingers.
He knocked his baton against the cell door. “Step into the center of the room, hands behind your back, palms open, feet spread.”
I lay in bed, ignoring him.
He banged again, harder. “Center of the room. You know the drill.”
Motionless, I listened carefully as he spoke in hushed tones into his comms. I only hoped they’d give him permission to enter and check on my condition.
Seconds later, the handle rattled, the heavy steel door slid open in its groove, and then clanged shut. Peterson was inside. Alone. So far, my plan was on track.
“Hey,” he said, the clunk of his boots getting louder as he edged closer. A swoosh—he’d drawn his stun baton, and I heard the fizz as voltage surged through the weapon. I had hoped he’d trust me more, but I would deal with it. I prepared my body, coiling my muscles like a tightly wound spring.
He paused. I listened as the buzzing electricity switched off. Holding my breath, I waited under the darkness of the covers for his next move.
A jab in my arm. “Hey, wake up.”
Every muscle tensed. Just a few seconds more.
He pulled the blanket down to my feet. Exactly what I’d hoped for. I was lying on my back with my right leg bent, my boot wedged between my butt and the wall. Poised, I opened my eyes wide and met his gaze.
He peered down. “Are you okay?”
I launched my shin outward and up as hard as I could. The edge of my boot caught his fist and sent the baton flying.
He yelped, then staggered. I sprang up and pounced, using the height of the bed to launch me forward with raised fists. I jabbed him in his throat, landed, then front-kicked his gut. He doubled over, gasping. We both spied the baton which had rolled into a corner.
Barreling into him, I knocked him backward with my body weight. I thrust my hands into his shirt pocket until I touched something small and warm. His arm flew to his side. He pulled the stunner out, but I retreated into the far corner, opposite the bed. Clutched in my hands, Peterson’s pet mouse squirmed.
He growled as he checked his front pocket and his mouth trembled. “Don’t hurt her.”
“I will if you don’t drop that gun.” I cupped my palms as the creature quivered inside.
He lowered his weapon cautiously. “Don’t drop or throw her. P-p-please. She’s very delicate.”
“Slide me the baton.” In my perfect scenario, I’d grabbed the weapon already. Taking the mouse hostage had been a last resort.
He glanced at the camera. “They’re on their way.”
“Give me your badge and the stunner, or I kill your mouse,” I hissed.
“No.” He snarled and extended his claws. “Don’t you dare hurt her.”
“The badge! Now!” I clasped the animal in one fist. How long before Kenmore and other guards arrived?
“Okay,” he shouted. He snatched the cord that secured his badge to his belt and slid it across the floor.
With my foot, I pulled it toward me and retrieved the access card, keeping my eyes locked on his.
Then a shout, followed by loud voices in the hall. I panicked and hurried for the door. But the tender, fleshy spot between my thumb and finger stung like a needle prick. I yelped—the damn mouse had bitten me. I jumped in shock and she leapt from my hands.
Another guard appeared in the doorway. I pivoted for a side-kick, but this
