Chapter 4 - THE FIVE-MINUTE WINDOW
We didn't have tools, but we had the rusted iron support pillar in the center of the cell.
"Wrap the chain around the base," I instructed, my voice a frantic whisper in the dark. "When I pull, throw your weight against the links."
Clara didn't hesitate. She scrambled over, her thin hands wrapping the heavy iron chain around the jagged, rusted base of the column where the metal had been eaten away by decades of dampness.
"On three," I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. "One... two... three!"
We both threw our bodies backward with all our remaining strength. The iron bit deep into my wrists, the pain white-hot and blinding, but I refused to let go.
With a sharp, metallic ping, one of the rusted solder joints on the ankle cuff gave way.
The chain loosened.
I didn't stop to celebrate. I dragged my hands free, the skin on my palms raw and bleeding, and immediately set to work on Clara's cuffs. Using the broken, jagged edge of the metal link as a makeshift pick, I jammed it into her lock, turning it until the mechanism clicked open with a satisfying pop.
"We’re free," Clara gasped, clutching her hands to her chest.
"Now the door," I said, moving toward the heavy steel barrier.
The door had no keyhole on the inside—it was operated by a heavy, manual deadbolt on the exterior. But through the small, barred viewport at eye level, I could see the corridor.
It was completely dark, illuminated only by the faint, green glow of the emergency exit signs.
"The guard," I whispered, pressing my face against the bars. "Where is he?"
A man in a dark suit was leaning against the wall near the laundry chute, his face illuminated by the blue light of his phone. He was wearing wireless earbuds, his head bobbing slightly to the music.
He was completely oblivious.
"We need to get him to open the door," I said to Clara. "We need to make him think we’re fighting."
Clara looked at me, her eyes wide with fear, but she nodded.
She grabbed a heavy, rusted metal bucket from the corner of the cell and slammed it against the iron support pillar with a deafening CLANG.
"Get off me!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "No! Please! Stop!"
I joined in, grunting and thrashing against the dirt floor, making as much noise as possible.
Outside, the guard paused. He took out one earbud, his head turning toward our door. He muttered something into his lapel radio, then reached for the heavy key ring at his belt.
The key turned in the lock.
The deadbolt slid back with a heavy, metallic scrape.
The moment the door cracked open, I didn't wait for him to step inside. I threw my entire weight against the steel door, slamming it forward into his face.
There was a sickening crunch of bone as his nose shattered against the metal. He stumbled backward, his gun flying from his hand and clattering across the concrete corridor.
Before he could recover, Clara lunged forward, grabbing the heavy metal bucket and swinging it with all her strength into the side of his head.
He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious and bleeding.
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"My God," Clara whispered, staring at his limp body. "We... we did it."
"We’re not safe yet," I said, grabbing the guard’s gun—a sleek, black semi-automatic—and his key ring. "The power will be back on in less than two minutes. We have to get into the chute."
