Page 135 of Assassin's Obsession

Like a shower curtain tied into a rope with the sheets from the bed. Which answers one how, but it's still a plan with a lot of ifs and not a lot of strategy.

Before anything, I need to see if the windows open and if they are wired to an alarm.

For that, I come up with a pretty decent strategy if I do say so myself. But it requires hanging the curtain back up in the shower. I check the closet and drawers in the dresser and bedside table first.

There are two wire hangers and six flocked ones on the empty closet rail. An extra pillow and blanket are the only things on the shelf above it. There's nothing in the nightstand, but there's a dark sweater in the bottom drawer of the dresser.

As my mind flips through the possibilities of how to use what I found, I open one of the windows. Then I wait.

It takes nearly five minutes for the door to slam open. My guard rushes in, but stops when he sees me on the bed, doing my best to look pathetic.

"What?" I pretend to hold back being sick.

His mean glare morphs into a grimace and he looks away. "Close the window."

"No."

Still not looking at me, he marches toward the window, like he's going to do it himself.

"I need the fresh air." I whine pitifully, which is so not me, but he doesn't know that. "Whatever you people drugged me with is making me nauseous."

"You're going to have to deal," he says unsympathetically.

While he's closing and relocking the window, I shove a finger down my throat, making myself retch. I don’t try to hold back and manage to throw up a little bile onto the floor beside the bed.

Turning back to me and looking pretty green himself, the guard says something Italian in a nasty tone.

"I'm not cleaning that up. It will just make me throw up more." I turn over, like I'm trying to get away from the smell.

I feel the renewed breeze from the open window and cheer inside, but I don't turn over. Grinning inside, I enjoy every second of the guard's huffing and puffing while he gets something from the bathroom to clean up the mess. When he makes gagging noises, I'm positively gleeful.

He says something else in Italian and drops something wet on the carpet.

"Stay away from the windows," he orders, like I'm going to listen to him.

Even if I didn't think he was an asshole for being part of my kidnapping entourage, I wouldn't let him boss me around.

I'm off the bed as soon as the door shuts again. He left a sopping hand towel over the place I threw up.

Whimp. I guess he's never had to nurse a little sister through the flu or helped his mom clean up after new meds gave her diarrhea.

At this point, my stomach is pretty much made of cast iron.

I rush to pull the sheets from the bed and toss them into the bathroom before stacking the pillows neatly and putting the comforter back on.

It only takes a minute to retrieve my weapon and free the shower curtain from it. The nail scissors come in handy making snips so I can tear the curtain, sheets and spare blanket into strips. If anyone comes into the bedroom, I'll pretend to be washing up after being sick again.

In the time it takes me to twist the fabric strips and tie knots, no one comes to check on their nauseated captive.

After attaching the shower curtain rod to one end, I dismantle the two wire coat hangers and twist them together to make a long wire with a hook at the end.

Once everything is assembled, I tiptoe to the bedroom door and press my ear against it. No one is talking, or walking by.

I'm sure my weak-stomached guard is still out there, but it doesn't sound like anyone else is.

It's now, or never.

Being as quiet as I can, I climb onto the windowsill and lean out with one hand holding onto the window. You can't dance apole if you have a fear of heights, but even I'm nervously aware that one slip and I'm a pancake on the ground below.

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