Page 9 of Echo: Line
Eighteen hours until transport. That gives me one chance. One window. The escape attempt I've been planning since I first noticed the pattern in guard rotations.
0400 hours. Guard change. Twelve-minute window when the night shift overlaps with morning shift, when attention is divided, when protocols get sloppy because both teams assume the other is maintaining vigilance. I've watched it happen through the reinforced glass of my cell—three mornings in a row now, same pattern, same timing. The night guards are tired, ready to be done. The morning shift is still groggy, running on coffee and muscle memory. And in that overlap, there's a sweet spot—a moment when both teams are present but neither is fully engaged.
And during that window, they test the backup generator. It's scheduled maintenance, probably required by whatever contractor built this facility. Ninety seconds when secondary power kicks in, when the security cameras reboot, when the electronic locks cycle through their reset sequence. I've counted it out using my pulse—ninety seconds exactly, three mornings running. Consistent. Reliable.
The kind of operational predictability that gets people killed.
Ninety seconds to get out of restraints, through two locked doors, past at least four guards, and into the exterior corridor where the emergency exit is located. I've mapped the route during the twice-daily trips from cell to interrogation room and back—three turns, approximately forty-seven steps at combat speed, assuming the doors open during the power cycle like they should.
The math doesn't work. The timeline is impossible. But impossible just means no one's done it yet.
The technician returns. Different one this time—younger, less experienced. He checks my pulse, shines a light in my eyes, makes notes on a tablet. Doesn't speak. They rotate personnel to prevent rapport-building, another standard protocol. But the young ones are less careful. More likely to get complacent during routine procedures.
I let my head loll, playing up the drug effects. Appear weaker than I am. Let them think the cocktail is working better than it is. Every assumption they make about my condition is an advantage I can exploit later.
He cuts the zip-ties from the chair and hauls me upright, grip tight on my arm. My legs don't want to support my weight—partly drugs, partly four days of stress positions and inadequate food. I stumble but catch myself. Force my legs to work, to move even if it's uncoordinated. The technician doesn't care whether I walk or get dragged. His job is to move me from point A to point B, conscious or not.
I walk. Stumbling, unsteady, but under my own power. Maintain muscle memory. Keep the body ready even when the mind is compromised.
The cell is eight by ten, concrete on three sides, reinforced glass on the fourth. Fluorescent lights stay on constantly—sleep deprivation is part of the protocol. A thin mattress on the floor, a bucket in the corner for waste. Five-star accommodations.
The air tastes recycled, filtered through systems designed to maintain precise temperature and humidity. Sixty-eight degrees. Forty percent humidity. Optimal conditions for keeping prisoners uncomfortable but not dangerously so. Every detail calculated. Every variable controlled. The floor is smooth concrete, cold enough to leach heat from my body but not cold enough to cause hypothermia. The walls are bare except for the ventilation grate—standard size, maybe eight inches by six. Too small for a person, reinforced behind the cover. I examined it the first night, when they thought the drugs had me too disoriented to notice my surroundings.
They underestimated me then. They're underestimating me now.
The technician pushes me inside, and I collapse onto the mattress with more drama than necessary. He watches for a moment, then leaves. Locks engage. I'm alone.
I lie still and count my heartbeat. Let the drugs continue metabolizing. Focus on the physical inventory—what hurts, what's damaged, what still functions. My hands shake from the chemical cocktail. Tremors I can't fully control. Dehydration makes my head pound, makes thinking harder than it should be. Four days of interrogation has taken its toll.
Yet I'm not broken. Beaten, yes. Exhausted, definitely. Still, my mind is mine, and that's the only thing that matters.
The tremors in my hands gradually subside as the drugs work through my system. My heart rate steadies. Breathing normalizes. The chemical fog lifts degree by degree, leaving behind clarity and determination.
Hours pass. The fluorescent lights never dim. Time becomes elastic, measured only by my pulse and the distant sounds of guards changing position in the corridor. I force myself through the escape plan again. Every step. Every contingency. Every decision point where split-second choices will mean freedom or death.
The biggest risk isn't getting out of the cell—it's what happens after. This facility is remote, Kessler's personal black site, off-book even by Committee standards. Getting out of the building doesn't mean freedom. It means being on foot in hostile territory with no gear, no support, and an organization with unlimited resources hunting me. The variables are endless: number of guards in the corridor, whether they're armed, how quickly they respond once the alarm triggers. Unknown factors I'll have to assess and adapt to in real-time.
Staying here means transport to Wyoming, though. Means being staged for execution while an FBI agent thinks she's doingher job. Means dying with the world believing I'm a terrorist, and Echo Ridge losing any credibility they might have had.
I'd rather take my chances in the wilderness.
Four days since Kane watched them take me. Four days since I made the tactical error that got me captured. Four days of interrogation, drugs, and psychological warfare designed to break me.
Kessler thinks he's won. Thinks I'm just another asset to be exploited and disposed of. Thinks enhanced interrogation and chemical persuasion will eventually extract what he needs, and if they don't, at least I'll serve my purpose as propaganda.
He's wrong.
I've survived worse than this. Survived Syria when my own command structure turned on me for refusing to murder children. Survived eight months in the Montana wilderness while five kill teams tried to hunt me down. Survived because I'm stubborn and competent and absolutely unwilling to die on someone else's terms.
Tomorrow at 0400, I'm walking out of this facility or I’ll die trying. Either way, Kessler doesn't get to use me. The Committee doesn't get to destroy Echo Ridge's credibility. And Agent Ward doesn't get turned into an unwitting assassin for a conspiracy she doesn't even know exists.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Concrete and steel. Built to hold people like me. Built by people who understand operational security and threat assessment. Built to contain Delta operators and special forces personnel who've spent their entire careers learning how to escape impossible situations. Built well, but not perfectly.
The fluorescent lights hum their constant note. I do the math. Kessler said eighteen hours during interrogation. That was three hours ago, maybe four. Which means fifteen hours until 0400. Fifteen hours to let my body recover as much aspossible. Fifteen hours to run through the escape plan again and again until every movement is automatic. Fifteen hours until I find out if I'm as good as I think I am.
The Committee wanted a terrorist. They manufactured a narrative, created the evidence, set up the capture. They're about to learn that the difference between a terrorist and a soldier isn't the violence—it's the cause. And my cause is making sure the truth survives long enough for Kane and the team to expose what the Committee really is.
I close my eyes again. Force myself to rest even though every instinct screams to stay alert. Tomorrow requires everything I have left. Every ounce of skill and experience and stubborn refusal to surrender.
