No more waiting.

A sharp gulp of air, and I sprint out into the open ground, my legs pumping hard, my scattered thoughts giving way to linear purpose. With each stride, I’m shucking off an old version of myself, the reasonable, sensibly afraid, non-criminal, pre-Affinity, trusted by friends and family version. The me that would shout this plan down as the craziest jacked-up idea ever considered.

In seconds I reach the perimeter of the facility. There’s twelve feet of wire fence stretching up before me. I don’t stop to think. Swinging my arms, I launch from my back foot into the air, wind roaring in my ears, a brief weightlessness at the peak of my trajectory, barbed wire beneath me. I land with a dull thud and no clue how I’ll get back over carrying a dead weight. At least there’s no dangerous electric hum coming from the metal links.

I don’t pause – the floodlights make it bright as day and I have no idea what might be showing on security screens inside. Any second a siren might blare. The wide expanse of the north wall looms and I press myself against it, moving instinctively to the right and into the shadows where a low set of panelled windows gives a clear view of the recreational area we walked past on our way to the little visitors alcove.

I pause for one moment to find Aiden’s signal, static crackles and there he is. I reach into the bandwidth, all my focus on him. I’m here. I’m coming. Get ready. A telepathic nudge that the alarm will make redundant once I break in. He’ll know for sure how close I am then. Everyone will. I turn to the side and ram my foot through the reinforced glass, a clap of sound that echoes in the darkness and makes me want to cover my ears. I’ve never done this before – broken a window. At least, not in a planned, breaking with intent way. I don’t count the Gallaghers’ kitchen window – I had no control over that.

The lower panel completely caves, though the reinforcing wires still cling to their holds. I use my leg to clear the debris and bend to dive through the gap, not feeling the scrape of splintered glass on my shoulders or arms.

It’s warm in the rec hall, almost smothering compared to the icy gasp of air outside. I scramble to my feet, shake glass from my body, press the balaclava close against my face. No shrill alarm. No rush of guards. I’m shocked. Maybe minimum security really means minimum security. I don’t wait to find out.

I jog to the large double doors and peer into the corridor. It’s dimly lit with low floor lights. I’m grateful the bright fluorescents are off. I push through the doors, darting into the hall. The outrageousness of what I’m doing makes me light-headed.

When I reach the corner, I check quickly to see if it’s clear. It isn’t. A mere six feet away a guard approaches, head down, following his torchlight, probably coming to investigate the sound of breaking glass. And in those two seconds of panic I also feel relief. No waiting. No deliberating. No time. Instant strategy. A brief press of guilt – since I’m about to give the poor guy the fright of his life. He rounds the corner and I take him. From behind. Like an embrace. Simple.

My knee knocks the back of his. He buckles. My hand over his mouth to suppress his cry. Strength thrumming though me, my right arm around his head, squeezing and squeezing as he flails. I’m amazed at my control, consciousness of my body, awareness of the balance of weight, the application of pressure. God, I don’t want to snap his neck. I’m careful. He isn’t much taller than me, round through the middle, balding on top, his moustache is rough and his mouth hot under my gloved hand as he struggles. Sooner than I expect, the fight goes out of him. He relaxes in my arms and I lower him to the floor.

I prop him against the wall and leave his torch on his lap. His chest rises and falls. I hope he stays under. I spot the weapon on his hip. He has a gun! Fumbling, I snatch it from his holster and empty the bullets into my hand before stowing the weapon back on his hip. There’s a potted fern beside us. Shaken, I tip the bullets into the dried-out mulch, check the corridor once more then sprint. I hit the stairwell and propel myself up to the second floor so quickly I don’t feel the steps beneath me. The sign above the next double doors reads North Dormitory. I pause to check through the glass panel that the corridor is clear and push it open.

Running low and fast past the evenly spaced doors, I don’t need to count my way down to room fourteen. Aiden’s signal flashes like a locator beacon in my mind. I see the security camera in the corner of the ceiling and resist the urge to wave – I must be unhinged after getting past the first guard.

I come to a stop before Aiden’s room and peer through the small slot to see him sitting bolt upright on his bed, his pale face taut. Game time. The door’s locked. Good boy – evidence of forced entry. I wrench the handle and hear the satisfying crunch of metallic gears as the lock gives way. The door swings inwards and I step inside, and say, “Make it good.”

He doesn’t move.

I’m not sure he’s even breathing.

I lunge and grab him by the front of his shirt, lift him from the bed and hurl him through the door. He crashes with a yelp on the floor. At least now there’s a little anger in his expression. I come at him so fast the corridor blurs around me and I land with my knee in his chest. Air expires from his lungs. I punch him hard in the face so that he cries out.

“Come on, damn it. Fight me.” I drag him upwards. He swings himself out of my grasp. I see his move in my mind and barely manage to lift myself in time as his foot flashes, catching my ribs, forcing me several feet down the corridor.

In the neighbouring rooms dorm residents grow restless but where are the guards? The lack of security frightens me. I launch up, driving both feet into Aiden’s chest. He flies back against the wall with a sickening thud. Swearing, I run to catch him before he hits the ground. “Damn it. Sorry. Aiden, are you still with me?”

His eyes roll back and I slap his cheeks in mounting terror. He shakes himself, blinking dazedly. “Sorry,” I whisper again and smile beneath the balaclava, forgetting he can’t see my mouth. “You’re doing really well.” Then I haul him across the floor where there’s a good view for the video feed.

I hear distantly the sound of pounding on the stairs below. Finally, the cavalry. I straddle Aiden and say, “Play dead.”

He closes his eyes.

Breathing hard, I yank what I need from my vest and fill the syringe. Somehow my hands don’t shake. I draw from the memory of Miriam doctoring my wounds the night of the Governor’s Ball and I find myself steady and sure. In the remaining seconds before the guards burst from the stairwell, I rip the sleeve of Aiden’s shirt and grip his bicep so tightly that he gasps in pain. I slap at his elbow cleft. Find the vein. Stick him with the needle. He grunts and it’s done, video evidence he’s being taken against his will.

Four men come wheezing into the corridor – guns drawn.

A split second of shock freezes their faces when they see me and then confusion when they can’t. I move like a ghost, so fast they’re blinded and yell out. The first guy, I take in the throat – a flying kick and a prayer that it won’t sever his spinal cord. He hasn’t hit the ground as I swing my arm, back-handing the next guy, then I hear them collapse together.

There’s the shocking report of a handgun – a meaningful brush of wind past my ear. I leap, collecting the shooter under his chin with the toe of my boot. His head snaps back and he falls. The gun clatters on the linoleum. I drive the last guard into the floor, break his nose and leave him oozing and unconscious.

As the roar in my ears dims I finally hear the wail of the alarm. Okay. Okay. We’re halfway. Keep moving. Aiden’s out cold, which I hadn’t anticipated. There’s no time to try to bring him around. I swing him onto my shoulder in a fireman’s lift and jog back up the corridor and down the stairs, lumbering beneath his weight. I make it to the first floor and around the corner to the corridor where I left the unconscious guard by the potted fern. Another guard, squatting over his colleague’s limp form, sees me and cries out. He only just manages to get to his feet, taking me by surprise when he throws his torch at me with a high-pitched scream. Poor Aiden takes the brunt of the missile on his back.