After that, a soldier walks by every few minutes, too close for comfort. Their patrols are regular enough that after a while, I get the rhythm of it and know when they’re coming.
About an hour after they take Raffe into the center building, I smell meat and onions, garlic and greens. The delicious smell has my stomach clenching so hard that it feels like I have cramps.
I pray that it is not Raffe I’m smelling.
People file into the building on the right. I don’t hear an announcement so they must have a set dinner time. There are far more people here than I realized. Soldiers, mostly men in uniform, trudge out of the forest in groups of two, three, or five. They come from every direction.
By the time night rolls around, and the people disappear into the building on the left, I am almost numb with the cold seeping in from the ground. Combined with the fact that I’ve had nothing but a handful of dried cat food all day, I don’t feel as ready as I’d like to be for a rescue.
There are no lights in any of the buildings. This group is careful, obviously hiding themselves well at night. The compound is silent except for the sound of crickets, which is a pretty amazing feat considering how many people live there. At least there are no screams coming from Raffe’s building.
I make myself wait for what I think is about an hour in the dark before making my move.
I wait until the patrol walks by. At that point, I know that the other soldier is on the other side of the compound.
I count to one hundred before I get up and run as quietly as I can toward the center building.
My legs are as cold and stiff as gunmetal, but they limber up real fast at the thought of being caught. I have to take the long way around, skittering from moon shadow to shadow, working my way in a zigzag pattern toward the center building. The crisscross of the canopy works to my advantage, speckling the whole area with shifting shadows.
I flatten myself against the shadow side of the mess hall. One guard takes measured steps to my right, and in the distance, the other walks slowly on the other side of the compound. Their footsteps sound dull and slow, as if they’re bored. A good sign. If they heard anything unusual, their steps would be quicker, more urgent. At least I hope so.
I try to see the back of the center building, looking for a back door. But with the moon shadow on that side, I can’t tell if there’s a door or even a window.
I dart out of my shadow and into the shadow of the center building.
I pause there, expecting to hear a shout. But all is quiet. I stand plastered to the wall, holding my breath. I hear nothing and see no movement. There’s nothing but my fear telling me to abort. So I go on.
On the backside of the building, there are four windows and a backdoor. I peek through a window but see nothing but darkness. I resist the temptation to tap on it to see if I get a response from Raffe. I don’t know who else might be in there with him.
I have no plan, not even a harebrained one, and no real idea of how to overcome anyone who might be in there. Self defense training usually doesn’t include sneaking up on someone from behind and choking them quietly to death—a skill that could be pretty handy right now.
Still, I’ve consistently managed to beat sparring partners much bigger than me, and I hold onto that fact to warm me against the chill of panic.
I take a deep breath and whisper as softly as I can. “Raffe?”
If I can just get an indication of which room he’s in, it would make this a whole lot easier. But I hear nothing. No tapping on the window, no muffled calls, no chair scrapings to lead me to him. The awful thought that he might be dead comes back to me again. Without him, I have no way of finding Paige. Without him, I am alone. I give myself a mental kick to distract me from following that dangerous line of thought.
I inch over to the door and put my ear to it. I hear nothing. I try the doorknob just in case it’s unlocked.
I have my handy lock picking set in my back pocket as usual. I found the kit in a teenager’s room during my first week of foraging for food. It didn’t take me long to realize that picking a lock is a whole lot quieter than breaking a window. Stealth is everything when you’re trying to avoid street gangs. So I’ve been getting a lot of practice picking locks the past couple of weeks.
The doorknob turns smoothly.
These guys are cocky. I crack it open the tiniest bit and pause. There are no sounds, and I slip into the darkness. I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the deeper darkness of the house. The only light is the mottled moonlight streaming in through the windows at the back of the house.