The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)

I turned back and began to move, heading toward the next trap. I didn’t want to draw too far ahead of them—which was good, because my ribs made it hard for me to run much faster than this. I couldn’t have beat them, even if I wanted to. Even at a pace that seemed agonizingly slow, I made it to the next corner and was just moving into the adjacent hall when gunfire exploded behind me.

Hunching my shoulders and gritting my teeth against the impending pain in my ribs, I threw myself into the bedroom on the left side of the hall, the door already standing open for me. From what I’d gathered during our time here, these were some of Ashabee’s more ‘practical’ guest rooms, which meant not grand enough for a politician or someone of great wealth, but rather a merchant or some kind of representative.

It was still such a luxurious chamber that it made this whole maneuver seem more surreal than ever. I slammed the door shut behind me, wincing at the loud noise it made; as soon as it was shut, I slid down onto my stomach, wriggling myself under the bed, trying not to think of hands grabbing my feet and dragging me out while I was exposed like this...

I made it under, feet first, and waited, my breaths whooshing loudly in my ears, my handgun pressing uncomfortably into my hip. I grabbed the string running down the bedpost to my left and anxiously rubbed it between my fingers, hoping for luck.

It felt like ages before footsteps approached the door, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I heard the knob begin to turn. This is part of the plan, I reminded myself, trying for a deep, calming breath while making as little noise as possible. The door swung slowly open.

As soon as I saw the warden’s boots stepping forward clear of the door, I yanked on the string, tightening the simple noose knot I had been able to make using my fingers and my teeth.

Immediately the sound of gunfire filled the room as the automatic rifle I’d tied the string to erupted. The string continued to compress the trigger, round after round of ammunition tearing out toward the door, and the bedframe rattled as the gun’s recoil strained it against the huge knot of tape and string I’d used to secure it to a bedpost.

I didn’t wait to see if it had been successful—I knew it had been even before her body toppled to the floor. I slid out from under the bed on the side, away from the gunfire, my chest aching as I squirmed up, scrambling for the bathroom in that direction as the gun finished expending its clip and slamming the door behind me.

Not a moment too soon, either. Wood went flying as bullets tore through the door, and I ducked down low, crashing into the neighboring bedroom through the shared bathroom. I moved to the door, yanking the handgun from my pants and fumbling at the shirt I’d wrapped it in. I would come back around behind her and—

The plan died instantly as the door swung open and I saw the barrel of a gun pointed right at my chest.





7





Violet





The gun shook slightly in the warden’s hand. I swallowed hard and slowly raised my arms, letting the shirt fall to the floor. Her pale brown eyes flicked to the gun in my hand, pointed at the ceiling. I could tell she was nervous.

“Put it down, and step into the hallway,” she said, her obvious fear giving the order a desperation that I understood.

“Okay,” I said softly, slowly leaning over. My ribs pinched as I reached too far, but I powered through it, not wanting to risk any sudden gestures or deviate from the expectations of the woman in front of me. The gun slid to the floor with a clunk, and I straightened up, very slowly, raising my hands to shoulder height. I moved into the hallway with her. “See? Harmless.”

The warden took a small step back, her eyes darting all over me. “Don’t talk unless I ask you to. The bag. Hand it over.”

Taking deliberate care once again, I shrugged off my backpack, hooking it on my wrist and swinging it around. I held it out to her, and she took another step back.

“You open it. Slowly.”

I gave her a hard look, and then looked down at the cast on my arm. Another look up told me she didn’t care. As I glanced past her right shoulder, I could see the cause of her fear and rage. Lying a few feet away was a warden, her torso draped out into the hallway, blood seeping into the carpet. I swallowed my own nerves and carefully shifted the bag onto the cast, using the straps to hang it, my arm protesting against weight it was no longer used to. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the clasp for a second.

Then it was open. I began to awkwardly tilt the bag forward, about to tip the items in it out. “Stop.” I glanced up at the woman, and was surprised to see she had fought back some of her nervousness. A thin thread of steel had wormed its way into her voice, hardening.

“One at a time—I remember now. You like bombs.”

The way she said it, with such bitterness and rage, it was like I was a dirty taste in her mouth. I gulped, and began pulling out items as I touched them, one by one. Her eyes narrowed as she took in my one remaining grenade, but I sat it on the floor and kicked it away. She tracked its movement for a few seconds, and then, like a hawk’s, her eyes were back on me.

Each moment dragged on like an eternity, and I could feel a mounting pressure as each second ticked by, weighing heavily on me, urging me to do something, to get away. Yet I couldn’t—I was locked in the hallway with her. She had me at her mercy. My mind was punishing me already for the blunder, reminding me of all the other times I’d been trapped with no way to escape. Tabitha’s torture room, the palace when the blast went off, The Green’s facility, the Porteque gang’s den…

Each time had gotten harder and harder to endure. Another fight to try to overcome with no way out. I couldn’t endure it again. I wouldn’t. Viggo had come to rescue me from most of those moments, and I trusted him with my life, but he wouldn’t always be able to reach me even if he would always, always try. I had come this far, too far, to ever let something as precious as my freedom be taken from me again.

I reached into the bag again, pausing when my fingers touched the squeeze bottle full of kerosene. I pushed down farther, tilting the bag more and giving it a little shake, and was rewarded with the heavy weight of Owen’s lighter. I palmed it awkwardly and then grabbed the kerosene, pulling it out.

At that moment, I had no idea what my plan was. I wasn’t even sure I had one. Just the knowledge that these two items could mean the difference between my freedom and a high probability of death. Even then, I still leaned over to set the kerosene bottle on the ground.

“Stop. What is that?”

I looked up at her, hesitating a moment. Maybe if I lied, she’d let me keep it? “It’s water,” I said a heartbeat later. She met my gaze, and I pressed on, emboldened. “It was dusty. In the basement. I got some water to take with me.”