The Gender Plan (The Gender Game #6)(16)

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.”

“Hand it over,” she said. I straightened slowly, suddenly confused. Why did she want it?

After a moment’s deliberation, I held the squeeze bottle out in front of me, taking a careful step forward. The warden reached out and snatched it quickly from my fingers, and I almost fainted as the lighter clenched between my bottom two fingers slipped. I jerked my hand back to my stomach, pressing the lighter against it. Looking away for a moment, certain she had seen and all too cognizant of the gun pointed at me, I started to take a slow step back. The warden’s voice stopped me.

“Open it.”

In her hand, the bottle remained outstretched toward me, the white plastic container held out like an offering, or a gift that nobody wanted. Licking my dry lips, I stepped forward again, clutching the lighter more tightly to my palm. My hands felt sweaty and clumsy, my heart beating staccato against my ribcage. I pinched the lid of the bottle between my thumb and forefinger and twisted, relieved that the seal gave easily. I twisted twice more, my movements hurried and jerking to disguise the lighter in my hand.