up Barclay’s entire kitchen table. There’s one page for each level of the prison, and while there are twenty-four levels, Barclay is pretty sure we won’t need to be familiar with anything other than levels one and two.
According to him, I won’t be housed in any of the cellblocks on the first floor with the regular prisoners. Instead I’ll be put in a cell one floor up in the solitary block. Those are the cells that are supposed to be reserved for the worst kinds of criminals, but also house the people IA doesn’t have any reason to hold—the people they want everyone else to forget about. It’s where Elijah is.
The plan is that I need to get out of my cell, get Elijah out of his, and get us both to the infirmary one level down and in the opposite wing of the prison. There, we’ll be able to escape through a grate in the floor that leads to the sewers.
I try not to think about how hard this will be, about how many things have to go right in order for us to escape without getting caught. I try not to think about what the consequences will be if we don’t make it. And I try not to think about the fact that I’m in this alone. Elijah won’t know the plan and he might be injured, and he’s never been my biggest fan anyway.
No matter what Barclay says about us being on the same team, if I don’t get out, he’s got to cut his losses and leave me there. The whole never leave a man behind thing doesn’t apply here. To have any hope of solving this case, he would have to preserve his cover—or whatever you’d call it. Which means if I can’t do this, I’ll be stuck in prison, counting down the minutes until I’m executed.
But I can’t focus on that, because I have no choice. This is the only way, and we have to make it out.
“What’s your problem now?” Barclay asks.
I’m about to respond with something caustic when there are two soft beeps. They could be anything—the microwave, some kind of electronics, even Barclay’s cell phone. But instantly I know they’re not.
They’re something worse.
Because Barclay freezes for a split second, his lips slightly parted with surprise, and then his eyes, wide with fear, flick to me.
“What is it?” I whisper. I’m aware of my pulse in my ears, the dryness in my mouth, and the fact that I don’t know what to do with my hands. Because fear is contagious, and I can’t think of a single instance I’ve ever seen Barclay afraid.
He doesn’t answer me. Instead, he bolts up and with one hand grabs the blueprints, with the other grabs me, and before I have a chance to understand what’s happening, he’s pulling me into his bedroom.
“It’s an alarm. Someone is coming,” he says, shoving me into the walk-in closet.
“Who?” I ask, my voice breathless.
Barclay’s eyes meet mine. “IA.”
04:21:52:30
Maybe Barclay is paranoid. Maybe it’s a UPS guy or something.
Or maybe that’s my own wishful thinking.
Whatever’s been going on with him lately, clearly something made him set this up. He’s not exactly an alarmist. And if he was, he’d have a right to be. If IA is after me, it’s only a matter of time until they’re after him, too.
Or it might not be IA. It might be worse—it could be the traffickers.
I don’t have time to say anything anyway because Barclay presses down on two of the floorboards until there’s a click, and they pop loose. He pulls them up to reveal a hidden compartment about two feet deep.
“Here, get in.” He steps down into the hole in his closet. The floor comes up to his knees.
Looking at it, I’m confused. I don’t know how I’m going to fit in here. Even if I crouch down, he won’t be able to get the floorboard over my head, and he certainly won’t be able to get in there with me.
“Hurry up, Tenner!” Barclay takes my hand and pulls me toward him.
I step in, even though I’m not sure where I’m going to go, only once I put my foot down, I realize it extends underneath the floor. I can lie down flat and the board will be able to go over my head. My body flushes with heat as Barclay pushes me down. I stretch my body out the length of the compartment.