Her Obsession (by Sheridan Hartin) novel Chapter 111

Learning From The Inside.

:

There’s a pause, then the faintest whisper. “They’re alive. Sage and Naomi. They’re here.”

I close my eyes, the air leaving my chest all at once. Alive.

Nico keeps talking, voice barely audible. “We’re chained. Small room. Concrete floor. Single bulb overhead. Ventilation hums in the ceiling, likely driven by a generator. Two guards check in every five minutes. Russian accents, maybe Romanian. Light weapons, pistols, batons. The hallway’s narrow, with at least three other doors near us. Heavy locks.”

I glance at Ari. She’s already tapping furiously, bringing up feeds, cross–referencing maps. One window opens on the screen, displaying grainy footage of a service road cutting into a hillside–a single van parked under a half–collapsed awning.

“There,” she says, pointing. “That’s where the van stopped. Old storage compound off the main road. Used to be municipal tunnels.”

“I see it,” I mutter into the mic. “Nico, I’ve got your location. We’re coming for you.”

There’s another pause, then Nico’s voice, urgent but still whispering. “Sage says no. She says don’t come yet. We’re gathering intel and trying to map the inside. She wants Yakov to think he’s got the upper hand. If he shows, we can cut the head off the snake right here.”

My hand curls into a fist on the desk. Every instinct in me wants to get in a van, tear the doors off that bunker and pull her out myself. But I can hear Sage in his voice, the iron edge she gets when she’s already set a plan in motion.

“Copy that,” I say finally, forcing my voice low and steady. “You stay alive. Feed us everything you can: rooms, guards, rotations, weak spots. We’ll be ready to move the second she gives the word.”

Static again. Then Nico’s whisper, small but fierce: “Got it. She said to tell you…she’s got this. She always does.”

I grip the mic tighter, eyes fixed on the grainy image of the bunker on Ari’s screen. My girl, in there with him, playing chess with a monster. My pulse is a war drum in my ears.

“Hold on,” I breathe into the line. “Just hold on.”

Sage

The room smells like damp stone and old iron. Cold leaks up from the concrete floor into my knees. My wrists ache from the shackles locked behind me, but the ache is good; it keeps me awake. Across from me, Naomi leans against the wall, chin tipped back like she’s bored. Nico sits slumped near the far corner, chains looped in front of him. He’s the only one who looks harmless, which is why he’s the one with the earpiece, I keep my face blank, eyes half–lidded, but everything in me is counting. One light overhead, a single bulb. Dust falls in its glow when footsteps pass above. The vent hums in the ceiling, steady and generator–driven, perhaps to mask the sound of movement. The walls are concrete but patched; there’s a crack wide enough to see a slice of corridor if I tilt my head right. Every time the guards come in, I watch their feet.

Five–minute rotations. They’re punctual. Two at a time. One’s tall, limps on the left leg. The other’s shorter, carries his pistol in a sloppy holster at the front. Keys jangle against his belt. Both wear plain clothes with black gloves. No insignia. I watch their habits. The tall one opens the door first, and the short one hangs back. Tall one checks the chains. Short one watches faces. They speak in a low voice, Russian or Romanian, I’m not quite sure, but I catch numbers sometimes. 203, 112. Room numbers maybe. Every time the door opens, I grab a second of the outside: a narrow hallway with three more doors. Dim yellow lights every ten feet. Stale air, faint smell of diesel and bleach. At the far end, a heavy gate. I heard it scrape open once, a sound of metal on metal, driven by a motor. Past that, muffled traffic, maybe generators, maybe vehicles outside. I log every detail like a ledger in my head. Patterns. Sounds. Smells. Footsteps. Nico sits still, eyes down. He’s listening, too, but he doesn’t look like he’s listening. That’s why he’s safest. They don’t see him as a threat. His hands are chained at the front, not the back. He can hide things. When the guards leave again, I let my head drop forward, hair falling in my face to

1/2

12:03 Tue, Oct 21

Learning From The Inside.

hide my lips.

“Tall one limps, Key ring left side–three more doors down the hall. Heavy gate at the end,” I whisper fast, like a prayer.

Nico nods just enough to show he’s got it. His fingers twitch once over the link of his chain, our signal that the mic’s live, I shut my eyes for a second, forcing my heartbeat to slow. This is how you survive: catalogue everything, never stop watching, never stop thinking.

Naomi cracks one eye open at me, muttering under her breath. “You’re doing the ghost thing again.”

“Yes,” I whisper back, “because that’s how we’re getting out of here.”

She smirks faintly. Nico just sits there, looking harmless. But I can see it, the tremor of hope when the static from the earpiece hisses. We’re trapped. We’re bait. And still, I’m making a map. Because when the time comes, I’ll know every inch of this place, and I’ll make sure we walk out alive.

The thud of heavy boots announced the deliveries long before the door clattered open. Food in metal tins, a sour–smelling stew sloshed into dented bowls, a single stale piece of bread split between the three of us. The guards dropped the trays with the same indifferent motion they used for chains, a hard thunk on the concrete, a scrape of metal against the floor, then the door slid, and the sound of footsteps retreated. Hunger would become a schedule. We would learn the timing of hunger the way we learned the timing of patrols, predictable and mechanical. We ate without ceremony, scooping, swallowing, and breathing, conserving energy and watching the lines of the corridor for any change. Food was a small mercy and a calculation; we rationed the bread, tore the meat into scraps, hid crumbs in seams and hems for later. They also dropped a bucket, a crude concession to basic needs. It was a metal pail with a lid, nothing private. You would use it because there was no choice: squat, do what you had to, seal it back.

The smell of it clung to the room and to our clothes, another layer of indignity. We would learn to breathe around it, to swallow the shame, to mark these small, ugly routines in the ledger of survival until the day when those routines would mean nothing again.

Chapter Comments

16

е

Write Comments

« SHARE