CHAPTER 11: Under Pressure
1
Mistakes were one of the things Michael Scofield never forgot. He remembered a lot of other things. If quizzed about it, he could probably recite a math period he took when he was thirteen. But he didn't remember it in the same places. Mistakes carved like red iron tattoos into his skin. Every day, they lived inside him, vividly. He didn't just remember. He felt them. They became him.
On Wednesday, the day before Frank's speech at Franklin's College, Michael realized he had made a mistake that was about to crawl under his skin. A big mistake. And if he couldn't save Sara Tancredi somehow, he would never know peace again.
After a long conversation with Lincoln last night, Michael agreed for his brother to send a team to surveil the area so long as they were discreet. He didn't doubt his brother's colleagues could do their job, but he doubted even less that the man he had met last night, Owen Kravecki, was the kind of man who overlooked things. If he felt he was being watched, Sara's fate was as good as sealed. They couldn't afford a screwup.
"No screwup," Lincoln promised. "They're pros."
"So is he."
But Lincoln's voice was confident. "That way, if he tries to make a move the team can jump in. It's better than waiting for something to go wrong."
Michael had said nothing. Part of him had been thinking, Something is wrong. He couldn't say why, but he felt it in his bones. Under his skin. Something about the man's eyes and the way he'd looked at him. He couldn't have known who I was. But part of Michael screamed out, He did.
"You're being paranoid," Michael told himself. Sometimes it happened to him. His brain overworked, went far beyond the realm of rational things. Now was no time to lose his grip. A woman's life on the line, and if something were to happen to her, a father's guilt.
So he tamed the thoughts and tried to catch some sleep. If tomorrow was going to go according to plan, he would need it.
Then came morning.
2
Sara didn't sleep. Her eyelids tingled and drooped over her eyes, but she sank her nails into her thighs, the sharp sting jolting her awake. The taste of burnt rice in the back of her throat. Though her kidnapper had gone away, the image of his eyes glowed in her head like a haunted house.
What a pity, he'd said.
His face revealed nothing, but she had heard it in the way he spoke. In his mind, he'd already killed her.
So how could she sleep?
When she knew what was coming tomorrow—how was she supposed to even think?
Strangely enough, she didn't panic. Her brain functioned rationally, no fear-induced hijacking, no glitch. Possibly, she was going to die. The thought sank in. The man, Lance, would kill her. That pill was harder to swallow.
A flash of anger passed through her, but it didn't have the fuel of fire. It just traversed her numbly. What a stupid irony that she'd gone through all the trouble of going clean, rehab, that painful climb out of addiction, all so she could end up murdered by a man whose very sight made the hairs of her neck stand on end. If she'd known, she would have died in the sweet sleep of morphine, would have pulled the trigger herself, or the needle. A sad way to go, but at least she would have controlled it.
Even when she stopped thinking about death, it loomed over her like a hungry kiss. She wondered if her kidnapper could be swayed. Probably not. This kind of man drowned kittens at the river and slept quietly, thinking he'd spared them a life of pain and roaming.
Do you want to live?
His words in her head sounded loud as her own heartbeat.
Maybe all this would have been easier to bear if she'd developed Stockholm's syndrome or something. Bullshit, a voice said. You're not the kind to fall for people who destroy you. You're your own destroyer. No one gets to do that shit but you.
His eyes burned in her mind, her kidnapper. Her murderer?
What a pity.
What a pity. Like he'd planned on going out for a picnic and some rainy weather had ruined it. That's all he found to say.
Sara scrambled to her feet. Screw him. In the bedroom, she could feel his eyes too clearly to do anything. The bathroom area was tiny, but she'd feel more at peace there. More able to think. She didn't delude herself. Lance was stronger and heavier than her by far. If he wanted to kill her, there was little she could do to stop him. But she might be able to give him hell for it.
3
Kellerman didn't sleep either. He watched Sara, sitting on her bed, looking oddly quiet.
He thought again, What a pity.
He didn't like people all that often, especially her type of people. Nice gullible people. If he'd met her over coffee or a piece of pie, she would have bored him in an instant. Probably.
But pain reveals people. Do they cower under your thumb, or do they fight back? At first, he'd thought she was a nice compromise between the two. She complied with his demands, like a smart girl would. Yet she gazed back at him with the full force of her dignity untouched. As far as resistance went, it was seductive.
Seductive?
"God, I'm getting soft," Kellerman said to himself. Maybe he was just getting old.
A pity the governor didn't just do as they'd asked.
Kellerman stiffened in his seat as the camera caught movement in the bedroom. It was dark, but Kellerman could see plainly enough. Sara got to her feet and entered the bathroom. Nothing very striking in that, but he didn't like the look on her face as she moved. Driven. Defiant.
He checked his phone. Three thirty a.m. If she was still in there in ten minutes, trouble was on its way.
4
Sara knew she had to be quick. She slipped off her shirt and let it drop to the floor, and her fingers went about unclasping her bra. Adrenaline was pumping through her veins at a hundred miles an hour. What was she doing? If her kidnapper had planted a camera in the main room as she suspected he had, then he would be watching her every move, on the lookout for anything she might do. Besides, maybe there was a camera in the bathroom, too. But that wasn't like Lance, Sara couldn't help thinking. Like she had actually gotten to know the man in the past twenty-four hours. He was too gentlemanly, too mindful of modesty. What kind of kidnapper knocked before they entered their prisoner's room? Lance did. Because kidnapping aside, Lance probably liked to think of himself as a good guy. Good guys didn't put cameras in bathrooms. It was a golden rule.
And anyway, what choice did she have?
Just wait it out, play the docile captive? If she did nothing, she'd be dead by morning.
With one deep breath, Sara removed her bra and went about tearing it apart with her fingers. It was harder than she'd expected. "Come on," she whispered. But the lace held strong. How long had she been in there? Two minutes? Five? In this place, time was impossible to keep track of. In the end, she used her teeth and finally the fabric gave in an exhilarating crack.
Speed remained the number-one imperative, so she acted fast and retrieved the underwire from the torn lace. When Sara had woken up with her hands tied in that apartment, it had struck her there were no objects she could use as a weapon. Even if she had wanted to use a weapon, she'd doubt her bra would have popped into her mind. But she was desperate now, desperate enough to see the possibilities in any object, hopeless as it might look.
She bent the underwire in half, until the metal broke through and the end was sharp enough to draw blood. How much damage could she do with this? Maybe little. But as long as she did some, she'd count herself lucky.
5
Fifteen minutes went by and still, Sara hadn't come out. Kellerman started to get wary. "Maybe she's taking a shower," he told himself. At three in the morning? Maybe.
He was about to go check on her when the bathroom door opened and Sara stepped out. She was fully dressed, but her hair was wet. The light was too dim for him to catch her eyes. Are you scared or are you angry, Sara?
His fingers drummed over the arm of the chair. "Goddamn it," he said, and sprung to his feet.
6
Sara tried to keep her breathing under control, the sharp end of the underwire pressing against her wrist under her sleeve. Before she stepped out of the bathroom, she took a look in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, from nerves or the effort of tearing her bra open, so she'd swept her head under cold water at the sink.
If she was wrong about Lance, and there was a camera in the bathroom—
I guess I'm about to find out.
She opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the bedroom. Darkness hit her and she stood still until the shapes of the furniture started to emerge. She could have switched on the light. But maybe Lance hadn't been paying attention to her, and the light would draw his eye. After all, he had to sleep, didn't he?
Just as the thought entered her mind, the bedroom door flew open. No knocks. Sara felt her back hit the wall before she realized she had jumped back in terror.
For a second, her kidnapper was only a shape cut out of darkness. He flicked the light switch and brightness burst into the room. Sara shut her eyes.
Oh my God, he knows.
Panic exploded into her brain. Should she attack him now, fall at his feet and beg for mercy? The sting of the underwire biting into her wrist helped her focus, like a red dot singling out a target.
Play him as you always do. With politeness.
"Lance, you frightened me."
His face gave away no information. He only looked at her with a steel stare for what felt like hours. "What were you doing just now?"
She shrugged. If adrenaline could make you able to lift cars, maybe it could turn you into a prime-time actress. "Showering. I couldn't sleep."
Sara kept her tone even, but symptoms of fear like pallor and perspiration couldn't be helped. Then play into that, too.
Lance thought of himself as a good guy. If she acted like he was a pervert who'd entered her room to abuse her, maybe he'd feel like one.
She turned her head from him, her cheek against the wall.
"Please leave," she said.
He took a step closer. If he took a couple more, he'd be close enough that she could jab him with the underwire. Not now, she thought. Not yet.
"You know, I do regret that after all we've been through together, we never learned to trust each other."
Sara swallowed. Extremely aware of everything her body did, breathing in, out, her heartbeat racketing. "You expected me to trust you?"
"What have I been if not reliable?"
She could have laughed, he sounded so serious. But she had never least been in the mood to.
"I've been clear from the start," he said. "If your father did as we said, nothing bad would happen to you. If he tried to screw with us…"
He didn't finish. Sara had never heard him swear before. The rest of his sentence hung loud and clear between them. I'd screw with you.
"There'd be consequences," he phrased it more politely. "You on the other hand have been nothing but games."
"No."
"No?"
She sensed he would not leave until she had looked back at him, so she forced her head straight, her eyes into his. "I don't know what you came here for. If you don't mind, I'd like you to leave. Please."
He held her gaze for a moment, then lowered it. Sara's breath turned solid in her throat. She wasn't wearing a bra. The torn thing lay stuffed in the bathroom trashcan, buried under a heap of tissues. Her cheeks flamed red. He won't say anything. Please lord let him be too polite to say anything.
His eyes shot back to her face. "I didn't mean to scare you," he said. "Like I said. Sometimes I'm paranoid."
The apology never reached his tone.
Part of her ached to throw herself at him, use her makeshift weapon to strike him in the face and run for the door. Holding back was like trying to hold back an avalanche with her bare hands. Yet she did. If she struck now, all form of decorum between them would collapse. He would have the advantage. The only chance she had was to take him by surprise.
Besides, so long as she remained polite and bravely afraid, he wouldn't want to hurt her. He liked her. This knowledge burned shameful in her mind.
"Well," he said. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
He took a few steps backwards then turned around. The back of his head taunted her, but her feet stayed glued to the ground like massive lumps of clay. I'd be too slow. He'd hear me.
The door shut behind him, then the familiar rattle of the lock and a key turning.
I'll get another chance, Sara thought. I have to.
A tingling sensation made her look at her wrist. A droplet of blood was rolling down her skin.
…
End Notes: Leave a comment if you like the story! (You can also leave one if you hate it ;)).