Chapter 6: The Great Escape
The hum of the vending machine in the dim hallway sounded deafening as David slipped back into the room after making the call. Clara was already sitting up, swinging her bruised legs over the edge of the mattress with a wince of sharp pain. She had managed to pull on a pair of sweatpants over her hospital gown, her hands trembling as she tied the drawstring.
"The nurse changed shifts ten minutes ago," Clara whispered, her voice steadying despite the paleness of her skin. "There’s a janitor’s closet at the end of the hall that connects to the laundry chute stairwell. It bypasses the main security desk."
"Are you strong enough to walk down four flights of stairs?" David asked, stepping forward to offer his arm, feeling the heat radiating from her skin.
"I have to be," she said, biting her lower lip until it turned white. "If I stay here another hour, they'll inject me with sedatives under the guise of 'treatment' and I won't even be conscious when they take the baby away."
David nodded, his jaw set in a hard line. He grabbed his navy vest from the chair, shrugged it back on, and checked his watch. Thirty-five minutes until Marcus arrived at the loading dock. They moved with deliberate, quiet speed, slipping out into the linoleum-floored corridor just as the overhead lights flickered in their nightly automation. The hospital was a labyrinth of shadows and distant, muffled intercom announcements.
Every turn felt like a gamble. When they reached the corner near the nurses' station, David held his breath, pulling Clara back into the alcove of an empty supply room until the midnight cart rolled past, its wheels squeaking rhythmically against the wax.
They reached the heavy fire door marked with a red exit sign. David pushed it open, the metal bar giving way with a metallic click that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet stairwell. The air down here was cooler, smelling of bleach and damp concrete. Descending the stairs was agony for Clara; every step sent a fresh wave of pain through her bruised legs, but she refused to let out a sound, leaning her full weight against David’s shoulder.
By the time they reached the ground-level exit leading to the south loading dock, both of them were drenched in cold sweat. David pushed the exterior bar, and the heavy metal door swung outward, letting in a rush of damp night air mixed with the city smog.
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Parked beside a row of gray industrial dumpsters was a dented black sedan with its engine idling quietly. The window rolled down halfway, revealing Marcus Thorne’s weathered face illuminated by the amber glow of a cigarette.
"You smell like antiseptic and bad decisions," Marcus muttered, unlocking the back doors from the dashboard. "Get in before the security cameras pick up your silhouettes."
