The Wrong Hostage

51

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

MONDAY, 1:32 A.M.

STROKE AFTER STROKE OF lightning raked across the sky, turning night into a blinding network of white against black. Thunder was immediate, continuous explosions that rocked the night. Rain came down like the end of the world.

“Yes!” Lane laughed out loud as guards raced for cover. “Bring it! Send those cabrons running to cover.”

Since the nearest permitted shelter was fifty feet away in another cottage, he wouldn’t have to worry about his guards peering in his windows and wondering what he was doing under the sheet or in the closed, locked bathroom.

For a few seconds more Lane enjoyed the storm washing across his face, its taste wild and sweet.

Like freedom.

Then he closed the windows, pulled the curtains, and took his computer into the bathroom, where there was both privacy and an electrical outlet. The last thing he wanted was to run out of juice just when he hacked into the file.

If I hack it.

No. When. I’ve hacked harder security.

But he’d been younger then. He hadn’t believed in death. That, and the guards, broke his concentration.

Pretty Good Privacy was turning out to be pretty good indeed. The first sample key he’d played around with hadn’t gotten him very far. As in headfirst into a stone wall, locked up, reboot, and try again. And again.

And again.

The cigarette smoke and jokes and catcalls from the open windows hadn’t helped. But now all he had was the heady freedom of the storm and the computer itself, something he was comfortable with.

Something he was good at.

Something that didn’t constantly taunt him that he was scheduled to die at twelve-thirty this afternoon.