The Wrong Hostage

53

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

MONDAY, 2:25 A.M.

LANE SWIPED AT HIS EYES, telling himself it was sweat, not tears, that kept blurring his view of the computer screen. He really wished he believed it.

Another bout of thunder made the cottage tremble.

He noticed the sound only because it meant that his mouthy guards wouldn’t be catcalling from the windows. His stomach growled and cramped with hunger.

He ignored it.

He couldn’t take a chance on eating drugged food. After he was free, he’d eat a double-sausage pizza as big as a coffee table. He’d bury his face in the spicy sauce and-

After.

But first he had to hack his way into his father’s file.

The second sample key wasn’t any better than the first had been. He must be screwing up something because he was light-headed and scared and hungry.

Focus, Lane told himself fiercely. You can do this in your sleep and you know it. It’s just a matter of concentration and time.

Concentration he didn’t have.

Time that was sliding away.

Suck it up.

Just. Suck. It. Up.

Lightning burned through the little bathroom window. Lane didn’t notice it, or the thunder that followed. He was staring at the computer screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

Shaking.