Rogues of Overwatch
Page 78
Chapter 27- Exposed Flaw
For the rest of the day, Mark shut himself in his room, a flood of emotions storming in his chest. He wanted to deny Heather’s death and to pretend that it was some elaborate ruse, either on her part to escape and to come help him later, or on Whyte’s to coerce his loyalty. But he had held her, felt her life leave her body. He knew what death looked like all too well, and she was truly gone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her choking and fading to a corpse-white hue.
He wasn’t sure whether to cry, roar to the heavens, or let his mind recede from the real world until he was on another plane of existence. So he swapped back and forth between all three for hours on end. Thankfully, nobody checked in on him during the day. He would have either bitten their head off or proven to Whyte how incapable he was to handle all this.
But sometime in the evening, when his rumbling stomach finally interrupted the cycle, he realized he would have to emerge from his room eventually. And he would have to put on a brave front, act like Heather did. Or used to.
Mark could almost hear her now, berating him for lying there and doing nothing. She wouldn’t want him to sit there like a blubbering lump. She would demand action and that he escape. That was the one thing she asked of him, the final thing, and he would do it. No matter how impossible or how hopeless were their—his—chances of beating Whyte, he would find a way out. If not for her sake, then because one of them had to.
She would agree with me. He hopped off the bed and strolled throughout the facility, forgetting his hunger and determined to escape. The first thing he mentally noted were the cameras and how fast or slow they turned back and forth. Once satisfied that he had enough knowledge of the layout and where the security’s eyes could see, he headed to his room, bumping into Roy in the hall.
“Oh, you’re up,” he said. Mark didn’t answer him and Roy held out a plate of food. A baked potato, some carrots, and green beans. “I thought you might be hungry.”
Mark accepted the food and muttered a “Thanks,” surprised at how froggy his voice sounded.
They stood there awkwardly for a few moments and as Mark stepped around him, Roy said, “Hey, uh, look, about He—” he stopped and started again. “I mean, I know what it’s like to lose a friend.”
Mark snorted. “Friend” was an understatement. Yet he couldn’t allow any anger to show. That would only raise suspicions around him, and he would have to deal with stricter surveillance.
“Or someone close to you,” Roy added. “I’ve lost brothers and sisters in the service. They were like family. So if you need to talk, you can bend my ear, yeah?” He laid a comforting hand on Mark’s shoulder, his eyes sorrowful, and Mark knew Roy was trying to sympathize with him. “I don’t like it either. I’m sorry it happened.”
Mark almost relented and believed Roy had greatly disapproved of Whyte’s action. But Roy was part of this and another reminder of Whyte. And Heather had died not an honorable death in service to her country but stabbed in the back. The bile stirred in his throat, and it took great effort not to fling the plate down the hall and push Roy away.
It required all his effort when Oliver waltzed down the hall— brushing against the wall and using Mark’s head as guidance— not to rip Oliver’s arm out of his socket and go on a murder spree, starting with Whyte. Or maybe Valerie’s arm would be easier. “I better go eat this before it gets cold,” he said and slipped away from them and back to his room.
He set the plate aside, closed his door, and waited until five minutes before nine. Then he stole his way to the armory and made it in time for the guard change. He stole a few grenades and another C4, and then he stowed them under his mattress and waited for everyone to retire to their rooms.
Once most everyone was in bed, he put his plan into action. Mark tucked both C4 into his pants and snuck down the hall, avoiding the cameras and staying out of sight. He had mapped out the path in his mind with the fewest cameras, and after many long, intense stretches of time, waiting for a camera to turn and hoping no one would happen upon him, he reached a long hallway. It went down deep, deep to the back room at the farthest end of the facility and at least a couple of levels below any other rooms.
Right under Lake Superior.
It was pretty empty, save for a few computers and some archived projects tucked away under tarps and in filing cabinets. Behind all of that was a small pantry, with shelves along the square wall and in the center, allowing only four people at most to squeeze in.
Checking that no one was inside either room, he slipped into the dark pantry. There was a scant amount of light from the main room, so that he could mostly see what he was doing. He climbed the middle shelves and placed one C4 directly on the ceiling above the central shelves. Then, using an unsteady filing cabinet, he stuck one above the overhanging lamps in the main room. He had watched the mercenaries place enough so that he was half sure he set them up right. He would find out soon. With luck, no one would see the C4 until he was ready tomorrow.
Once the C4 blew, everyone would rush to this area to deal with the emergency, leaving a path at the front door wide open. Not a perfect plan. Definitely quick and dirty. However, it was all he could do on short notice.
Some part of him told him that Whyte probably knew what he was up to, but he didn’t care. He had to try. For Heather.
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