Quinn kept his expression neutral, a mask of reluctant compliance, as he followed Richter's man out of the cluttered office. The second guard prodded Martha gently, urging her forward. Her steps were shaky, her face pale with fear, but her eyes met Quinn's for a fraction of second, conveying a silent, desperate question. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, trying to project reassurance he didn't feel. Play along. Stay calm.
They walked back into the industrial kitchen. The two guards who had been playing cards straightened up warily, rifles held ready now, watching Quinn with open suspicion. Richter's office man, the one escorting Quinn, jerked his head towards the outer door leading towards the compound yard.
"Boss says see 'em clear of the main gate," the escort grunted. "You two, watch our backs."
The kitchen guards nodded, falling into step behind Quinn and the second escort who walked beside Martha. Four guards now, boxing them in. Richter wasn't taking any chances.
They stepped out of the relative coolness of the kitchen into the bright, dusty heat of the compound yard. The low hum of the generator seemed louder out here. Quinn scanned the area quickly. Empty trucks sat parked near a garage. Piles of scrap metal glinted in the sun. The rooftop guards continued their lazy patrols. Everything looked deceptively normal.
They walked across the open ground towards the main gate, visible about a hundred yards away – heavy steel, reinforced, with a small guard shack beside it. Quinn walked deliberately, not too fast, letting his eyes track the movements of the escorts. The lead escort walked slightly ahead and to Quinn's left. The guard beside Martha was focused on her, occasionally glancing nervously at Quinn. The two guards from the kitchen trailed about ten feet behind.
They were halfway to the gate. This was it. If he let them get all the way there, let the gate close behind him and Martha, his chance to free the others would be gone. Richter would secure the compound, double the guards, and the prisoners would be lost. He had to act now, while they were in the relative open, away from the immediate backup inside the main building.
He needed a key, a tool, something to open that padlock downstairs. The guards would have keys, or know where they were kept.
He stumbled intentionally, letting out a small grunt, lurching towards the guard walking beside Martha. The guard reacted instinctively, turning towards the stumble, momentarily distracted.
In that split second, Quinn exploded into motion. He pivoted hard, slamming the elbow of his right arm backwards into the face of the trailing guard closest to him. A sickening crunch of bone and cartilage. The guard went down without a sound, nose smashed, eyes rolling back.
Simultaneously, Quinn drew the pistol from his waistband, spinning towards the lead escort who was just realizing what was happening. Quinn fired twice – bang! bang! – the shots echoing loud in the yard. The lead escort staggered, clutching his chest, surprise and agony on his face, before collapsing onto the gravel.
The second trailing guard shouted, raising his rifle. Quinn dropped low, firing upwards – bang! The bullet caught the guard under the chin, snapping his head back. He crumpled like a string puppet.
Three down in less than three seconds.
The last guard, the one beside Martha, finally reacted, shoving Martha roughly aside and trying to bring his own rifle up. Martha cried out as she stumbled and fell onto the dirt. Quinn didn't hesitate. He fired again – bang! – hitting the guard square in the torso. The man staggered back a step, then fell heavily near Martha's feet.
Silence, except for the hum of the generator and the sudden, frantic shouting from the rooftop guards who had finally spotted the commotion.
Quinn rushed to Martha's side, pulling her up. "Are you okay?"
"Yes… I think so," she gasped, shaken but unharmed.
"Keys!" Quinn barked, already kneeling beside the last guard he'd shot, patting down his pockets. He found a heavy ring holding several keys – thick, industrial-looking ones. Hopefully one fit the padlock. "Stay down!" he yelled at Martha as a rifle shot cracked from the roof, kicking up dust near their feet.
He grabbed Martha's arm, pulling her low, using the body of the fallen guard for momentary cover. He needed to get back to the main building, to the basement.
"The kitchen door!" he yelled, pointing. "Run!"
He fired a couple of shots towards the rooftop guards, not aiming to hit, just to keep their heads down. Then he pushed Martha ahead of him and they sprinted back towards the kitchen entrance, bullets whining past them or thudding into the dirt nearby.
They burst back into the kitchen, slamming the heavy door shut behind them just as more shots peppered the metal. Quinn quickly dragged a heavy steel prep table across the floor, wedging it against the door handle. It wouldn't hold for long, but it might buy them seconds.
He ignored the dead bodies of the card players still slumped at their table and ran towards the basement door, Martha limping quickly behind him. He unlocked it with the knife again – faster this time – and they clattered down the concrete steps into the damp darkness below.
"Quinn? What's happening?" a voice whispered urgently from the locked cell door.
Quinn fumbled with the keys he'd taken off the guard, trying them one by one in the heavy padlock. "Richter lied," he hissed back, finding a key that slid smoothly into the lock. "Get ready! There might be more guards coming!"
He turned the key. The padlock clicked open. He yanked it free, threw the heavy bolt aside, and pulled the door open.
About ten figures huddled inside the cramped, foul-smelling space – men and women, gaunt, dirty, blinking in the sudden light from Quinn's flashlight. Their faces were etched with fear and desperate hope.
"Anyone who can fight, grab something!" Quinn ordered, scanning the faces quickly. "Anyone who can run, be ready!"
A man near the front pushed himself forward. He was younger than Quinn expected, maybe late twenties, with dark, intelligent eyes that held a spark despite his obvious malnutrition. He wore grease-stained overalls and moved with a wiry quickness. "Give me a weapon," the man said, his voice raspy but firm. "I can help. Name's Marco. Used to be a mechanic before... this."
Quinn sized him up instantly. Capable. Resourceful. "Marco. Good." He thrust the pistol he'd taken from the last guard into Marco's hands. "Know how to use this?"
Marco nodded grimly, checking the safety with practiced familiarity. "Enough."
"Martha," Quinn said, turning to her. "Are you okay to move quickly?"
She nodded, her face pale but determined. "I'll manage."
"Right," Quinn said. "We need to get out, fast. But Richter had supplies. Weapons. We need them." He remembered the cluttered office. "Marco, you know the layout upstairs?"
Marco nodded again. "Spent some time cleaning Richter's office under guard. Saw the stash. Heavy weapons, ammo, gear."
"Okay. New plan," Quinn said rapidly, adrenaline singing through him. Shouts and pounding were coming from the top of the basement stairs now – Richter's men trying to break through the kitchen door barricade. "Marco, you come with me. We hit the office, grab what we can carry. Martha, take the others. Go back out the way I came in – the ventilation shaft near the west wall. It's clear for now. Get to the woods, head east towards the road. Find my SUV – it's hidden off the track about half a mile from the main road. Wait there. If we're not back in twenty minutes, assume the worst and get yourselves clear."
"What about you?" Martha asked, her voice tight with worry.
"We'll create a diversion," Quinn said grimly. "Grab the gear, find another way out. We'll meet you at the vehicle. Now go!"
He didn't wait for arguments. He pushed Martha gently towards the group, urging them towards the ventilation shaft exit at the far end of the basement. The prisoners hesitated only a second, then surged forward, hope and fear warring on their faces, following Martha into the darkness.
Quinn turned to Marco. "Ready?"
Marco hefted the pistol, a grim light in his eyes. "Born ready."
Quinn nodded. He took the lead, heading back towards the concrete stairs, his own pistol raised. The pounding on the kitchen door above was getting louder, angrier.
Time was running out. They needed weapons, and they needed a very loud distraction.