Chapter 3 - The Midnight BreakoutWith a sharp twist, Mateo choked the Warden into unconsciousness. Vargas collapsed onto the cold cell floor, gasping weakly for air as his eyes rolled back.
Mateo didn't hesitate. He knelt down, grabbed the ring of brass keys from the Warden’s belt, and unlocked his wrist and ankle shackles. The relief was instantaneous, but he knew he had only minutes before the guard shift changed.
He stripped the unconscious Warden of his heavy wool coat, cap, and security access card. Dressed in the Warden's uniform, keeping his head down beneath the wide brim of the officer's hat, Mateo unlocked the cell door and stepped out into the dark hallway.
The prison was a fortress. Built in the late 19th century, Coldwater Penitentiary was surrounded by thirty-foot concrete walls, razor wire, and three armed guard towers equipped with searchlights.
Mateo walked briskly down the corridor, mimicking the Warden's rigid posture. He passed two rookie guards at the security desk.
"Heading out early, Colonel?" one of them asked, barely looking up from his logbook.
"Checking the perimeter," Mateo grunted, keeping his voice low and muffled by his high coat collar.
"Understood, sir. Good luck with the execution tonight."
Mateo swiped the access card at the heavy steel exit gate. The magnetic lock disengaged with a loud CLANG. He slipped out into the freezing night air, the rain washing over his face like a baptism.
He didn't run toward the main gates. That would be suicide. Instead, he made his way toward the east wall, where the prison's old drainage system emptied into the river. Elena’s final words echoed in his mind: Check the floorboards.
He didn't know what it meant yet, but he knew where he had to go first: The Warden’s house on the hill.
Ten minutes later, sirened alarms began to wail behind him. The air burned red as emergency floodlights cut through the rain.
ALARM! ESCAPED INMATE IN CELL BLOCK D!
The hunt was on. Mateo plunged into the thick, muddy woods climbing the ridge toward the mansion. The rain pounded down, turning the dirt path into a slippery slide of mud and rotting leaves. Behind him, the baying of attack hounds echoed through the valley.
Up on the hill, the silhouette of the grand Victorian mansion loomed like a black fortress against the lightning-lit sky. Iron gates. Brass wolf knocker. Just as Elena had described.
Mateo scaled the sharp wrought-iron fence, tearing his hands on the spikes, and dropped onto the manicured lawn. He darted through the shadows of the hedges toward the back of the house.
Looking up at the second-floor window, he froze.
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Standing in the frame, backlit by the soft glow of a lamp, was a woman. Her hair was long and silvered, her face pale and hollowed by years of captivity—but the eyes were unmistakable.
It was Clara.
