Dr. Sullivan and Yonkers arrived the next day and went to work immediately, taking samples of Lydia’s blood and comparing it to Rooke’s formula over the next few days. Mark watched from behind a window, overseeing the lab half a floor below, his despair growing throughout the process. Whyte hadn’t spoken much to him outside of approving nods and asking, “Doing well?”
Heather received much the same treatment, and the two kept each other company amid the others. Mark was ecstatic to have Heather back and even better, they had a bedroom to themselves off to the side from the others. Mark actually slept through the night soundly. Waking up to Heather expelling her gas into the air was a welcome change from Oliver leering over the bed.
They caught each other up on all that had occurred since Golden Springs, but they rarely had a chance to talk about their next move. Every now and then, they found a few minutes to spare away from prying eyes. “I could time my gas, but he’ll see it coming,” she said. “And I haven’t managed to get my hands on a gun yet.”
“Perhaps poison?” he suggested. “I’m sure there’s plenty of deadly stuff in the lab.”
“Even if that worked, we need an escape. That’s most important.”
She was right on that point. The doors didn’t open often, and there were always patrols outside, along with the vehicles. The front was out, although there was no back entrance either. He had considered explosives, but according to Heather, the rear of the base ran down and under Lake Superior.
A few days after Yonkers and Sullivan arrived, Mark woke early to a breakfast tray. “Breakfast in bed? You spoil me, Heather.”
“Eat up,” she said, smirking.
Still half asleep, but already famished, he gobbled down the eggs and pancakes, and washed them down with the glass of milk and orange juice. He had had an idea yesterday for where they might find equipment to escape, and he wanted to get there quickly. A hard piece of pancake trickled down his throat and he coughed, pounding his chest and drinking until it dropped down. It had an odd, sour flavor. Heather gave him a raised eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I guess it was a little overcooked,” he said. He finished and left his tray on the bed and then rushed down the hall, hardly saying good-bye to Heather. He had spotted his opportunity in the locker room. Yesterday, the mercenaries on guard had been idle after their shift ended, and they’d left their lockers wide open, while chatting and walking around. He hoped he would get lucky enough today for the same and find some equipment to help them.
The small armory in the locker room was shut tight, but like yesterday, a couple of mercenaries were joking around off to the side in the locker room, while their lockers stood open out of their view. Mark strolled in as casually as he could and fought the urge to cough, while he rifled through their belongings. In a bag, he found a detonator and a few C4s. He snagged one, and the detonator, and coughed softly in his arm. He skipped out before anyone checked on the noise.
Heather was not in their room, so he quickly stashed the items under his mattress. Knock, knock. Mark jerked around and plopped on his bed. Oliver poked his head around the door, and grinned hugely, his eyes shut. “Mark? You in here?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Come on,” Oliver said. “You’re going to miss it.”