The cold damp room was dark. The air seemed to feel like icicles when inhaled. Rusty medical instruments and used gloves lay on a metal tray spotted with blood. The weak clink of chains barely could produce an echo. A painful groan escapes a man whose face now sunk deep to outline the angular skull beneath. He was extremely fatigued, weak in every sense of the word. It was a miracle he still breathed and moved at all.
The only source of this stubborn will to live was his memory of his daughter, the only person left that he loved, the one he must get back to. A sharp grating sound fills the room- a sign that somebody was entering. Mr. Samuels struggled to open his eyes to peer at an unfamiliar face. She wore all white and an expression of clear indifference. Mr. Samuels couldn't help but shut his eyes, unaccustomed to brightness. It had been a long time since he witnessed light.
A gentle clink hit the floor as the woman placed the tray of food in front of the moribund man. Just as quickly as she came, Mr. Samuels soon heard the scratching of the door and then, nothing.
His eyes fluttered open to look at the mush before him. Even the gravy on the mashed potato looked frozen. This was what they were ordered to feed him. A bowl of cold mashed potatoes and gravy. His hand trembled its way to grip the cold glass of water first. He brought it up to his dry, parched lips. As much as he wanted to gulp the water, his strength only allowed him to take shaky sips. Though bony were his arms, they felt as though they weighed a ton each. He could barely lift them.
As usual, there was no fork. No metal utensils. Just a bendy plastic spoon. Anything that could be used to pick the locks on his chains was discouraged. Mr. Samuels felt the gritty texture of the cold mashed potato outlining the sides of his throat. Nevertheless, he managed to eat half of the inadequate food and drink all the water that was given to him. It wasn't much but he felt himself grow the slightest bit stronger.
In order to survive being held captive, he not only had to have the will to keep on but also the physical strength to carry out his body. No matter how strong his resolve was, it would not happen if he wasn't physically ready. So he fell into a routine:
Wake up
Meditate
Think of Melabee
Eat all you can
Stretch
Escape
The last task of his routine was still in motion or rather was yet to be in motion. He couldn't start a plan unless the chains were off. He did have a plan. Every day, he was granted two visits to the restroom. This was when they'd unshackle him. His hands would be free but his legs would remain shackled to each other but by a weaker pair of cuffs. The path to the bathroom involved passing the exit, his way out.
The person who would take him to the bathroom only had a baton for a weapon. Though it was a weapon, Mr. Samuels saw much more survival in it than he did in a gun. He waited patiently for the man to arrive.
The plan wasn't foolproof but it was a plan. The miserably truth was that the entire place was surrounded by men armed with guns. Any chance of escape would be quickly obliterated the moment his foot left the building.
Getting out was, in other words, impossible. Getting in, on the other hand, may be possible. For days, Mr. Samuels expected somebody from his side to come and rescue him. Nobody ever came. He abandoned any notion of outside help because he knew it was never coming.
This was where he was wrong.
And this was where Mr. Holmes came in.
Since the feared Mr. Jones declared there wouldn't be a rescue team for the Samuels, Mr. Holmes and a few other agents who were all fond of the Samuels took to their own hands the task of delivering out Mr. and Mrs. Samuels back to safety. Mr. Holmes was able to gain confidential data that helped him and his team track the Samuels' last location. In fact, the very moment Mr. Samuels waited to be taken to the bathroom, ready to put his own plan into action, Mr. Holmes' team was on their way to rescue him.
Mr. Samuels gazed steadily at the door, waiting for it to open. He expected to see the same man, the man who he thought he had a chance at combat with, but to his shock, in approached Mr. Donovan.
As if reading his mind, Mr. Donovan smiled knowingly at him, his round blue eyes dancing in delight.
"You're not planning on escaping, are you?" The question hit Mr. Samuels like bricks. He only glared back. Mr. Donovan approached him.
"You're really getting good at those stretches," he said in a casual tone as he picked up a bloody instrument. Mr. Samuels froze at the comment and stared at him in unmasked surprise.
Mr. Donovan met his stare and exclaimed, "Ah! I forgot to tell you. Cameras," he gestured lazily around the room. "Silly little things."
Mr. Samuels was absolutely speechless.
"I was really hoping you'd like it here," Mr. Donovan continued. "In fact I was hoping you'd like me, you know, since we've shared lots of...intimate things." At this, a shiver ran through Mr. Samuels who looked at the other in disgust.
"You burn in hell, you son of a bitch."
"Chris, I think you and I both agree that this is hell," Mr. Donovan said. "Unfortunately for you, I am not the one burning."
Mr. Donovan started to pace around the room, his flat shoes tapping against the damp floor. "You know, I only planned on keeping you because I wanted information." His movements became theatrical as he continued. "But seeing you in this pathetic state! Well I couldn't help myself. I know you won't tell me anything. I don't care! This is just for my pleasure."
As if an unspoken signal was given, they heard distant sounds of gunshots and explosion. Mr. Samuels' heart quickened and for a moment, he felt a gleam of hope.
An unfamiliar expression grazed Mr. Donovan's face. He, on the other hand, for a moment, felt a glint of panic.
He left the room in a hurry to investigate. As his eyes met contact down the barrel of a gun, he thought how, in his entire life, leaving that room was the only mistake he ever made.
