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Not one that would work anyway.
“Even if you do manage to fly under Victor’s radar long enough to make your little ‘presents’, hide them, and find a way to light them all at the right time, unless you have weapons, you’re just as dead.”
“Well, you’re a bag of fucking positivity.”
“I’m only trying to help. Even if you succeeded and pulled off the impossible—because it is impossible unless you have proper ignition, fuses, fuel, correct placement, structural blueprints, etcetera—it’s a waste of bloody time.”
“You got a better idea?” Peter scowled.
“Nope, but I’ll think about it. I need to know every little detail. How are you keeping the chemicals separate before detonation? What fuses are you using? Do you have checkpoints and timeframes mapped out? Who lights what? What if one doesn’t go off and—?”
“Rachel is a chemist. Mollie is a quantum physicist. I’m leaving the finer details to them.”
“Still won’t work.” I checked my watch.
Too long.
Time to go.
Peter looked as if he’d punch me, but then he groaned and scrubbed his face. Thick depression rose up and choked him. “So you’re saying to give up before we’ve even begun? What the fuck sort of advice is that? I told you…I won’t survive. I’m done. I’m so fucking done that I’m ready to do anything, even if I die while doing it.”
I fought the urge to leave. “Want to know what I’d do? What all the successful breakouts in the books I’ve read have done?”
“I’m dying with suspense.”
“Keep it simple. If this was an old castle with old wiring, that would be your ticket. Short-circuit the switchboard and start an electrical fire. Maybe try to blow up the generator tanks. Diesel doesn’t ignite easily, though, so you’d have to consider that. But this place isn’t old, and Victor is far too sly for you to underestimate him. He’s always one step ahead, and you know as well as I do that it will be a fucking miracle if you manage to get a fart past him, let alone a fucking coup.”
Peter hung his head and didn’t say anything.
I’d hurt him again.
I didn’t like it…but it was necessary.
If they continued running around thinking they were all James fucking Bond, someone would slip up and we’d all die.
“Stop making the bombs. Focus more on what’s going to happen on Christmas Day. Where will the guards be? How many jewels per guard are needed to overwhelm him and grab his gun? You don’t need bombs if you plan it right.”
“We’re out-numbered. Of course we need bombs.”
“No, you need distractions. Set some fires. Splash some petrol around to make it spread. Distract and disorient. Get as many weapons as you can and be prepared to actually use them—”
“Peter. Peter.” One of the girls working at the stainless-steel bench threw a peeled onion at us.
His eyes shot behind me. “Ah, shit.” Bolting away from the larder, he skidded to a stop beside the pretty cook seasoning a huge tray of vegetables. The girl gave him a worried look. He shook his head.
I spun on my heel just as the other cook collided with me and shoved a shiny green apple into my hands. “Here.”
I went to ask—
The guard by the door stood to full attention.
And in walked Victor.
A surge of fear swamped me, followed by an ice-cold blanket of detachment. Perhaps I was a psychopath after all, because the dissociation between planning a war with Peter and my current snowy calm couldn’t exist in the same person.
“Victor!” I strolled toward him, tossing my apple into the air before catching it and taking a big juicy bite. “You hungry too?”
He scowled, looking me up and down. “Henri. What on earth are you doing down here?” He eyed my apple. “Didn’t you find enough to eat at breakfast?”
