From his post, Diaz could see straight down the main hallway to the booking area. Deputy Rusk sat at the desk playing games on his phone, obviously bored with night shift duty. The security cameras in the corner blinked their red lights steadily, except for the one pointing at the evidence room. That light was dark.
Through the window, Diaz watched Trina work methodically at the vent, her movements precise despite her restraints. The metal cap spun against the screws with quiet determination. One screw clattered to the floor, then another. She caught them before they could make noise.
The radio squawked. "Unit 4, respond to possible 10-54 at Miller's Creek."
Rusk's voice came back. "Copy that. En route."
The front door slammed as Rusk left, leaving the station even emptier. Somewhere in the building, a phone started ringing. It went unanswered.
The vent cover creaked softly as another screw came loose under Trina's relentless work. Diaz checked his watch again: 11:52 p.m. The night crawled by like molasses as he stood guard, every minute feeling like an hour, while behind him, the sounds of Trina's escape attempt continued with quiet persistence.
The darkness pressed in around Trina as she squeezed her aching body through the narrow vent shaft. Years of dust coated her clothes, and every movement sent shooting pains through her bruised ribs. The basement archives stretched below her like a maze of shadowy shelves and forgotten files.
With practiced silence, she lowered herself down, landing in a crouch between two tall filing cabinets. The musty smell of old paper and damp concrete filled her lungs. Her training kicked in: Assess, adapt, survive.
First priority: get oriented. Pale emergency lights cast a sickly glow through the underground space. Row after row of metal shelving units created a grid pattern that stretched into the darkness. Water dripped somewhere in the distance, each drop echoing off the concrete walls.
"Security panel has to be down here somewhere," she whispered to herself, keeping her voice low enough that it wouldn't carry.
Moving carefully despite her injuries, Trina crept along the walls, scanning for electrical fixtures. Her fingers traced along rough concrete until they found what she was looking for: a utility access panel hidden behind a stack of moldy cardboard boxes.
The panel's lock was simple enough. She pulled a bobby pin from her hair and had it open in seconds. Inside, a maze of wires and circuit breakers presented itself. Trina smiled grimly. This was the station's central nervous system. She traced the security circuits, found the one she needed, and carefully redirected power from the camera feeds.
Now she just had to find the armory before anyone noticed.
The basement layout was fairly standard for a small-town precinct. Trina moved deeper into the shadows, past shelves crammed with evidence boxes and case files yellowed with age. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold floor; they'd taken her boots during processing.
The armory door stood at the end of a short hallway, its heavy metal frame a stark contrast to the crumbling walls around it. Another lock. This one more sophisticated. It took her nearly 2 minutes to defeat it.
"Seriously," she breathed as the door swung open.
The weapon racks were almost completely bare, just empty hooks and dust where rifles and shotguns should have been. Falner had clearly been planning ahead.
But there, in a forgotten corner under some old riot gear, she found it: a battered X26 taser. Probably considered too old for service, but still functional. The charge indicator showed green when she tested it. Better than nothing.
A bank of old security monitors caught her eye, pushed against the back wall. Most were dark, but three still displayed grainy feeds from external cameras. Trina's pulse quickened as she noticed the timestamp on the footage: just a few hours old.
She rewound the feed, scanning backwards until she found what she needed. The black transport truck appeared on screen, turning east out of the rest stop. She followed its progress across multiple camera views until it turned onto Route 16, heading straight for the abandoned Midwest Meats processing plant.
"Got you," she whispered, memorizing the route. That facility had been shut down years ago after health code violations. Perfect cover for trafficking operations: remote location, soundproof walls, cold storage units.
Suddenly, heavy footsteps pounded overhead. A door slammed, followed by shouting. Trina's muscles tensed as Falner's voice carried through the ceiling: "She's loose in the building! Lock it down now!"
Radio static crackled. Then Rusk's excited reply: "Copy that. All units converge on the station. Suspect is considered dangerous."
Trina moved fast, plotting her escape route. The basement had to have an emergency exit. She found it behind a row of filing cabinets: a metal door with a push bar, probably rusted shut from disuse.
More footsteps above. Running now. Flashlight beams swept the stairwell leading down to the archives. Time was up.
Her fingers found the keypad lock beside the emergency door. Four digits. Standard building code would use the station's founding date. She punched in 1-9-5-8, and the lock clicked open.
Shouts echoed from the stairwell: "Check the basement! She has to be down here."
Trina gripped the taser tightly and took a deep breath. The door would trigger an alarm, but that didn't matter now. She could hear Rusk's heavy breathing as he descended the stairs.
Outside, crickets chirped in the pre-dawn darkness. A 100 yards of open ground separated the station from the treeline. Red and blue lights began strobing in the distance as backup units responded to the call.
Meanwhile, on a lonely stretch of County Road, Agent Monroe's sedan crawled to a stop behind what appeared to be a drunk driver weaving across both lanes. Standard procedure would be to call it in, but something felt off. The driver's movements were too deliberate, too calculated.
Monroe reached for his radio, but before he could key the mic, headlights blazed to life in his rearview mirror. A truck roared out of the darkness, engine screaming.
His last thought was that he should have waited for backup.
Back at the station, Trina pressed her shoulder against the emergency exit. The metal groaned in protest, decades of rust fighting against her. Behind her, flashlight beams danced across the walls as officers searched the basement room by room.
"Where are you, you sneaky bitch?" Rusk's voice echoed off the concrete. "Come out and maybe we won't have to hurt you too bad."