Time became meaningless in the cell.
Sophia had no watch, no phone, no way to track the hours except by counting the meals Cross brought. Three so far which meant roughly eighteen hours, give or take. Eighteen hours of staring at concrete walls, pacing the small space, and planning.
The cell was deliberately sparse. No windows, no objects she could use as weapons, no weaknesses in the construction she could exploit. Cross had thought of everything. But he'd also made assumptions. He assumed she was helpless. Assumed her deafness made her vulnerable. Assumed that isolation would break her.
He was wrong.
Sophia had spent her entire life reading people their faces, their body language, the microexpressions that revealed truth beneath words. And in their conversations, brief as they were, she'd been reading Cross. Watching for patterns, tells, vulnerabilities.
She'd found one.
When Cross talked about Castellano, his jaw tightened. Just slightly. A muscle twitching near his ear. It happened every time the senator's name came up. Anger? No something deeper. Personal.
Cross wasn't just killing Castellano to tie up loose ends. This was revenge.
The door opened. Cross entered with another meal Chinese takeout this time, the smell of lo mein and General Tso's chicken filling the small space. He set it on the table, along with a bottle of green tea.
"You need to eat more," he said, gesturing to the barely-touched sandwich from earlier. "Staying strong is in your best interest."
Sophia remained against the wall, arms crossed. She'd decided on a strategy: engage him. Learn more. Find the crack in his armor.
"Why do you hate Castellano so much?" she signed.
Cross's expression flickered surprise, then calculation. He pulled out his phone, typed: Who says I hate him?
"Your face. Every time you mention him. This isn't just business for you. It's personal."
Cross studied her for a long moment, then actually smiled. You really do see everything, don't you? That's a dangerous skill.
"Is that why you're keeping me alive? Because I'm useful?"
I'm keeping you alive because you're leverage. But yes, you're also interesting. Most people in your position would be crying, begging, promising anything for freedom. You're strategizing. Planning. I respect that.
"Answer my question. Why Castellano?"
Cross sat on the edge of the table, casual, like they were having coffee rather than a hostage negotiation. He typed for a long time before showing her the screen:
Castellano killed my brother. Five years ago. David was a journalist investigating corruption in the defense industry. Found proof that Castellano was taking bribes from military contractors, steering no-bid contracts to companies that kicked back millions. David was going to publish. The night before the story ran, he died in a car accident. Single vehicle crash. Ruled accidental.
Sophia felt a chill. "But it wasn't."
Brake lines were cut. Security footage from his apartment building was mysteriously erased. The editor who was supposed to publish the story received death threats and backed out. Every avenue for justice was closed. So I opened my own.
"You became an assassin."
I became what I needed to be. Learned who to talk to, who to pay, who to eliminate. Built a reputation. Eventually, the same people who killed David hired me. Ironic, isn't it? They trusted me to clean up their messes, never knowing I was waiting for the right moment.
"To kill Castellano."
To destroy him. Everything he built, everyone who protected him, the entire corrupt system that let him murder my brother and walk away smiling. Cross's expression was cold fury now, the mask slipping. Torres wasn't collateral damage. He was part of it. All of them deserve what's coming.
Sophia understood now. Cross wasn't a psychopath he was a zealot. A man who'd turned his grief into a crusade and justified every murder as righteous vengeance. It made him more dangerous, not less. True believers never surrendered.
"So what happens to me?" Sophia signed. "After you kill Castellano?"
That depends on you. Cooperate, and I let you go. Fight me, and you become collateral damage too.
"You really think I believe you'll just release me? I can identify you. Testify against you. I'm a witness to multiple crimes."
You're a witness everyone already knows about. Your testimony is public record. Killing you now gains me nothing except the satisfaction of revenge and I prefer more productive revenge. He stood, moved toward the door. Besides, by the time I'm done with Castellano, I'll be gone. New identity, new country, new life. You can testify all you want to an empty courtroom.
After he left, Sophia sat at the table and forced herself to eat. The food was good Cross had expensive taste even in takeout but it tasted like ash. Everything he'd said made sense strategically, but it also revealed something crucial: Cross had an exit strategy. He was planning to disappear after killing Castellano.
Which meant he had resources hidden somewhere. Money, documents, contacts. The infrastructure for vanishing completely.
And if Sophia could find those resources, she might find a way to stop him.
She examined the cell more carefully this time, running her hands along the walls, looking for any imperfection. The concrete was solid, professionally poured. The door was reinforced steel with the lock mechanism on the outside. The ceiling had a single light fixture, recessed and protected by a metal cage.
No obvious weaknesses. But there had to be something.
Sophia closed her eyes, thinking like an artist. Every space had negative space the places between things, the voids that defined shape. What was the negative space in this cell?
The air vent. Small, high on the wall near the ceiling, barely noticeable. Too small for her to fit through, but large enough for air circulation. Which meant it connected to other rooms, other parts of this facility.
Sound traveled through vents. And while Sophia couldn't hear, vibrations traveled too.
She dragged the chair beneath the vent, climbed up carefully, and pressed her hand against the metal grating. Felt the air current warm, mechanically circulated. Felt something else too: vibrations. Rhythmic. Machinery, maybe. Or footsteps from rooms above or beside her.
This building wasn't abandoned. It was active. Which meant other people were here.
Cross had mentioned "Webb" and "people everywhere." He had a team. An operation. If Sophia could figure out the building's layout, identify patterns in the comings and goings, she might find an opportunity.