CHAPTER 19: THE FACILITY
The Pennsylvania facility looked like every other corporate retreat center I'd ever seen.
Low buildings spread across manicured grounds. Conference rooms with whiteboards and motivational posters. A dining hall that tried too hard to feel casual. Everything designed to make executives feel like they were roughing it while still having WiFi and climate control.
I checked in at the main building. The coordinator—a middle-aged woman named Sarah with genuinely warm eyes—handed me a folder and room key.
"Mr. Roy, welcome. You're in Building C, room twelve. Orientation starts at four PM in the main conference room."
"Thanks."
"And just so you know—" She lowered her voice slightly. "We don't make a big deal about, you know, family names here. You're just another trainee. Okay?"
I smiled. "That's exactly what I want."
She seemed relieved.
I found my room. Small, clean, institutional. Single bed, desk, tiny bathroom. The kind of space designed for function over comfort.
I unpacked. Hung up clothes. Set up my laptop. Normal things. Grounding myself in routine while my mind cataloged everything.
The facility layout. Security—I'd passed two guards at the main entrance, one roaming patrol. Understaffed for the size of the place. Budget cuts, probably.
The other trainees I'd seen walking around. Mixed group. Some my age, some older. Managers and executives from various Waystar properties learning operations management.
And the employees. The facility staff. I'd noticed them on the walk to my building. Maintenance workers. Kitchen staff. Security. The people who kept this place running.
One in particular had caught my attention. Forties, maintenance uniform, face carved from granite and old anger. He'd been fixing a fence post near the parking lot, movements precise but aggressive. Each hammer blow harder than necessary.
I'd felt the Empathy Engine pulse as I passed. Caught fragments: Twenty years. They promised. Liars. All of them. Someone has to—
Marcus. His name tag had said Marcus.
One of the three who would take hostages.
I checked my watch. Three hours until orientation.
I sat on the bed. Breathed. Prepared.
The orientation was actually useful.
The instructor—a competent operations manager named David from the Philadelphia division—walked us through facility management, crisis protocols, floor operations. Real information, practically delivered.
I took notes. Actual notes, not just pretending. The other trainees kept glancing at me—surprised the Roy kid was engaged.
Let them be surprised.
During the break, a woman about my age approached. "You're Roman Roy, right?"
"Yeah."
"Emily. I manage a Parks location in Ohio." She hesitated. "I wasn't sure if you'd actually participate. In the training."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Just... you know. Family. I figured you already knew everything."
"I know boardroom politics. I don't know floor operations. That's why I'm here."
She smiled. "Fair enough. Want to grab coffee?"
We spent the break in the lounge. She talked about her facility—the challenges, the budget constraints, the daily problem-solving. I listened, asked questions, learned.
Two other trainees joined us. Mark from Cruises (I filed that away—he might know about the documents). Lisa from ATN affiliate sales.
Normal conversation. Professional talk. No one treating me like a Roy, just like another manager trying to learn the job.
It was... nice. Strange, but nice.
The training resumed. Crisis response protocols. How to handle facility emergencies. Evacuation procedures.
I paid close attention to that section. Wondered if I'd need it soon.
Dinner was in the cafeteria.
Industrial food served cafeteria-style. Not bad, not great. Chicken, vegetables, potatoes. Plenty of it. The kind of meal designed to feed people efficiently.
I sat with Emily and the others. We talked about our facilities, our challenges, the absurdity of some corporate policies.
"The dress code policy at my location is insane," Lisa said. "Someone in Manhattan decided everyone needs to wear business formal. We're in Tucson. It's a hundred degrees. People are passing out."
Mark laughed. "Try working Cruises. Corporate wants 'consistent brand experience.' Meanwhile, we're dealing with norovirus outbreaks and drunk passengers."
I ate and listened. Filed away information about operational realities that never made it to board presentations.
The cafeteria itself was full. Trainees at some tables. Staff at others. Clear separation.
Marcus sat with two other men at a staff table in the corner. All three wore maintenance uniforms. All three looked... tense. Wrong.
I recognized the second man from my arrival—younger, nervous energy, kept checking his phone. The third was older, calm in a way that felt dangerous. Eating slowly. Watching everything.
Three men. The three who would take hostages.
I forced myself to look away. Eat normally. Continue the conversation.
But I'd seen them. Confirmed what I knew was coming.
Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. But soon.
After dinner, optional networking in the common room. I went, played pool with Mark, talked shop with a few senior managers who relaxed when they realized I wasn't there to pull rank.
Ten PM, I headed back to my room.
The facility at night was quiet. Motion-sensor lights clicking on as I walked. Crickets in the distance. Pennsylvania autumn cold seeping through my jacket.
I passed the maintenance building. Lights still on inside. Voices—angry, hushed.
I didn't slow down. Didn't stop. Just kept walking.
But I heard fragments: "...twenty years..." "...they don't care..." "...tomorrow we make them..."
Tomorrow.
I reached my room. Locked the door. Sat on the bed.
My phone had service, barely. Text from Gerri: How's the training?
Me: Actually useful. Learning real operations stuff.
Gerri: Good. You'll come back smarter than before.
Me: That's the plan.
I set the phone aside. Looked around the small room.
Tomorrow, three men with guns would take this facility hostage. Would burst into whatever room we were training in. Would hold thirty people at gunpoint while they demanded someone listen to their grievances.
And I'd have to survive it without revealing I knew it was coming.
I lay back on the bed. Stared at the ceiling.
Trauma Lock hummed in the back of my mind. Dormant but present. Waiting for the moment it would need to activate.
I breathed. Controlled the fear. Readied myself.
Tomorrow.
The wounded king, preparing for the storm.
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