CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY TWO – THE FINAL TRAP

Gordon seemed to realize this as well. His jaw was set in a rigid line, the sinewy cords of muscle casting his features in a facsimile of carved granite. Jasmine watched, numb with trepidation, as he slowly drew the wicked shard of glass from where it had been tucked into his waistband, his fingers tightening around the jagged length until the very tips had turned a bloodless white. "When I give the signal," he rasped, so low that the words seemed to vibrate through the loam itself, "we're gonna have to make a break for the west perimeter wall. It's our only shot at getting clear of this deathtrap." Jasmine could only nod mutely, her throat constricted to the point where speech seemed an impossibility. She knew the stakes, understood the desperate gambit they were about to attempt. But in that moment, with the percussive cadence of approaching footfalls reverberating through the soil, the prospect of sitting idly by while their would-be executioners closed the noose was utterly un