Escape?

Elias worked fast. His fingers fumbled with the rusted nail, sawing through the coarse rope digging into his wrists. His body screamed from the bruises and injuries, but pain was nothing compared to the rage boiling in his veins.

Outside, the guard shifted position.

"Ugh, why the hell am I babysitting?" the terrorist complained. His tone was thick with boredom, his pace dragging slowly just beyond the door.

Elias' breaths slowed. Concentration. Control. Precision.

The rope was weakening.

One misstep and the guard would catch up with him—and that would be the end.

A faint snap.

The fibers gave way.

His wrists were unrestricted.

Elias breathed slowly, quietly. His fingers curled around the nail as if it were a knife, following its sharp, jagged edge.

Outside, the guard sighed.

"Tch. I gotta take a leak." The sound of a rifle shifting filled the air. "The bastard's out cold anyway."

Now.

Elias leaped to his feet, writhing his tied ankles under him. He turned, resting his back against the metal shelf and jamming his body into a twisted crouch.

The creaking storage door opened.

A figure appeared, rifle carried low, hand playing with the earpiece.

Elias ran ahead.

The nail sank into flesh—deep.

A strangled gasp was forced from the terrorist's mouth as Elias hammered the nail into the soft tissue of his throat, wrenching it brutally.

Blood gushed from the wound as the man's rifle fell to the earth. He staggered backward, his eyes bulging in shock, his hands grasping for his desecrated throat.

Elias didn't stop.

His bound legs kicked out, and the terrorist went crashing into the shelves. The terrorist fell on cans, tools, and supplies, which tumbled down, some with dull thuds, others clanging loudly.

The hijacker flailed, his body convulsing. His blood spread across the parched floor, soaking the wood below them.

Elias cradled him as he strangled on his own blood, his blue eyes cold.

Then, with no hesitation, he reached for the rifle.

The Predator Unleashed-

Elias tore the bindings from his ankles, rolling his shoulders to loosen the stiffness. The rifle felt comfortable in his hands, an extension of himself.

He knelt, scanning the dead man's equipment. Extra magazines, a combat knife, a radio.

The radio came to life.

"Status check. How are you down there?"

A long silence.

Elias looked at the radio whose face was speckled with blood.

He slowly reached for it and pushed the button.

"Uh-huh." His voice was low and gruff.

A brief silence.

"Alright. Just hang in here until we relieve you. Out."

Click.

Elias exhaled, his grip on the rifle firming up. Time to move.