My first red flag was the blaring surgical light.

Turning my head to the side and squinting, I could see I was in some dirty, amateur surgical room with concrete walls and random doctor’s equipment.

I blinked the grogginess of whatever drug away, searching for a way to untie my limbs from this metal table.

Metal table?

‘Dumbass,’ I think. Whoever the captor was, he made two fatal mistakes, the first was putting her somewhere with sharp edges.

I flung one wrist over the side and began sawing, letting the table’s edge cut through the rope.

Three minutes, and my left arm was free. I easily untied the knots around my other limbs and grabbed a pair of surgical scissors from a nearby pan.

I wasn’t happy about being overpowered in the first place. My training should have let me know if anyone was trying to come up behind me. If I hadn’t been lucky with an idiotic captor, god only knows what weird experiments they would have done to me.

Even still, I thanked my luck: women had been kidnapped for worse intentions...

The wooden door i was locked in was a simple deadbolt; Child’s play to open. This was somebody’s basement. The next room was another concrete box, but a wooden stair case led upwards in the center of the room.

I could hear shuffling in the floor above now. I memorize their footsteps and make a guess on where they are when they stop.

There’s two. One was directly above me and the other was on the opposite side of the room.

Perfect.

I make my way up the steps. Minimizing the sound of footfalls, especially on creaking wood, was a trick I learned in my second year of training. The door slid open without a sound.

I crouched through the old hallway.

I go for the closest man, who had been the one just above her, and find the living room.

A mid 30’s African man sat on a recliner facing away from me. Gangster type, with sagging jeans and a SnapBack hat.

The noise of his choking was muffled by the tv he was watching. As the last of his life drained from the wound in his neck, I grabbed the pistol tucked into his waist.

More confident with a more professional weapon, I strolled into a kitchen where I the second guy was. He was another gangster, white with a black hoodie.

“You made two mistakes,” I say loudly.

I fire a warning shot which bounces the handgun on the counter away from his outstretching hand.

He freezes, and turns to look at me.

“First was tying me to metal table. Easy to cut myself free with the sharp edges.”

“And the second?” He asked.

I smile. I hate to admit it, but this was the most fun i’d had in awhile.

“The second,” the gun fires, and he collapses to the ground, “was assuming you were the worst person in the room.”