Pin Against Wall Novels & Stories

They held his arms and pinned him against the wall, trying to prevent him from leaving. Anderson saw five men in the room, not counting Anita. Two had pinned him against the wall, one old man sitting on an old chair, and two others beside him with Anita. He had never seen the two that were pinning him before. It was not surprising, considering the size of the place. The two other men, were the cook and the bald man that was folding the sheets earlier. They were all staring at him.

Suddenly my eyes fall on the racks settled in the corner. Racks! As far as I know, safety pins are used to secure the uprights of these racks. I can find one in them. I rise on my feet and quickly walk toward the racks. And luckily, there are many of them. I smile and unpin one. Turning around I approach the girl again and shove the pin inside the lock. I twist it a few times and in the seventh attempt it unlocks. Then, I unchain her and take her in my arms. She hasn’t stopped sobbing yet.

“Dante always finds me.” The silence that followed was thick, broken by mocking laughter. “Cocky little thing, aren’t you?” one of them sneered. They shoved me into a room...cold, metallic, the air heavy with damp. The door slammed, a lock clicking into place. I sat still for a moment, heart hammering, and then slowly reached up. My hairpin. Thank God. I crouched low, fingers trembling but determined, and pressed the pin’s blade against the wall where no one would think to look...on the wall, close to the floor.

1:29. Dante inserted the pin into a tiny seam on the casing, twisting it with precise pressure. A soft click echoed—louder than it should have been in the frenzy. The numbers froze at 1:25. The humming stopped. The wires went slack. He stood slowly, pocketing the pin, and turned to face the room.

The 'mighty' pretty-boy security guard was nowhere in sight, but Phil was sure the other guys have received the same instruction to keep him away from that part of the building. 'Mister loverboy' had also made sure the elevator took people straight to the bar and back downstairs. If you attempted to stop anywhere else, the machine demanded a pin. For which, you had seven seconds to enter it, or it took you back downstairs. "That prick!" Phil knew this because yesterday he'd tried getting off at the second floor, where Solana's apartment was located. He'd ended up taking a ride up and down twice before figuring out that a six digit pin was required to get off anywhere other than ground floor

It was the terrifying, absolute stillness of a switch who had just detected a fatal flaw in the architecture. "Victor," Marco murmured into his lapel microphone, his voice so quiet it barely registered over the ambient noise of the room. "The primary winch housing. Look at the retaining pin." Victor’s head snapped up. I followed their gaze. High above the suspended submissive, the heavy steel housing of the motorized winch was bolted to a reinforced I-beam. But something was fundamentally wrong. The heavy, load-bearing retaining pin—a piece of solid, forged steel designed to keep the internal gears locked—was visibly slipping. It hadn't vibrated loose; it had been manually filed down.

A hollow echo answered, wrong, uneven. “Sir,” he called from Lila’s doorway, “this wall doesn’t match the architectural print.” Dominic’s expression sharpened. “What do you mean, doesn’t match?” The guard traced a line along the paint. “There’s a seam here. Very thin. Very old. Looks like…” He pushed a little harder. Click. A narrow rectangle of wall swung inward. A hidden panel. The air in the room turned to ice. Lila lifted a hand to her mouth. “Dominic… what is that?”

he said, his tone turning serious. I stood up from the desk and walked over to him. Behind the painting, where the gold frame met the dark wood paneling, there was an uneven shadow. Julian ran his fingers along the edge of the wood. "The paneling here isn't flush with the rest of the wall," he explained, pointing to a tiny, microscopic gap in the wood grain. "It’s a false panel."

My eyes swept over the walls. Shelves. Cabinets. Steel beams. Then I noticed it. A draft. Faint, but real. Cold air brushed against my wrist near the far corner of the room, behind a tall shelf of maintenance records. I crossed the room immediately and shoved the shelf aside with both hands. It moved only a few inches, but it was enough. A narrow metal panel had been built into the wall behind it. No handle. No label. Just a thin seam in the concrete. “Adrian.”

she whispered to herself, her breathing shallow and rhythmic. She didn't strike the center of the composite wall panel. High-security synthetic panels were designed to distribute concussive force across their surface area to prevent breaching. Instead, she slid her hand along the seam where the desk met the wall, finding the exact point where the structural mounting bolts were anchored into the frame. A mounting point creates a localized stress concentration. It was the weakest link in the physical equation. She raised the heavy crystal base and slammed it into the seam with every ounce of leverage she could muster.