J. Huss - PANIC

I pass by the guard and then follow the hallway until I get to a door. This visitor can only be one of two people. Elise—and I’m so hoping not, because she’s gonna cry and shit and that’s just not good for the baby—or Rook. Because our partnership rules state that Spencer and Ford are not allowed to come visit.

They buzz me into the visiting area where a few guys are already talking to their friends or family, and then the guard barks out, “Last stall.”

I can’t see my visitor as I walk down the aisle because they have cinder block walls between each visiting station. Thick Plexiglas separates the prisoner and the visitor, so there is no hope of any contact at all. And a phone hangs on a holder affixed to the wall. I try not to notice a dude crying his eyes out to his pregnant significant other, another guy pressing his hand up against the plastic as his little girl presses back on the other side, and some kid who doesn’t even look like he’s old enough to be in the county lockup as he tries to comfort a woman who might be his mother.

I am fully expecting Rook to be my visitor, but it’s not Rook.

It’s Clare.

I stop and do not approach the bench where I’m supposed to sit and talk. I look her in the eye and mouth the words, What the fuck are you doing?

She picks up her phone, then taps it on the Plexiglas, indicating I should sit down.

I do. I pick up the phone and all I hear is her breathing.

“What the fuck are you doing, Clare?”

“She ran, Ronin.”

“Who?” I ask, even though I know who.

“Rook, she’s missing. She left sometime in the middle of the night, she—”

I don’t catch the rest because I hang up the phone and walk away.

So much for rule number five. I go to the door, wait for the buzzer, and then exit back into the hallway. There’s no guard this time. That fuck Abelli is waiting for me.

“Mr. Flynn, we’d like to speak to you, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind actually, I’m still waiting on my lawyer.”

A guard grabs my arm and escorts me the opposite direction from where I came from, then Abelli opens a door and waves me inside. “No need for lawyers, Flynn. Just an informal chat about your missing girlfriend.”

I take a deep breath. Games, Ronin. Keep cool, they’re baiting you, Spencer’s voice says in my head. Just games, dude.

Right. Shut the hell up, Spencer.

This is what a little bit of alone time in a cell does to you, so yeah, rule number four creates condition number one. Two-way conversations with people who are not, in fact, present.

“Sit,” Abelli commands.

I sit, because I might as well play a little, pass the time, right? I’m in no hurry to get back to my cell, that’s for sure.

“We know where your girlfriend is. Would you like to know?”

“OK, sure,” I answer. “Tell me.”

“Well, see, we were hoping you’d do a little information exchange with us if we give you that info.”

And this, little grasshoppers, is what I like to call the no-lose situation. Pay close attention, because here’s how it goes down.

“OK, you go first, tell me what you know. Where’s Rook?”

“Bahahaha, Mr. Flynn, not so fast. We deserve an answer to one of our questions first, don’t you think? Since we’re the ones with the information you need?”

Just agree at this point. The correct answer would be, ‘uh, fuck no,’ but you want to keep them rolling. “Sure. Shoot, how can I help you folks?”

“What do you know about the contents of the security box in Las Vegas?”

Ah, Vegas box again. So this is about Rook. See, grasshoppers, this is all I needed. I am free to move about the cabin because I already got what I want from Abelli. He’s got nothing on Rook’s whereabouts because obviously she would know more about said Vegas box than I would. So, Clare’s right. Rook left. Which means Rook’s doing something. Which means this guy wants to know what she’s doing. As do I, but I’m not gonna get that info from Abelli.

In addition, I also found out this is not about my illustrious obstruction of justice career, but about this guy and his obsession with this stupid box in Vegas. And this, in combination with the slip-up during my polygraph, means this is personal for him.

His ass is on the line. Somehow, some way, Abelli is in deep.

“I’m done here.”

He eyes me cautiously. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, but you just answered all of mine. So I’m done here.” I fold my hands over my chest and wait him out.

He talks, he screams into my face, flinging his spit all over my cheek, he stomps around like a baby, he sends in the good-cop partner and that guys flips out when I start humming a pretty dead-on balls accurate rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody—the Wayne’s World version complete with head bang and air drums—and then finally, some fat higher-up comes in and says they need the room back.

I am escorted to my cell to wait it out alone, ready to put all the rules back into practice.

Spencer drifts off some time after two AM. I know because I wake up around midnight, hoping they’ll be asleep already, but no such luck. Ford, on the other hand, lasts until almost four. And say what you will about Ford, but he takes his sentry duty very seriously. He sits in a chair in the pitch dark, no lights on in the house, no lights on outside the house, staring out the window for hours.

When he finally does drift off I creep downstairs, grab my backpack, and slip out the bedroom window. I only own one mode of transportation, my Shrike Rook. So I push it down the road so I can start it up without being heard and take off.

Because this whole thing is bullshit. And I’m tired of it.

Once I get back into FoCo I head east on the highway until I hit Sterling, then catch the 76 up to Julesburg and get on I-80.

And this road will take me straight to Illinois where I will stop running for good.

I’m so tired of waiting for things to go bad, for things to fall apart, for that stupid fucking rug to be pulled out from under me. I mean, they’re doing a pretty good job right now, right? Ronin’s in jail, the FBI has Wade tracking me down, and I just learned that my best friends are killers and maybe even traitors. I’m not sure what that remark was from Ford—I’m hoping a generic I hack into secret databases type of treason—because one needs to draw the line somewhere and betraying my country is pretty much where the Crayola comes out.

And a motorcycle is definitely not the best way to travel a thousand miles, but I’ve got no choice. I have the money to charter a jet—wouldn’t that’ve been awesome? But there’s the whole TSA thing and I can’t risk them knowing where I’m going until I get what I need.

Lincoln, Nebraska is about halfway to Chicago, so I pull into a Holiday Inn Express. I know from commercials that they have a free breakfast in the morning with one of those do-it-yourself waffle makers. Why this makes a difference to me when I have twenty thousand dollars in my backpack, I have no idea. It just does. I park the bike in the check-in carport, then duck into the restroom so I can shuffle out a few hundred-dollar bills. My gaze catches my reflection in the mirror and I wince.

Damn, I look tore up. There are dark circles under my eyes from riding the last eight hours, my hair is a rat’s nest even though I braided it before I left, and my face is pale white. I splash some cold water on my cheeks and then rub them with a scratchy paper towel to force some color back.

It almost works.

I get my money out and then go to the front desk.

“Can ah help ya?” the girl behind the desk says in a friendly Midwest accent.

“I just need a single room, no reservation.”

“OK, I can do tha-at.” Her drawl makes her words slower than normal and it’s almost comforting. “But check-in isn’t until three, so I’ll set it up and you can come back in then, will that be okaaaay?”

“Sure,” I mumble. Like I have a choice. “Is there an electronics store around here?”

“Ye-as, just down on Superior. Would you like me to print you out directions?”

“Yes, please. That’d be great.” And ten minutes later I’ve got my room reserved, a key card that will activate at three PM, and I’m on my way to the Super Wal-Mart. When I get there I wait around for a near front parking space because I suddenly have a bout of paranoia that someone will steal my bike. It is a custom Shrike, and those can’t be common around here.

I head right to the electronics section and pick up a pre-paid iPhone and some minutes, pay cash at the counter, then go get some cheap clothes and snacks to hold me over until I get back home.

Home. I shake my head at that internal slip. That place is not my home anymore and it repulses me to think of it like that.

I pay up front for the rest of my stuff, then sit in the attached Subway drinking a soda while I deal with my phone activation and by the time that’s taken care of, it’s almost three. I shove my purchases into my backpack and head over to the hotel and find my room.

It’s a room. King-sized bed, ugly-ass comforter that I remove immediately, a nightstand, a desk, microwave, and a table. I take a shower and watch TV from bed.

How long has it been since I was really alone somewhere? When I got to Denver I was pretty lost, but I found the homeless shelter. God, I don’t know how I did all that by myself. I was such a mess. I’d never been in a homeless shelter before so I had no idea that you had to get in line for a bed. I spent the first night at the bus station because there were no beds available. And that was so fucking scary and cold. It was late March and it snowed that night and even though the bus station had heat, the doors were constantly opening and closing, so it was never warm.