There was, of course, a way to find out.
Before Victor left, Hardie gestured for him to come closer. “Now that I’ve cleared my name, I really need a favor.”
“That’s the last of the beer, I swear.”
“Two favors, actually.”
“Okay, let’s hear them.”
“I need a weapon.”
Victor stared at him for a moment, a smile almost breaking out on his face before he turned serious again. “A weapon? For what?”
“For the second favor, which you’ll hear about in a second.”
Victor gave it a moment to roll around in his mind. “I don’t know what to tell you, mate. Weapons are rationed out here. You’re given what you’re given, and that’s it. You’ll notice I don’t carry one of those electrified baton things. That’s because I broke mine during an altercation, and the Prisonmaster didn’t see fit to send me a replacement. You’re not going to find any other guards willing to give up their weapons, either. Even to you.”
“So I’ve got no options.”
“You’ve got your cane. Maybe that was intended to double as a weapon.”
“Sure. I can poke a prisoner to death.”
“And…oh, hell. What do you need a weapon for?”
“I’ve got to have
Again Victor let Hardie’s words sink in, but this time he was looking at Hardie with a guilty expression. Finally Victor reached around, fished something out of his back pocket, handed it to Hardie. It looked like a black pen, complete with a pocket clip. Only the tip didn’t feature a rollerball or anything else that carried ink.
“What the hell’s this?” Hardie asked. “A pen?”
“No, sir. That’s a Smith & Wesson tactical pen. Police and military version, which is longer, and skips the screw-on cap.”
“This is your idea of a weapon?”
“Like I said, I lost my baton. Here. Let me show you.”
Victor took the pen back, holding it up as though he were a spokesmodel. “Made from aircraft aluminum. This end’s the fun end. Jam it into a nerve bundle, your opponent goes down. Jam it into an eye, no more 3-D movies.” He pulled off the cap on the other end, which took a bit of effort. “Other side, ballpoint pen. You can fill out your tax forms. Genius, isn’t it?”
“A pen?”
“Best I can do.”
Hardie took it anyway, slid it into his right trouser pocket. Great. Now he was fully prepared to cross a street and fill out a parking ticket. “Thanks.”
“What’s the second favor, for which you require a weapon?”
“I need you to sneak me into a cell.”
—Roberta Collins,
HARDIE CAME UP with the plan: use Zero as a distraction. Victor could claim that some of Zero’s piss tubes were loose. Victor would summon X-Ray, leaving only Whiskey, who would be asleep—in turn leaving Hardie alone with Prisoner Two. For a few minutes, anyway.
He stood there now, waiting.
A soft voice spoke from behind the mask. “Come closer. I won’t bite.”
She was awake. She could see him. Outwardly, she gave no sign of being conscious or even alive, her body in some kind of ultrarelaxed yoga-style suspended animation, chest barely moving. Hardie stepped closer to her cell— cane, leg, cane, leg—until he was right up against the bars. He cleared his throat and told her he didn’t have much time.
“I want to hear everything, right now,” Hardie said. “Who you are, why Deke hired you, how you got here —”
“Help me take this off.”
With that, she stood up gracefully, made her way to the bars, and bowed her head.
Hardie paused momentarily, then put his right arm through the opening between two bars and reached around to the back of her head. She took his hand and guided it to the clasp in back, where it locked. Shit, the lock. All the masks were locked. Hardie started to tell her, “I don’t have a—” when she slipped her other hand into his pants pocket and removed a thin electronic key. She pressed it into Hardie’s left palm. Her fingertips were cold. Hardie had to lean against the bars for balance, but he managed to snap open the lock, then ease the mask— heavier than he thought—off the top of her head.
Prisoner Two touched her fingers to her lips, then puckered them. Pressed the fingers of both hands into her cheekbones. “Are you alone?” she murmured, her voice so quiet Hardie could barely hear it.
“Yeah, I’m alone.”
“No one else on the floor?”
Hardie shook his head and was about to say no when she turned, narrowed her eyes, then spit something hard and phlegmy into his face. Some of the wet blast was blocked by the bars, but not enough.
“Been saving that for you,” she said, louder.
“What? Seriously?”
Her expression changed slightly; some of the fury softened. “Hurt me,” she whispered. “Pull me in close to the bars.
“What do you want?”
Under her breath: “Someone is probably watching or listening. You don’t hurt me, we’re all dead. Do it
In his previous life Charlie Hardie would never have hit a woman, ever. Recent events, however, had caused him to abandon that code. He’d punched Mann in the eye and didn’t feel an ounce of guilt about it. So he reached inside the bars and pulled the prisoner forward, banging her head on the bars. She cried out, and seemed to lose her balance.
The prisoner rolled her eyes up to glare at him, a sardonic smile on her face. “Is that all you’ve got?”
“Enough of this
She whispered,
“The name’s Eve Bell and I was hired to find you, you stupid asshole.”
This disappointed Hardie on at least three levels.
For starters, the name Eve Bell sounded about as made-up as you can get. What—were Modesty Blaise and Pussy Galore already taken?
Also, it was disappointing that she didn’t identify herself as a member of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. That would have meant a battalion of Kansas farm boys with heavy artillery was waiting outside for a signal, a raid would ensue, and he’d be plucked out of this nightmare.
And finally—
“Well, you found me,” Hardie said. “Congratulations.”
“Yeah.”
“How did you get here?”
Eve smiled, then slammed a fist into Hardie’s right ear. A tiny explosion went off in his skull. The moment he lowered his head to recoil, Eve’s other hand was grabbing his shirt collar, yanking him closer, throwing him off
