Free Brain Jack by Brian Falkner

opening into the corridor behind him. Frightened, confused voices followed him out of the door.
    He made it to the admin block just in time, flattening himself against the sidewall as the door opened and three guards came out at a trot.
    Three? The roster had said four.
    He waited a moment longer to be safe, but no one else emerged.
    He keyed in the security code and yanked on the door handle. The door opened without question and pulled itself shut behind him.
    The guards would have fun trying to get back in. As of right now, the codes had all changed, and only Sam knew the new ones.
    He had never been in this part of the admin block before but knew his way around as if he worked there, from the floor plans he had found on the central server.
    He raced up two flights of stairs, past the guards’ showers and changing rooms and down a short corridor with doors to the armory and records room, and then keyed the code for the door at the far end: the storeroom.
    In here were all the belongings of the guests, in numbered cardboard boxes. His number was 5143, and he scanned along the shelves until he found it.
    His wallet and cell phone went into his jacket pockets along with a few other odds and ends that he had been carrying when he’d been arrested.
    He left the storeroom door open and ran up another flight of stairs to the watchhouse.
    The first thing he had learned from studying the security plans for Recton was that the main gates that formed the outside wall of the cage were not under any kind of computer control. Nor could they be opened manually from within the cage. They could only be opened from the watchhouse.
    The button for the gates was clearly marked. It was large and black and fitted with a plastic cover so it couldn’t be pressed accidentally.
    The plastic cover was locked, but three quick blows from a fire extinguisher smashed the hinges into plastic slivers.
    He watched on one of the security monitors as the gates began to grind their way open.
    He marked his watch. Plenty of time, but he had better not hang around. The gates would automatically shut after two minutes if left open.
    He ran back along the short corridor and headed for the cage.
    The gates were wide open by the time he got there. Heavy, metal, and open like a 7-Eleven.
    Sam burst through the inner door to the cage and made at least five or six yards toward the gates before he heard a click from behind him.
    He faltered, then stopped dead as the low tones of Warden Brewer came from near the door.
    “Goin’ somewheres?”
    Sam stood motionless, breathing heavily, before turning to face Brewer.
    The warden’s cap was pulled low, casting his face in shadow, but his eyes caught the glare of the incandescent bulbs at the end of the cage and glinted like cat’s eyes from under the peak. His fleshy jowls pulled up into a menacing smile, his teeth bared like a wild animal.
    Brewer had a gun in his hand. Some kind of pistol. Sleek, black, and deadly, and aimed right at Sam’s chest. At this range, he couldn’t miss.
    Sam took a step backward. A step closer to the gates.
    “That’s about as far’s you get,” Brewer said, rising off a wooden seat by the delivery dock. “Fire alarm at this time of night seemed just a mite convenient to me. And all the phone lines going dead? Very suspicious.”
    Sam glanced at his watch. Over a minute was gone already.
    Brewer saw the movement. “About a minute left,” he said, “before them gates close. After that it won’t matter what kind of trickery you got up to in the watchhouse. They won’t be opening again.”
    Sam didn’t doubt it.
    “I guess you ’n’ me’ll just wait it out,” Brewer said. “Seeing as you don’t seem to feel much like talking.”
    Sam remained silent, and Brewer continued, “Police’ll be here in a minute or two. I dunno how you cut off the phones, but you forgot about the emergency radio.”
    He must have seen the expression on Sam’s face, because he whistled softly and