Free Dead Hunger: The Flex Sheridan Chronicle by Eric A. Shelman

laugh over the radio.  “Do I look like an octopus?  I got a couple Berettas.  It looks clear from here – think you can carry Trina over here real quick and take this stuff from me?”
    I looked around. “Sure.  Hold on.  I reached an arm beneath the sleeping girl and pulled her onto my chest, her head tucking in beside mine.  I pulled the .38 off the dash and hooked my finger around the handle and opened the door of the Suburban .  Closing the door only lightly, I ran toward the building, Trina bouncing in my arms. 
    “Probably not the smartest thing we’ve done,” I said.  Give ‘em here.”
    She pulled my pants away from my waist and tucked one, then the second gun inside my waistband.  “You’re a regular man of steel,” she said.  “Okay.   You’re loaded for bear.  Get back to the truck.”
    I looked at her.  “Sure you don’t want to trade?  You’ve done good, babe.  Let me go finish up?”
    “I’ve already got the layout, Flex.  I’ll just –”
    “Help!  Help me, somebody help me!   Can you hear me?”   The voice echoed through the police building.
    “Jesus, Flex!  Get back to the truck!”
    “Bullshit,” I said, pushing her inside and p ulling the door shut behind me.
    “Trina is with you, Flex.  Trina !”
    “Yes, and you’re with me, too.  And you’re protective of this little girl, and you know as well as I do that she’ll never be safer than when she’s near you and you’re armed.  So move .”
    Gem glared at me again, and headed down the brick-lined hallway, painted in a glossy white.  At the end of the hallway there was a door to the left.  She unhooked a key ring from her belt and unlocked it.
    “Is that a police belt?”
    “A sergeant was wearing it, and he had the key.  Skeleton key.  Opens every door in the place.”
    “Damn, you’re good,” I said.  And I meant it.
    We hurried through the door and turned left, then right.  There was another steel door with a reinforced glass view hole.  I looked down, and saw two bodies on the floor about halfway down t he hallway.  The door at the far end was held ope n with a chair.  Nobody moved.  “Guess we go in, huh ?” I said.
    Gem nodded and inserted the key, turning it until a metallic click sounded.  She pushed and it opened quietly.
    The moment we stepped through the door, a voice came from one of the cells.  “Hello?   Is anyone there?”
    We stopped short and analyzed the layout .  Six cells down on the right, six on the left.  W e could see a nos e sticking through the bars halfway down on the right.   Then hands waved.  “Hey, down here!  Down here!”
    The voice had a British accent.  The hands didn’t look rough, but smooth.  In Florida , in June, the arms were covered by long sleeves, folded back at the wrist – about as casual as a long-sleeved shirt wearer who was comfortable in them might get.
    “Who are you?” Gem called, as we approached the cell. 
    Trina was still out cold, dead weight in my arms, as I held my .38 pointed at the body of one of the uniform-clad officers on the cell block floor.
    “ Chatsworth,” he said.  “Hemphill Chatsworth.”
    We stepped into his view, me holding a little girl, sweating up a storm, and Gem, a hot Latin woman, also soaked with sweat, hefting an Uzi.  We must have been a sight.
    “Hemphill Chatsworth,” said Gem, smiling.  “Now that’s a mouthful.”
    The man nodded, and even smiled slightly.  “Hemp.  Hemp to people who know me.”
    “What are you doing in this cell, Hemp? ” I asked.   “ What went wrong in your life that you ended up in jail?”
    “ First off he goes by Hemp,” Gem said.  “Drug dealer, naturally.”
    “No, no,” he said.  “I shut the cell door.   Locked myself in.   I’m just glad it was open in the first place so I could get away from them.”  He bent down and brought up his hand holding a stainless steel .45 Automatic.
    I tensed as Gem swung her Uzi quickly, pointing it