Free Hell and Gone by Duane Swierczynski Page B

few deep, cleansing breaths, close his eyes, maybe, for a microsecond or two…

12
     
    This is hell, and I’m going to give you the guided tour.
    —Donald Sutherland, Lock Up
     
    A NOISE—
    (clanging chains?)
    —jolted Hardie awake.
    He bolted upright, immediately forgot that one of his arms didn’t work right, and collapsed back down to the mattress. Beneath his head, ancient mattress springs groaned. Fuck me. Using the hand attached to the arm that did work, Hardie rubbed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He was going to need a clear mind if he was going to get out of here.
    Where was here, though?
    Hardie imagined a map of California—specifically, Los Angeles, where this all began. He wondered how far away he might be from the City of Angels. There had been a ride in an ambulance, with the driver talking about taking the 101. There had also been some time in a hospital—which had to be within driving distance, right? Because he didn’t remember any planes.
    Hardie allowed his mental map to zoom out to encompass the entire American Southwest. Lots of desert. Lots of places to hide.
    If you were going to set up a secret prison on American soil, the middle of the desert wouldn’t be a bad place. Is that where he was? Somewhere in Death Valley?
    Of course, there were gaps in his memory—there had to be a whole bunch of missing time he couldn’t account for. (Otherwise, his head wound sure did heal up freakishly quick.) There had also been that hellish ride in the coma car followed by…more missing time. So yeah. He could have easily missed a plane ride. Extradition, the good old-fashioned American way. A one-way trip on a torture taxi. Last stop: your sorry ass in a secret prison.
    The mental map zoomed out further to include the entire United States, then North America, then further still, the globe spinning, the Atlantic whizzing by, and Europe and Africa and the Middle East swinging into view…
    He could be anywhere.
    And at the same time… nowhere.
     
    Okay.
    Forget the location for now.
    Didn’t matter where he was.
    What mattered was finding a way out of this place, and then worrying about finding his way back home to Kendra and the boy.
    Hardie blinked crust out of his eyes and twisted his body up into a half-sitting position, supporting his upper body weight with his right arm this time. His left arm was still numb, his right leg throbbed, and oh, how his head still pounded.
    Now that Hardie could see it properly, the room turned out to be no bigger than a college dorm. Bed, sink, desk, small beat-up wooden dresser that looked like it had been painted back in the 1950s. There were no bars in the doorway, so it wasn’t a prison cell—but there wasn’t a door, either, which meant no privacy.
    Hardie swung his legs over the side of the bed and rested his feet on the concrete floor for a few moments until he felt like trying to stand up. Uh…no. That wasn’t going to happen right now. Apparently Old Man Hardie needed his cane first. Someone had helpfully left it hanging from the metal bedpost. As he reached for it Hardie could feel the blood rush to his extremities. Out of nowhere, his heart began to race. He took a deep breath, which is when a voice startled him:
    “A bit more calm now, mate?”
     
    It was the Aussie guard, the one with the neatly trimmed beard and bright blue eyes, perched in the doorway, a nervous smile on his face. He was either Australian or he enjoyed faking the accent.
    “You gave us kind of a scare. Never had the new warden, uh, attack us before.”
    “Why are you calling me that?” Hardie said.
    “What?”
    “Warden.”
    “Uh…because you are the warden? I mean, why else would you be here?”
    “Vacation.”
    The Aussie was dumbstruck for a moment before cracking a broad smile and nodding. “Ah, you’ve got a sense of humor. That’s good. It’ll serve you well down here.”
    Hardie thought about this. He had to play it carefully. Either the Aussie knew