Free Ruthless by Robert J. Crane Page B

universal.
    Except for Timothy Logan.
    When I put Timothy in his cell, he didn’t fight it, didn’t yell, didn’t scream or protest. He didn’t flail his meta powers around, used to getting his way and knocking down any cop that opposed him. That was the difference, in my view, between Timothy and the rest of them: contrition. That and humility. “How’s your time passing in here, Timothy?”
    “They’ve let me have some books,” he said, nodding. “One at a time, only, always paperbacks.”
    “I know,” I said with a smile. It had been my idea, and they’d been my paperbacks, from back when I was a prisoner in my own home.
    “It fills the hours,” he said.
    “Three months,” I told him, and he blinked at me, trying to process what I’d just said. “Three months and you’re out of here.” I changed my tone. “If you can handle good behavior for three more months.”
    He made a slight incline of his head down the line toward Anselmo’s cell. “As much fun as it would be to scream and strip naked and generally make an ass of myself until they flood me in, I think I can probably handle that. I just want to do my time and get out, and if I ever see a place like this again even on the news, it’ll be too much.” His face went slack. “I just want to be … free.”
    I felt a curious longing at that last word. “I hear you. Just keep what you’re doing and soon enough you will be.”
    He gave me a slightly wistful look, one filled with more than a little vulnerability. “For real?” I don’t think he thought I was lying to him; more like he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the concept.
    “You’re a good guy, Timothy,” I said, thinking back to someone I’d met in a similar situation—Antonio Morales. He’d tried to rob a pawn shop in Las Vegas and it had ended badly. I’d let him go almost four years ago and hadn’t heard a peep from him since. He’d shuffled around a little bit and landed in Seattle. I’d kept a watch on him, and not a whisper of trouble had come from anywhere close to him in the intervening time.
    I desperately hoped Timothy Logan was going to be my next Antonio Morales story, because none of the other assclowns down here were showing much sign of redemption.
    “It means a lot that you think so,” he said gently. “I just want to live my life. Make it up to the people I took from, and go on about my business.”
    “Three months,” I said again and slid my bare fingers across his door. “Take care, Timothy.”
    “You too, Warden Nealon,” he said and shuffled back to sit down on the floor of his cell. He bounced slightly as he did, the side-effects of the gel at work.
    The walk back up the corridor of death was uncomfortable as always, the guns pointed at me as per my orders. I always thought about flying, but I don’t like to give my men a reason to be twitchy with their trigger fingers. They were well trained, but surprising the hell out of them by flying out of here at high speed did not strike me as the brightest move.
    I reached the other end, passed the biometric scan, then passed the second checkpoint and stepped into the lobby. Before I even had a chance to draw a breath of relief at being out of that place, Ariadne was upon me. It didn’t take me more than a second to realize she’d been waiting in ambush, right outside the door. Her pale cheeks were flushed the color of her red hair, her face looked drawn, and I could tell just by looking at her that something was desperately wrong before she even got a word out. “What?” I asked.
    I could see the gears spinning before she answered, my pre-emptive question throwing her off balance. I gave her a moment—felt like an eternity—to gather herself before she finally vomited it out. “We’ve been replaced as co-directors of the agency,” she said, bitterness infusing every word. “The new director just got here from Washington and he’s demanding a meeting … right