Free Hunted by James Patterson

considered to be his living quarters – the apartment, gym, swimming pool – which were disguised behind doors that looked ramshackle, but were in fact reinforced with steel bolts. The locks were operated using discreet fingerprint security, and he never quite got over the sense ofpassing through a portal, from an old derelict world into something modern and gleaming.
    All of the doors he’d tried accepted his fingerprint, apart from one: the main gate, wide enough to allow for vehicles. He’d located the scanner and tried his index finger, but the gate stayed shut. Through a gap he could see a portable building that he took to be a guardhouse, and he pictured Claire inside watching him, enjoying the show. He half expected her to make an appearance, gently chiding him for his attempts to leave.
    At night the complex was lit and he was able to use it just as he could do during the day, but he made sure to get his rest, sleeping at night. The daytime was spent preparing. Mentally, mainly, but also physically. When he was in the swimming pool and his hands were invisible to the CCTV cameras, he massaged them, working his double-jointed thumbs. If he was right, then slipping out of handcuffs would prove to be essential.
    ‘Hello, Captain Hodge,’ Claire said when she came at midday.
    ‘It’s Hodges,’ he corrected her.
    ‘Oh, I am sorry. And here was me, trying to find out how you’re getting on.’
    ‘Haven’t you been watching me?’
    ‘Watching you tells me what you’re doing. It doesn’t tell me how you’re getting on.’
    ‘Well, I’m getting on fine, thank you very much. How much longer will I be here?’
    ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,’ she smiled.
    He had to admit, it was disarming, that smile. The kind of smile that took your mind off what you’d asked in the first place.
    ‘Do you know?’ he asked.
    ‘I do. But I can’t tell you.’
    ‘Why is that?’
    ‘Security. Questions, questions . . .’
    ‘You’re the first person I’ve spoken to in two days, of course I’m going to have questions. When do I get my money?’
    ‘On completion of the job. In the meantime, you do know you’re being very well looked after, don’t you?’
    ‘All this, just for a game?’
    ‘It’s much more than just a game,’ she said, as though parroting a manual. ‘What we offer is a bespoke service. We offer excellence. Or at least the illusion of excellence. Which is why you need to be in good condition. Your medical has been a total success. The best I’ve ever had, in fact. No alcohol in you, which is very unusual. No drugs, either. You must be the most abstemious homeless man there ever was.’
    ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
    ‘How did you end up on the streets?’ she asked, settling into the sofa.
    He told her a well-rehearsed story, one that corresponded with the details on Captain Steve Hodges’ file, and she listened intently, nodding, smiling sympathetically. Every inch the confidante.
    When he’d finished, her smile remained, but instead of following up with more questions or changing the subject, her eyes stayed fixed on his. ‘Can I ask you a question, Captain Hodges?’ she said. Her voice had dropped. It was a little more husky.
    ‘You can,’ he said, cautiously.
    ‘Why haven’t you made a pass at me? Every other contestant we’ve had here has tried his luck, but not you. Most of them . . .’ she waved a hand as though put off by the idea. ‘But you’re the first one I might have considered.’
    ‘What can I say? I’m a perfect gentleman. That and . . .’ He pointed upwards, indicating the camera.
    For a moment he thought she was about to put a move on him, and he steeled himself to resist. He’d always had a soft spot for borderline-sadistic girls, especially when they wore it as well as Claire did.
    But she stood, seemingly satisfied. ‘I’ll see you in a few days, Captain Hodges. Keep up the good work. I’ll need to appraise you for my employers, and at the