Free Cross Country by James Patterson Page B

drove his fist into my stomach. My wind was gone, even before I hit the floor like a dry sack.
    “Get him up!”
    Mirror Shades hoisted me easily, then put his powerful arms around my shoulders from behind. When the next punch came, he kept me from falling over, and also made sure my body absorbed the full impact. I vomited immediately, a little surprised there was anything to bring up.
    “I have money,” I said, trying what had worked before in this country, back at Immigration.
    The lead cop was huge — as tall as Sampson, with a flopping Idi Amin belly. He looked down the slope of his body right into my eyes. “Let’s see what you have.”
    “Not here,” I said. Flaherty, my CIA contact, had supposedly set up a money fund for me in a Lagos bank, which at this point was the equivalent of a million miles away. “But I can get it —”
    The lead cop crashed his elbow into my jaw. Then came another wrecking ball of a punch to my chest. Suddenly I couldn’t breathe.
    He stepped back and waved Mirror Shades out of the way. With an agility I wouldn’t have guessed at, the large, fat man kicked high with one boot and caught me square in the chest again. All the air remaining went out of me. I felt as if I’d just been crushed.
    I
heard,
rather than
saw,
the two guards leave the room. That was it. They left me lying on the floor; no interrogation, no demands, no explanations.
    No hope?

Chapter 42
    BACK IN THE holding cell, I was given a bowl of cassava and a cup of water, only a few ounces, though. I bolted the water but found I couldn’t eat the cassava, which is an important vegetable throughout Africa. My throat closed when I tried to swallow solid food.
    A young prisoner hovered nearby and was staring at me. With my back to the wall, I whispered barely loud enough for him to hear, “You want it?” I held out the bowl.
    “We hail the cassava, the great cassava,” he wheezed as he took the bowl. “It’s from a famous poem we learn in school.”
    He scrabbled over and sat next to me, both of us watching the door for guards.
    “What’s your name?” I asked.
    “Sunday, sir.”
    He couldn’t have been more than twenty, if that. His clothes were dirty but seemed middle-class to me, and he had a three-stripe tribal scar on each cheek.
    “Here, Sunday. You’d better not be seen talking to me, though.”
    “Oh, fuck them,” he said. “What can they do — throw me in a prison cell?”
    He ate the cassava quickly, looking around like he expected someone to take it away from him. Or to rush in and beat him.
    “How long have you been here?” I asked when he had finished eating.
    “I come here ten days ago. Maybe it’s eleven now. Everyone here is new prisoner, waiting for processing.”
    This was news.
    “Processing? To where?”
    “To the maximum-security unit. Somewhere in the country. Or maybe it will be worse. We don’t know. Maybe we all goin’ to a big ditch.”
    “How long does it take? The processing. Whatever happens here?”
    He looked at the floor and shrugged. “Maybe ten days. Unless you have
egunje
.”
    “
Egunje
?”
    “Dash. Money for the guards. Or maybe someone knows you’re here?” I shook my head no on both counts. “Then you have big
wahala,
sir. Same as me. You don’t exist. Shhhh. Guard is coming.”

Chapter 43
    WHEN THE GUARDS woke me on the third morning, they had to drag me to my feet. I wasn’t going with them willingly. Not to my own execution. My chest still ached from the beating the day before. And my nose felt seriously infected.
    This time, it was a
left
turn out of the cell. I didn’t know if that meant good news or that the bad news had just gotten a lot worse.
    I followed the human grasshopper down a steep, stone stairwell, through another corridor, and around several more turns that had me thinking I never would have gotten out of this place on my own.
    We finally came outside into an enclosed quad. It was just a wide expanse of sunbleached earth with a