Part 2 (1/2)
He's obviously never held a blaster before and doesn't realize what a sensitive trigger it has, because the weapon fires with an electronic sound and melts a hole in my front driver's-side tire. The SUV leans as the tire deflates.
”Dammit,” I mutter.
Suddenly everyone's guns are on me again, and the man in the big hat's got my hands behind my back. I think about resisting, but there's no way I can outrun them now. One of the men starts asking me questions about some deputy I've never heard of, but the leader shuts him up.
”No one talks to her until we're back at the station. This is my interrogation.”
”Do you want us to keep patrolling the perimeter?” one of the officers asks.
”Lights off.” The man in the hat nods. ”Stay quiet. I don't want anyone seeing you-on either side of the fence.” He turns to me. ”You have the right to remain silent. . . .”
My mind races as I try to remember everything I've learned in pa.s.sing about the American justice system, any tidbit of knowledge that might be helpful.
”What crime am I being charged with?” I ask as he pushes me towards a car I can barely see in the darkness. ”I haven't done anything wrong.”
”Possession of an illegal firearm,” the man says. ”And suspected murder of a police officer.”
I piece together what I can from the back of the squad car based on the conversation between the man in the hat-the county sheriff-and one of his deputies. Apparently two officers went investigating reports of bizarre lights near the base, which I gather isn't that strange a call for this area. But something went bad. Only one officer returned, his body shot full of cauterized holes from some sort of unidentified weapon. Before he slipped into a coma, he said something about men with tattoos on their heads and black eyes.
No wonder they reacted so strongly to the blaster firing.
Panic starts to settle in my chest once the shock of being arrested wears off. I have no identification. I'm not even human. And I'm handcuffed in the back of a locked-down police car with a thick layer of metal grating separating me from the front seat.
I have to escape this somehow.
As we shoot through Dulce, sirens blaring and lights flas.h.i.+ng, I try to figure out where we are in relation to the motel where my computer and several extra weapons are stashed. The town is small, so it doesn't take me long to get my bearings-though that also means there aren't many places for me to hide if I do escape from police custody. Once I spot the motel's sign in the distance, I memorize the turns we make.
They take me to a small station in the center of town. I guess Dulce doesn't need much of a police presence. The deputy pulls me out of the backseat and escorts me through the front doors into a small lobby, where a woman with a headset sits behind a cluttered desk. The back wall is mostly frosted gla.s.s. The woman updates the men on their wounded officer's condition-which isn't looking good-and then I'm taken through a swinging door.
The rest of the station is mostly one big, open room lined with wooden desks. My eyes dart around. There's a weapons cabinet in the back corner of the room, but it's padlocked. The blinds are down on the windows, and I silently curse myself for not checking to see if there were bars on them when we were still outside.
”You want her in holding with Tony?” the deputy asks, motioning to the back of the station, where I can see a man sleeping inside a small cell. ”He'll probably be pa.s.sed out until morning.”
”Just cuff her in a chair for now,” the sheriff responds. ”I want her processed by the book.”
My left cuff is taken off and attached to the handle on the front of a short metal filing cabinet that has an empty coffeepot on top. The deputy points to a stool beside it, and I begrudgingly sit, pulling on the cuffs as I do, testing the weight of the cabinet. But it's solid. There's no way I'm dragging it out of here. I take in my surroundings. The deputy flips on the coffeemaker before walking over to one of the desks. He drops my confiscated blaster-now sealed in an evidence bag-on top of a stack of papers.
”By the book,” he murmurs, taking a seat. ”Sure thing.”
The deputy types on the computer, the sheriff looking over his shoulder. From their conversation I understand that they're writing up some sort of report about my arrest. The desktop computers they've got here look ancient, and for a second I think about how easy it would be to hack into them and steal every bit of information I wanted. But that's the least of my concerns right now.
Eventually, the sheriff walks over.
”Name?” he asks.
I stare back at him. Neither of us blinks. I don't know how long this goes on-minutes? Finally he speaks again.
”Lady, I can do this all night, but eventually you'll probably get tired or hungry. Me? I'll just have the deputy bring me a cheeseburger. Now, you're not going anywhere anytime soon, so you might as well cooperate so we can make your stay more comfortable.”
Our standoff continues. He pours himself a steaming cup of fresh coffee, never taking his eyes off me, even when he sips from it. The only thing that interrupts us is when the woman from the front desk comes through the swinging door.
”Um, Sheriff,” she says, clearly concerned about something. ”There are two men here who insist that-”
Before she can finish, the door swings open again and two men in black suits walk in. The first one's older, with thinning white hair and a wide nose. The second man has dark skin, like me, with a thin mustache running over his top lip.
”Special Agent Purdy with the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” the first man says, holding up some identification I can't see. ”I've got questions for your detainee.”
”Now hold on just one G.o.dd.a.m.ned minute,” the sheriff says, starting toward the man. ”How the h.e.l.l did you even know we'd arrested someone?”
Purdy smiles. ”We're always watching, Sheriff.”
Of course they are-if the government is working with the Mogs out here, then they're likely monitoring all sorts of communications. I was probably scanned or filmed the entire time I was out by the fence, even if I didn't see any cameras.
So much for being careful. Again I remind myself that I should be back at Yellowhammer, safely behind a computer screen.
The deputy and sheriff have a heated, quiet conversation at the front of the room. Purdy walks over to me. He pulls back his jacket and flashes a heavy-looking pistol at me before crossing his arms over his chest.
”Now, why don't you play ball and start by telling me your name?” he asks.
”Sir,” the other man-special agent?-says.
Purdy turns and finds his partner holding up the bag with my blaster in it. He nods, and the man pockets it. Then Purdy lets out a whistle and turns his attention back to me. When he leans in close, I can smell stale coffee on his breath, and something else. Something rancid.
”Powerful little weapon you had on you,” he says. ”Where'd you get it?”
I don't say anything. He doesn't seem to mind.
”Thanks for picking her up, boys,” Purdy says, motioning to the sheriff. ”But I'm officially taking over this investigation.” He smiles at me. ”You and I are going to have a long conversation back at the base.”
”What are you talking about?” the sheriff asks. ”That woman's our suspect, and if you think-”
”You can argue with me all you want, but I believe this woman may have information about acts of terrorism planned against this country. And if you think that means the government is going to let her stay in the hands of this Podunk police force, you're delusional.”
I can practically hear the glee dripping off Purdy's words as he pulls rank on the others. The sheriff sneers, but he doesn't say anything. Still, his hand is on his hip, close to his gun. The other agent puffs out his chests and walks over to the officers.
I silently panic. I can't go back to that base. Not as a prisoner. Not if the Mogs are involved there. They'll figure out I'm Loric somehow and use me, destroy me, like they did Ja.n.u.s.
I know too much. About Ella and Crayton. About the white tablet. They can't get into my head. And I don't know if I'm strong enough to withstand whatever torture it is they used to make Ja.n.u.s spill all his secrets.
I have to escape. I've tried not to hurt any of the people on this planet-they're just caught in the cross fire of all this. But I don't think Purdy counts. If he's working at the base, he's working with the Mogs. I don't mind hurting him; in fact, I think I'd take great pleasure in it.
He leans close again. ”Hope you enjoy your last few minutes of fresh air. Because if you don't start cooperating, I'll see to it that you never set foot aboveground again.”