Page 105 of Mastermind

I make out the other words the man is saying and slowly grasp what he’s telling me. I’m in the secure wing of this ADX. No visitors. No communications. I won’t be able to talk to anyone.

“With good behavior we’ll allow you limited access to the other facilities. Do you understand, Mr. Cray?”

I try to form words. I want to tell him what’s really going on. I want him to understand why they drugged me. All I can do is nod.

“I’ll take that as an affirmative,” he says.

The blurry man leaves and the cell door is shut, making an echo that reverberates around the tiny room. The reality of what is happening to me is starting to come into focus.

I wasn’t transferred from the Death Star for my benefit. I was transferred so that whoever’s strings Heywood is pulling could have me killed.

They couldn’t do it at the Death Star because it would have raised too many questions. If I died there, Jessica would no longer have any reason to keep her mouth shut, and others at the FBI would begin to wonder what kind of deal the Department of Justice made. Someone would talk.

The longer I’m still alive here, however, the greater the risk for Heywood that I’ll get to talk to somebody from some other agency, even if it’s to interrogate me. Which means that someone will be coming for me soon. Possibly as soon as this drug wears off and breaks down in my system so it won’t be detected in an autopsy.

I have two options. One is a set of small cylinders that I inserted into the inside of my right forearm several years ago. I consider those my nuclear option.

The other is an implant in my left arm the size of a quarter and twice as thick. Wrapped in layers of silicone to prevent it from creating an odd indentation on my skin, it’s close enough to my elbow that when it occasionally sets off metal detectors at close range, the assumption is that I have a metal pin in my joint.

I’d considered less invasive measures, but I knew that if I found myself in a worst-case scenario, I’d be subjected to a thorough exam that would reveal anything I’d swallowed or tried to retain rectally.

Hence, my under-the-skin solution.

Fortunately, in this age of body modification and biohacking, others did the pioneering work for me. The challenge was deciding what to implant myself with.

I decided on a tiny microcomputer that would find any open Wi-Fi network and send out a blast message to a list of people, giving them my location. I put Jessica at the top of the list.

It was a clever idea.

I can tell from the bandage on my arm that they removed my little device before I left the Death Star.

Now I think I have a better idea who that facility was meant for. It wasn’t hackers, terrorists, or drug lords. It was built for spies.

The cylinders still remain in my other arm. They’re plastic and would only show up on a close X-ray. I’m tempted to cut them out and mix the contents. But we’re not there yet.

I have one other trick left for getting a message out of here. It involves my fingernail and the skin of my left forearm.

I bite away the tip of the fingernail of my right pinkie, giving it a jagged edge, then stick it into my flesh. The first line is just a red mark. I have to scratch it repeatedly until it bleeds. Then I move on to the next mark.

If I had time to secure a needle or, even better, a prison tattoo gun, I could do a better job of this. But I don’t know how much longer I have. I need to get the message out while I’m still alive.

As I carve the last letter into my arm, drops of blood begin to drip down onto the floor and form a tiny puddle. My skin is on fire; I need to wash it to prevent an infection.

But first I have to get the message on my arm outside the walls of this prison. I need someone to see it other than me. Hopefully at that point it will become a kind of mind virus that will force the powers that be to do something. The message is my version of the Cordyceps fungus, which turns ants into zombies to spread its spores. My message will work the same way to a lesser degree, but it should still serve my purpose . . . assuming anyone sees it.

There are footsteps in the corridor and the jangling of keys. The slot slides open, and a guard yells at me to stand in the circle by the far wall with my hands interlocked behind my head.

I comply. Blood drips down onto my shoulder. Plastic cuffs are fastened around my wrists, and I’m placed onto a gurney, cuffed to its rail, and rushed out of the cell.

“Why wasn’t this asshole on suicide watch?” one of the guards asks another.

“Special case,” replies the one pulling the gurney forward.

I’m moved to a clinic at the end of the block and placed in a room where a male nurse who apparently bodybuilds is waiting.

“He’s a no-contact,” says a guard.

“I understand the protocol,” the nurse replies.