The Minus Faction, Episode One: Breakout Read Free Page B

eight or nine. I had no idea what the old man was talking about. I mean, I knew the history. We learned about that stuff in school. But it didn't really mean anything to me, just stuff in books. Still, I could tell it was real important to him that I see it. So I nodded and all.
    "It wasn't until I got older that I understood what he was trying to show me. He was a good man, my granddad."
    "What happened to him?"
    "Oh, he died a long time ago. Heart attack, I think. I wanted to go to his funeral down in Atlanta. I could tell my dad did, too."
    "Why didn't you?"
    Regent thought about his stepmother. He would be living with her again. Monday. For the first time in a quarter century. He could already see the rage behind her eyes. He'd be stuck in his chair, dependent on her and his aging father for help. "Just didn't work out, I guess."
    "Well, I'm going to miss your stories, Captain. Especially the one about the dead cat."
    "Oh, you liked that one?" They both smiled. It was a dirty story. And mostly true. "Truth is, I'll miss this place. Talking really helps."
    "With the pain?"
    John nodded.
    "Will you have anyone there, where you're going? To talk to?" Ethan was hesitant. He had a hunch.
    Regent turned the corners of his mouth down. His burnt half barely moved. "Naw. Not really."
    Nurse Brand didn't say anything for a moment. "You could stay."
    John just shook his head. No. He couldn't. There was an innocent man downstairs with a bullet in his leg that proved it.
    Ethan stood. "I'll put in the discharge request. BUT . . . I won't like it." He walked to the door.
    John smirked.
    "Try to get some rest."
    Regent nodded. But he knew he wouldn't. In two days, he would again be a prisoner.

T Minus: 051 Days 21 Hours 03 Minutes 43 Seconds
     
     
     
     
     
     
    That was odd.
    The door was already open.
    Dr. Amarta Zabora removed the key to her office and pushed the door with her knee. It was heavy, designed to keep the voices inside from being heard in the hallway, and she lost her balance for a moment. It didn't help that she had a purse hanging from one arm and a stack of files in the other. She was tired of carting hard copies between work and home. She couldn't wait for the new secure system.
    The sun shone through windows on the left. A woman was sitting behind the desk, her desk, reading her computer screen. Amarta stood in the door, shocked. The woman was African-American, 30-ish, with short, straightened hair pinned to her scalp and a simple striped jacket and slacks. She didn't even look up.
    "Excuse me." Dr. Zabora objected. Her hair wasn't nearly as well-kept as the intruder's. "Who the hell are you?"
    "Relax, Doctor." The woman clicked the mouse. She didn't turn. "I'm one of the good guys."
    "What's that supposed to mean?" Amarta dropped her purse and files on the floor of her office and stepped forward. Everything scattered across the taupe carpet. "You're not supposed to be in here." She looked at the half-turned screen. "Those files are confidential!"
    "Calm down, Doctor. Please. Have a seat."
    Amarta put her hands on her wide hips, then crossed her arms. It bunched her white coat. She stared. She was a head shorter than the interloper, with a round face and the dark complexion of her ancestors. Scraggly strands of gray poked from her jet-black hair. She kept staring as if to say, but you're in my seat.
    The intruder stood and smiled. "My name is Ayn." She extended a hand across the bare wooden desk.
    Dr. Zabora cleaned her desk every day before she left. She kept her arms crossed. She knew what was happening. She was a psychiatrist after all, trained to diagnose on all kinds of personal cues, appearance and behavior and the rest of it. "Ayn" was an anomaly. Genial people wear a wedding ring or they have a cowlick or shoes scuffed from a slight pigeon toe. Or maybe their necklace dangles a cross or a locket or Grandma's old pearls. Normal, healthy people have tiny tells, subtle hints of personality that might be