RIKERS ISLAND WAS barely an island anymore. Tidal water now covered all but a few acres of the original prison compound, along with the narrow causeway. Most of the outbuildings and facilities had succumbed to rot and rust. But the cell blocks, designed in the 1920s, had been built to last. And where others saw ruin, World President Gismonde had seen opportunity. What ruler wouldn’t want his own private penal colony?
Jessica’s six-by-ten-foot cell had a bare tile floor, white cinder-block walls, a metal cot with a thin mattress, a steel toilet with a square sink above it, and a single barred window.
She was wearing a scratchy prison jumpsuit. Bright yellow. Her own clothes were in a bin somewhere. Probably burned by now, she figured. Jessica had barely slept in the past twenty-four hours. By now, she had become attuned to every sound on her corridor. The clanging echo of metal doors. Long intervals of silence punctuated by sudden shouts and screams. Overnight, she’d heard a man singing loudly in what sounded like Russian. That ended around dawn. Now the only sound came from the boots of the guards as they patrolled slowly back and forth.
Then she heard something new. A low, growing murmur from the far end of the corridor, and the echo of footsteps moving with purpose—in her direction.
A jailer appeared at her cell. He shouted back down the corridor, “Open C-Thirteen!” Jessica’s cell door rolled back with a hard clang. She stood up from her cot. A man in a somber black suit entered the cell, flanked by the jailer and a huge guard. Jessica recognized the man at once. Who wouldn’t? But he still felt the need to announce himself.
“Mrs. Gomes,” he said. “I’m Sonor Breece.”
“I know who you are,” said Jessica. “Why am I here? What do you want? When can I leave?”
“So many questions,” said Breece, lifting his imposing nose into the air. “Perhaps you’ll do me the courtesy of answering mine first.”
“Well, if you’re asking about the accommodations,” said Jessica, “the mattress is uncomfortable, the toilet is backed up, and the view could be better.”
“Do you take this for a joke, Mrs. Gomes?” Breece replied. “I assure you, it is not.”
“Did I forget to clean up after my dog?” asked Jessica. “Because I think a simple fine would have been appropriate. Maybe just a warning.”
The guard shifted nervously, adjusting the grip on his rifle.
“Or did I litter?” Jessica wouldn’t quit. “Did I add another scrap of paper to your trash heap of a city?”
Breece held up a hand, his patience at an end.
“Lamont Cranston,” he said evenly.
Jessica pursed her lips and tilted her head. Her heart began to thud in her chest.
“Odd name,” she said.
“I agree,” said Breece. “Quite old fashioned. Of another time.”
“What’s he have to do with me?”
“Exactly my question, Mrs. Gomes!” said Breece. “That’s what we want to know. We know that Lamont Cranston is in the city. And we assume that he has been in contact with you.”
“Why me?”
“Another excellent question,” said Breece, leaning in. “Who are you to Lamont Cranston?”
Jessica folded her arms over her chest, afraid that her heartbeat would show through the jumpsuit.
“Old boyfriend?” she said. “Hard to know. There were so many.”
Breece took another step forward, his lower jaw thrust out, eyes flashing, his face only inches from Jessica’s.
“Listen to me, you bitch!” he said.
“I’m listening,” said Jessica, not moving. She stared him right back. She concentrated.
Suddenly, Breece’s knees buckled. He fell to the floor in a dead faint.
The jailer caught him just before his head hit the tile. The guard flipped his rifle up and put the green laser dot in the middle of Jessica’s forehead.
“He’ll be fine,” said Jessica. “Probably just low blood sugar. Tell him we’ll talk more when he’s feeling up to it.” She stepped forward so that the muzzle of the rifle pressed into her skin. “I’m sure he’d tell you that executing a valuable prisoner would put a big black mark in your file.”
The guard lowered his rifle and helped to drag Breece out of the cell. He slammed his palm against a button to close the cell door behind them. Jessica heard a hubbub from down the hall as other guards scurried to help.
“Have a beautiful day,” she called out.
When the noise receded, Jessica collapsed backward on the cot. She was exhausted and scared. Her heart was still pounding hard. But she was proud of herself too.
“Still got it,” she said softly.