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crashed into my room.” Jeremy struggled to keep his tone even. “They tied up Anthony, and then they ...” His voice trailed off, but then he settled himself with a deep breath. “And then they killed Mr. Stewart.”
    A knot formed in Harvey’s belly. “Who’s Anthony?” he asked.
    Jeremy covered his eyes. “My roommate,” he squeaked.
    Harvey’s head swam. This was worse than he’d thought. “A bunch of men came into your room and took you away?”
    Jeremy let his hands fall away, and nodded as he pulled his legs up into the chair Indian style.
    “And who is Mr. Stewart?”
    Jeremy answered to his lap. “The janitor. He was my friend.”
    “Why would someone do that?”
    “They took other kids, too,” Jeremy said. “At least one.”
    “Are you sure?”
    As he sat there in the camp chair, Jeremy seemed to shrink, as if growing younger and smaller. His shoulders slumped, and his head drooped. For a few seconds, Harvey thought maybe the boy had fallen back to sleep.
    But then he looked up again. He drew a huge breath, and he told his story.

C HAPTER S IX
    Granville George looked up from his daily log reports and leaned back in the medieval torture device that posed as his chair. He swore that the sheriff had specially ordered this uncomfortable piece of crap just to make his six-month sentence as miserable as possible. As if the mind-numbing work weren’t painful enough.
    As he arched his back and stretched, he caught a glimpse of himself on the security monitor. Without paying attention, he scanned the other monitors as well. In the women’s wing he saw Terry Milan strolling her patrol, just as she was supposed to, while in the men’s wing, the hallway remained empty—not unexpected, given the fact that Rob Shenton would be babysitting Agent Harris for the time being. Meanwhile, three other guards attended to their various admin duties in the center security section.
    But that didn’t really add up, did it? Granville shifted his gaze to the interview room, and sure enough, there was the Henry kid sitting at the interview table across from his Fibbie visitor. So where was Rob? He must have been standing in the corner where there was no camera cover.
    Only, that didn’t make sense either. Chase Battles had told him during shift change that the asshole from the FBI was very specific about wanting to talk to his prisoner alone.
    In fact, there was Chase Battles on the screen right now, leaving the interview room and beginning his patrol.
    Not Rob Shenton. Chase Battles. From evening shift.
    “Oh, shit!” Granville spat. “Oh, fucking shit!” He snatched the phone from its cradle and mashed the emergency alert button with his palm.
     
     
    Venice knew something was wrong from the way the desk attendant launched upright. She shot a look to the feed monitor, and right away saw what had happened. He recognized the guard.
    As he reached for the phone, she was a step ahead of him, and she typed in the code to shut the phone system down. It was one of the emergency precautions she’d planned for.
    “Scorpion, we have a problem,” she said into her boom mike. As she uttered the words, she saw the desk attendant reach for something on his console, and an instant later, her monitor speakers erupted with an earsplitting squeal.
    “What the hell is that?” Jonathan barked.
    She ignored him, because she hadn’t a clue what to tell him.
     
     
    “The fuck?” Jimmy Henry said, though his voice was lost in the squeal of the alarm.
    He’d articulated Jonathan’s thoughts exactly.
    The radio on Shenton’s belt crackled to life. “Emergency. Emergency in A-Wing.”
    Jonathan planted his hand in the center of Jimmy’s chest. “We’re still on plan,” he said, feigning calm. “We’re just on a tighter schedule. Stay close to me.” He reached for the door and pulled.
    It was locked.

    “Mother Hen?” Jonathan asked over the radio. Venice recognized the concealed rage. “The door is locked.”
    None