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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 flashing, 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 glass. 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 passed 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 goddamned minute,” the sheriff says, starting toward the man. “How the hell did you even know we’d