Still assigned to laundry detail, I'm building up a clearer intelligence picture. Something about this washroom isn't right. Maybe it's the large quantity of white powder that's delivered each day and used in a process I don't understand. Maybe it's the two men of Central Casting Middle Eastern appearance who whisper urgently by the mangle. Maybe I'm going to have to waterboard them to find out.
Walking towards the canteen at lunch, though, I got the hardware breakthrough I'd been waiting for. A phone. I grabbed the receiver. "Chloe, I need you to reconfigure the spy satellite on to Glendale city jail laundry," I panted. "Then I want you to download the surveillance data on to my... wait, I don't have my PDA. Bake it all into a big cake and send it over. Chloe? Dammit, answer me! We're running out of time."
I became aware of being watched by person unknown. Male, caucasian, 300 pounds. About six inches away.
"You need this, idiot," he said, brandishing a small flat item.
"Is that the terrorist disk?" I demanded.
"It's a phonecard, honey," he spat. "Who's Chloe? Your boyfriend?"
So, the Chinese are on to us. The following took place between his face and my fist. Crunch.
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