As McMichaels had promised, there was little to do in Division 12. Len passed his time playing cards and confabulating with the other inmates, while listening in on Weliver and Finch and keeping an eye out for a chance to catch the two yardbirds alone.

It was all quite relaxing.

His time in stir was so tranquil, in fact, that it put a slight check on his annoyance and his near giddy anticipation at disfiguring Welliver and Finch—which probably was for the best.

Over the last century, in his various guises (Tommy Haas, Kyle Wigand, Alex Malotte, Castor Creighton-Philby, and others), Len had surrounded himself with good and decent people, folks like Sam Babington and Amy Lascar, the kind of beings who fed and nurtured the goodness in him. He was a better person for the people he'd allowed into his life.

Even now, though, his moods and impulses sometimes were not always flattering, and a few hours to sit and lollygag and to shoot the shit with the boys in Division 12 left him feeling mellow and playful. But perhaps that was just Len's personality? The man still very much was a work in progress. Perhaps Len wasn't a hopeless hardcase? But an amiable chap who might yet forgo his criminal ways and walk the straight and narrow?

Either way, it was a downright nice time, which allowed him to unwind and to keep a close eye on his targets.

He quickly had identified a third man in the cellblock who'd been detained at the warehouse, a lean youngster named Vasquez, who Len didn't recognize but who, like the others, still bore the marks of the drubbing he'd taken from Lydia. Two more from the warehouse were in the jail infirmary. None of the men were Gifted.

His prey frequently huddled together talking, often in the company of Finch's felonious friends. When the three were alone, they spoke in hushed tones. Much of what they said was about their legal worries, with Finch and Weliver coaching the younger man on the importance of keeping quiet and following their lawyer's instructions.

The rest of their conversation was obscure but seemed to be about their illicit business dealings. It took several hours for Len to piece bits of it together, and none of it was completely clear. Finch's role was the least certain, but Len knew from Eric Mueller that the man had connections with at least three organized crime groups in Chicago and Los Angeles and had multiple convictions for pimping, child exploitation, and various violent crimes. He also was canny enough to be tight-lipped, even among his comrades.

Weliver seemed to have worked at The Farm at some point, where he came into contact with "the freaks," as he called those with Gifts. There certainly was no love lost, if the tone of his words meant anything, and like Paloma, Weliver gave off the slight but pungent flavor of fear when speaking of them.

The former marine's oblique comments suggested Summerall was the driving force behind commercializing the smuggling network originally put in place by Hollirich and the federal government. It all centered on Chicago, the entry point for all their criminal trafficking into the U.S.

Beyond confirming that Summerall and the other Gifted members of the trafficking group were veterans of The Farm in Utah, Weliver's blabbering mouth also suggested all involved were doing very, very well from the peddling of human suffering. And there was a great deal of talk between the three men about the virtues of Morocco or Hong Kong as possible "vacation" destinations. Len got the sense that both places, particularly the city of Tangier, played a role in the organization's business, but it was another subject their yakking didn't make clear.

By the time the dinner hour approached, Len actually had made a few friends among the residents (none of whom he intended to keep as lifelong pen pals), but neither Weliver nor Finch were ever alone. There were always other people about, whether Finch's friends or just other gabby convicts.

As Len got to know the facility, he pondered how he might be more proactive and lure the two into an empty cell, latrine, or supply closet. The more time that passed, the more certain he was that he would have to wait until the rest of the inmates were asleep and pull the two men aside one at a time. But even that plan might be difficult. The unit consisted of a number of cells located around a central common area. By day, the prisoners could move around the area with relative freedom. At night, they would be in lockdown.

At just around 5:00 pm, his problem was solved. Both Weliver and Finch seemed to have had their fill of jail fodder and opted to skip dinner. Breakfast, it seemed, was the only mandatory meal, and if lunch was any indication, that would leave only a small handful of inmates in the common area, with one or two jailers at the station.

Len realized it might be now or never and began pondering a plan to improve his chances. Five minutes before the dinner headcount, he struck on a simple ploy. He strolled up to Weliver and paused.

"There's a phone in Number 27," he said in a casual voice, referring to a second level cell farthest from the guard station. "Summerall wants to talk to you ... both of you. Wait till after headcount and everyone's left for chow." He then continued walking.

He could smell Weliver's fear and knew the man would take the fictional call. Whether Finch did or not wouldn't matter. Len was convinced Weliver had the most knowledge of the conspiracy and its players.

The next five minutes would tell, and they did.

When Len reached Number 27, both Finch and Weliver were tossing mattresses and sheets looking for the imaginary phone. Len took a quick look outside—no one was watching—and flopped on the cot nearest the door.

"Sit down," he ordered.

Both men instantly were on their guard. Neither spoke.

"I said sit down. I'm only going to be nice about this once."

As Len expected they would, the men came at him in a rush. It was like knocking kittens around the room. He kicked Weliver into the bunk opposite and with his left foot pinned him against the wall with such force it stole away the mercenary's breath. Snatching up Finch's right hand at the wrist, the hand he'd used to grope Lydia days before, Len gave an enormous squeeze as he shoved his free hand over the criminal's mouth to stifle any scream.

Len's strength was titanic, even by the standards of the Gifted. Finch's knees buckled, and after just a few seconds the felon's hand came free from the wrist. The pinching movement of Len's forefinger and thumb was so powerful there was scant blood, but the criminal's eyes rolled at the sight of his fresh new stump, and he fainted away.

Len pulled a pillowcase free so he'd have something ready to stuff in Finch's mouth should the need arise and turned to Weliver. The mercenary's face was ashen and trembling. Len released the pressure on him slightly.

"You got one chance to walk away with all your body parts," Len told him, "or you can join your buddy there." He gestured toward the now recumbent Finch with the criminal's own severed hand. "Now, tell me everything you know about Summerall and the rest. You have 50 minutes."

Weliver couldn't talk fast enough and began spewing every possible bit of information that came to mind. At first, Len let him babble and then began guiding his narrative by careful questions about specific topics. Who were the main players in the organization? How could they be found? In what activities were they involved? Who in the government helped them? Where was the money?

After 20 minutes, Len gagged the stirring Finch. After 45 minutes, it became clear his questions were scarcely scratching the surface of Weliver's knowledge. But Len continued to interrogate the now nattering man until the other inmates began to return from dinner.

"You're going to cooperate with the police," he concluded, "and tell them everything. Then you're going to plead guilty to every charge. Consider this a pardon, because I know what you did at The Range and The Farm ... to friends of mine. If I run across you again, I don't give a flying fuck if it's in Chicago, Cleveland, Hong Kong, or Tangier, I will make a bloody, crippled fucking mess of you. Prison is the only place you will ever be safe from me ... and I can even get to you there."

Len stood to go and looked one last time on the broken man, tossing Finch's severed hand into his lap as he did.

"Stay right here until the guards come to find you."

He then left the cell and began to make his slow and tedious way out of the jail.