Most people just used spreadsheets for basic calculations, but the cells allowed functions, and functions were really tiny programs in their own right.

It was an old trick but a good one. He opened a spreadsheet and created a function that caused an endless loop. A complex mathematical calculation with no end, just whizzing around and around inside itself, going nowhere.

He opened a second spreadsheet page and copied in the same function. Already, the machine was performing like an arthritic snail.

He opened a third page and a fourth. By the tenth, the overloaded computer was taking over a minute just to bring up a page, the hourgla.s.s spinning frantically as the processor ground its teeth to nothing.

One more page tipped it. The computer froze. It stayed that way for a couple of minutes until the Managed Environment Controller decided that the machine had died (which it had) and started a reboot.

Too easy, Sam thought.

He caught the machine on the reboot and flicked it into Safe Mode, disabling all the software, including Managed Environment. When it had finished restarting, in the subdued colors and low resolution of Safe Mode, he opened the registry file and disabled the Managed Environment completely before restarting the machine again.

This time it booted up normally, and when it started, everything worked. The restrictions imposed by the security software were gone. The computer was his.

Quickly, keeping one eye on the door, he wrote a trapdoor, deep in the operating system, so that a certain combination of keys would automatically kill the Managed Environment and give him full control. That way he could return the machine to its normal state but still use it whenever he felt like it.

So, he thought, let's have a look around.

He accessed one of his drones in Mexico, where he permanently stored a copy of Ghillie, and released it into the prison network.

The SAM database was easy, and the SysAdmin rights were his within seconds. He strode through the prison network security without breaking his stride.

Everything was there. Menus for the meals, weekly supply orders, guard rosters (along with their personal and income details).

Even the codes for the electronic doors.

10

THE WRECK

Recton Hall Juvenile Detention Center is in Brookmont, Maryland, on the sh.o.r.es of the Dalecarlia Reservoir, to the northwest of the nation's capital and just over the Potomac River from the CIA's headquarters in Langley, Virginia. It caters to juvenile offenders up to the age of seventeen.

Like many other juvenile halls, or juvies, Recton takes pride in providing a secure environment that does not feel like a prison.

The high-security fence that surrounds the facility is softened, completely hidden in some places, by the tall red maples and river birches planted on both sides of the razor wire.

Inside the perimeter, a white picket fence adds a rustic touch and hides a proximity-and-thermal sensor. An observer with an eye for detail would also notice that the tops of the pickets are white painted metal, not wood, and are sharper than you would usually expect for a picket fence. Also, the fence, at four feet high, is a little taller than usual, just high enough, in fact, to prevent anyone from casually stepping over it. It has to be climbed. The same innocent-looking fence delineates the area in which the inmates, referred to as guests, are allowed to roam.

Every inch of the ground between the picket fence and the wire-mesh security fence on the outside is covered by cameras and monitored by motion sensors. There are plenty of blind spots among the trees, but none at all in the four-yard clear s.p.a.ce on either side of the fence.

There is only one way in or out of Recton, and that is through the "cage," part of the administration block. Large metal gates on the outside and reinforced doors on the inside create a kind of holding area in which all prisoners, visitors, staff, and supply vans must be cleared before proceeding in or out of the facility.

The cage is on the first floor of the administration block, along with the inmate-processing center, the loading dock, and the school office. The second floor contains administrative offices, storerooms, and the armory, plus the guards' rest area and washroom.

The third floor is the watchhouse: the control room that runs Recton, monitoring comings and goings and the activities of the guests.

Dormitories and cla.s.srooms are housed in separate buildings spread throughout the s.p.a.cious grounds.

Recton Hall, known to guests as Wrecking Ball, r.e.c.t.u.m, or just the Wreck, does not house gang members, drug addicts, game addicts, or murderers. In the overall scheme of juvenile detention centers, Recton is at the top end. It is the place where white-collar juvenile criminals get sent for crimes like fraud, embezzlement, cybercrime, and espionage.

It surprises most people to learn that the biggest category of offenders at Recton is not fraud but espionage. Industrial espionage mostly, plus a limited amount of military or governmental espionage. Generally, the culprits have parents in high-level positions in strategic organizations and are targeted by unscrupulous agents of corporations or foreign countries.

There are a few "common" criminals at the facility, usually because their parents were powerful or wealthy enough to pull the political strings necessary to get them transferred to a "safe" inst.i.tution like Recton, away from the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers and addicts that fill the halls of the other juvies.

Guests have limited access to a telephone, one per dormitory, although all phone calls are recorded. Cell phones are not allowed, and a powerful network jammer ensures that even smuggled-in phones are useless.

All of this Sam found out simply by typing "Recton" into Google.

Kiwi was sitting at the end of a long table by himself and waved Sam over.

Sam had chosen a couple of salad sandwiches with some kind of unidentifiable sliced meat filling and an apple. Kiwi was biting into a grilled cheese sandwich and flicked some long stringy cheese bands with his finger as Sam sat down.

"You can toast any of the sandwiches," Kiwi said. "There're a couple of toasting machines over by the coffeepot. Tastes better that way. Probably kills some of the bacteria as well."

Sam looked at the flat slices of meat in his sandwich and felt less hungry, but he took a bite anyway.

"When's pizza night?" he asked.

"That's Thursday," Kiwi said. "Right after barbecued fillet steak Wednesday and before pigs-might-fly Friday."

Sam nodded. "I figured as much. I'm gonna miss pizza, I think."

"Pancakes," Kiwi said. "I miss pancakes."

"Yeah, with maple syrup and whipped b.u.t.ter," Sam agreed.

"Nah, drizzled with lemon juice and a light sprinkle of sugar," Kiwi said.

"Lemon juice?"

"That's the way we do it back home."

"Sounds disgusting." Sam screwed up his face.

"Well, your way just sounds like fat and sugar with extra fat and sugar," Kiwi said.

"Mmmm." Sam licked his lips. "Fat and sugar!" Kiwi laughed.

Sam toyed with his sandwich for a moment, then said, "Kiwi, I'm going to need your help."

"No worries," Kiwi said. "What do you need?"

"You're not going to like it," Sam said.

The trees shivered a little in a late-afternoon breeze, and a few loose leaves twirled like b.u.t.terflies down over the razor-wire fence. One leaf caught for a moment on a spike before a stronger gust dislodged it.

A trio of Asian inmates were playing some complicated card game, sitting on the gra.s.s near the boundary, just a few yards away. Sam tried to figure out the rules without staring. It involved a lot of picture cards, and the queens seemed especially important, and every few moments one of them would reach over and slap one of the others hard across the face; then they would all fall about laughing.

It made no sense to Sam at all.

He looked back at the fence. So thin, so delicate, yet so vicious with its shark's teeth of jagged metal.

The idea had been in his mind from the moment he had found the codes for the electronic doors, but actually making the decision to escape was another thing.

On one hand, there was an unspecified amount of time in jail. (They'd throw away the key, according to Kiwi.) On the other hand was a life of running and hiding, constantly looking over his shoulder. An outlaw, an outcast, a fugitive.

Would he ever be able to see his mother again? Or Fargas? Would he have to leave the country, sneak over the border into Canada or Mexico and live the rest of his life in some foreign land?

But then he looked around at the razor-topped fences and tried to imagine spending month after month of his life in this one small patch of land, constantly under watch by armed guards.

And worse. In a few months' time, on his eighteenth birthday, the transfer to an adult prison. What kind of horrors would that hold, amidst the burglars, murderers, and gangsters?

Recton was scary enough. The thought of some unknown adult prison "upstate" was simply terrifying.

Sam saw Kiwi walking toward him and stood up.

Together they strolled along the exercise track that ran around the circ.u.mference of Recton, a yard or two inside the white picket fence.

He counted his paces, although he was careful not to look like someone who was counting his paces.

It had been two weeks now since he had arrived. Two weeks of limp, flavorless food, communal showers (which he hated), and a horrible claustrophobic feeling every night as the electronic door beeped and locked itself at nine o'clock.

He had put that time to good use, though. Noting the routines of the guards. Where their rounds were. Who was scrupulous, who was punctual, who was lazy and did the barest minimum to fulfill their duties.

He had drawn a map of the fences and sketched in the sensors and other hidden alarms that he located on the security system on the admin computer. He had measured distances on the ground and compared those with the information online, working out times and distances.

He had full run of the computer network, and there was nothing he couldn't find out if he wanted to.

Two weeks of researching, planning, and finally he was ready to go.

11

PRISON BREAK

Sam was ready at ten to ten, standing just inside the door of his bedroom, waiting for the fire alarm.

He had accessed the fire-control system and scheduled a fire drill for ten o'clock, then disabled the line of code in the program that knew it was only a drill.

As far as the computer was concerned, the fire would be real, and it would react accordingly.

His few belongings were shoved into the pockets of his warm jacket.

Everything now relied on Kiwi. He had agreed, a little reluctantly, to Sam's request. If caught, he could wave goodbye to his hopes of serving out his sentence in New Zealand. But he'd agreed anyway.

Seconds ticked away on his watch, and the minutes slowly dripped away as well.

Was he prepared for this? he wondered. A life of constantly hiding. A life without his family and friends. A life underground.

The fire alarm sounded just outside the door to his room. A long bell that went on and on.

When a fire alarm went off at Recton, the computers that controlled the facility would automatically unlock all the cell doors to make sure no inmates were trapped inside.

The door in front of him unlocked itself with a beep and the clunk of the electronic latch. Sam was through it and running down the hallway the moment the handle came free in his hand.

He had counted every step between the dormitory and the admin block and knew exactly how much time he had.

He'd make it, as long as he didn't stumble or trip over something.

He was already flying out of the hallway door into the courtyard as other doors were opening into the corridor behind him. Frightened, confused voices followed him out of the door.

He made it to the admin block just in time, flattening himself against the sidewall as the door opened and three guards came out at a trot.

Three? The roster had said four. The roster had said four.

He waited a moment longer to be safe, but no one else emerged.

He keyed in the security code and yanked on the door handle. The door opened without question and pulled itself shut behind him.

The guards would have fun trying to get back in. As of right now, the codes had all changed, and only Sam knew the new ones.

He had never been in this part of the admin block before but knew his way around as if he worked there, from the floor plans he had found on the central server.

He raced up two flights of stairs, past the guards' showers and changing rooms and down a short corridor with doors to the armory and records room, and then keyed the code for the door at the far end: the storeroom.

In here were all the belongings of the guests, in numbered cardboard boxes. His number was 5143, and he scanned along the shelves until he found it.

His wallet and cell phone went into his jacket pockets along with a few other odds and ends that he had been carrying when he'd been arrested.

He left the storeroom door open and ran up another flight of stairs to the watchhouse.

The first thing he had learned from studying the security plans for Recton was that the main gates that formed the outside wall of the cage were not under any kind of computer control. Nor could they be opened manually from within the cage. They could only be opened from the watchhouse.

The b.u.t.ton for the gates was clearly marked. It was large and black and fitted with a plastic cover so it couldn't be pressed accidentally.

The plastic cover was locked, but three quick blows from a fire extinguisher smashed the hinges into plastic slivers.