The ancient prison bus rumbled along the freeway on its way to LA. Jack sat alone towards the back, dazed, trying to shake off the feeling of unreality that saturated him. Absently he rubbed his wrists where shackles had been only an hour previously.
"Bristow. Hands through the door."
A bolt of fury rippled through Jack at the unexpected disruption in his routine. A symptom, he knew, as he took several deep breaths to calm himself. His mind was grasping onto patterns in an attempt to maintain its stability. His schedule was so predictable, so consistent, that any deviation was disorienting. Monitored by cameras, served food remotely through a slot in the door, his only human contact came once each day when he was escorted to exercise. But it was too early for that.
"Now, asshole."
With the ease of long practice, Jack repressed his instincts and docilely put his hands through the door for shackles to be attached. He had openly defied the guards once, in the early days, when his simmering anger at his arbitrary imprisonment had boiled over. Six guards in full riot gear, armed with truncheons, had burst through his cell door. The subsequent beating he had taken had reminded him that, in a federal prison, the odds were stacked in favor of the house.
The door swung open, and the guard in the hallway gestured impatiently for Jack to exit. "C'mon, you f*cking idiot."
Jack's eyes flicked to the guard as he speculated on the minimum requirements to be a federal prison employee. Swallowing his retort, he obediently followed the guard down a hallway towards a part of the prison that was unfamiliar to him. The guard halted at a doorway and roughly shoved Jack into a windowless room. "Strip," said one of the two guards inside in a bored tone.
Strip-search, he told himself wearily. Wordlessly Jack held out his hands to have the handcuffs removed, shucked off his jumpsuit, and waited. And was dumbfounded when his street clothes were pressed into his hands. "What. . . ?" He was afraid to complete the sentence.
"You're going home."
Home. He stared out the window of the bus, looking down into the cars. A green minivan - a mother with her children on their way to school. A red convertible, top down in the Indian summer - a young couple on their way to the beach. A gray sedan - a group of elderly women on their way to - what, he wondered? They all laughed and chatted together in the car below him as it sped by. Jack tried to imagine their lives, normal lives, not contaminated by treachery and deceit. Without success. Tiredly he turned away from the window.
Why had the NSC freed him? They had been so close - had they given up? Didn't they realize they'd been handed the one point of leverage that might finally have broken him? Or. . . his heart lurched.did they no longer need his information? Irina. Had they captured her? Was she dead? His mind reeled. Stop it, whispered a small voice. Don't think about her. It makes you weak.
He rubbed his hand over his eyes, struggling to concentrate. So many things could have changed in the past year, he realized. His daughter, who'd he'd thought was dead, was alive. Irina, who'd he'd trusted to find her, apparently hadn't. Alliances would have changed, power shifted. He would need to be careful. Very careful.
"Union Station," called out the driver, as the bus pulled into the terminal with a whine. Other prisoners shambled past while Jack sluggishly returned to the present. He'd fight world domination later. Right now, what he wanted most was a hot shower. Lurching to his feet, he shuffled down the aisle and stepped down from the bus.
Only to stagger backwards in alarm as he was assaulted from all sides. By the glare of the sun. By the sound of car horns. By the press of people on all sides. By the smell of diesel fumes. Involuntarily, he threw his arm up and backed up against a wall. Closing his eyes, he willed his heart to stop racing and his breathing to slow. Sensory deprivation. He'd forgotten. Swallowing, he tentatively opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings, letting the sights and sounds of an urban environment wash over him, fighting the urge to run.
Bleakly he noticed that most of the prisoners exiting the bus had someone waiting for them. Naturally, he'd never expect Sydney to. . . but still. . . he stifled the thought as he confirmed that she was not there. Of course not. She had enough problems of her own to deal with.
And really, he thought standing straighter, he should be helping her instead of cowering here in the shadows. Cautiously he made his way down to the corner to hail a cab.