He jostled the fabric over his shoulders to shake off the light snow he’d collected on the walk in. A young female Hispanic officer, her dark hair coiled into a severe bun at the base of her neck, looked up from a computer screen at the counter with a resigned weariness in her gaze. “Good morning, Officer,” he greeted. The woman’s eyes met Owen’s only for a split second before dropping to his chest and holding on the metal there. Her gaze jumped back to his expression freshened with respect, her body straightening to attention. “Colonel, sir,” she said with a serious nod. “I wasn’t expecting you.” “I apologize for the lack of advance notice, but I need to see Mr. Abrute. I hope that won’t be a problem.” “Of course not.” She clicked through several screens on her computer and picked up a phone. “It’s before regular visiting hours, so it might take an extra moment for me to round up another officer. Where would you like him, sir?” “A private holding cell, please.”
