Breakout

by A P Bateman

  “Quid pro quo,” King said.

  “You want something first? I get that,” the doctor said. “Name it.”

  King smiled. “I will,” he said. “But not yet.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “No.”

  “I saved your life!”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll go to Johnson.”

  “And say what?”

  “I’ll tell him your bloods were full of…”

  “Oh, cut the crap!” King snapped. “I already know you got into debt, you did something dumb and they used that against you. I know both your parents are alive and well and think you work in the Arctic. You take leave and they keep tabs on you.” King shifted, winced. His rib cage had most likely been cracked in a few places with the CPR. “If any of that is true, then I can tell Johnson. I can elaborate the shit out of that as well. Hell, you could be my inside man by the time I’m finished.”

  “So, what? We have a standoff until we know we’re both on the level?”

  King shrugged, regretted it almost at once. “I worked for my government,” he said. “I killed people. I then went freelance. That’s how I ended up in here.”

  “So, what about the drugs you took? I performed a thorough search on you when you were admitted. Scan and x-ray in the doorway, and a body cavity search.”

  “I remember the last one well. I’ve been waiting for flowers.”

  The doctor failed to find his sense of humour. “How did you bring it in?”

  “You’ve got short fingers.” King said. “Which was a blessed relief.”

  “I can see I’m going to have to go all in.”

  “Like hell you will.”

  “I mean with this… standoff we have. Like a game of cards, I have to go all in with my stake.” The doctor checked his watch. King caught sight of it but had lost track of whether it was morning or night. He’d been unconscious and had no way of knowing how long for. “I don’t want out,” he said. “They’ll kill me. Or my parents. But if somebody was to get out, blow the whistle…”

  “You’d take the rap.”

  “I am confident I can plead entrapment.”

  “That thing you did will come to light.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best?” the doctor paused. “You can’t escape the past. Perhaps it’s time for me to accept the consequences of my actions.”

  “You can get me out?” King asked, bemused. “There’s a lot of security here, isn’t there?”

  The doctor shrugged. “Sure. But I can get you out. I can’t arrange any help on the outside, though. You’ll need help to get away. A car, money, the ability to stay ahead of a search. Can you get help? Do you have help nearby?”

  King watched the man’s eyes. He’d seen enough. Maybe it was because of the magnitude of the treachery, or maybe he was under pressure from Johnson to trap King, but the signs were there. The man was perspiring, his eyes darted downwards, and he couldn’t leave his face alone, especially his lips. King knew the tells to spot a liar. He’d been taught the best tactics to avoid detection himself. But King had been played before. He didn’t play cards or gamble for fun. He gambled with his own life and occasionally with others. “I have nobody,” he said decisively. “Nobody knows where I am, and there’s nobody I can call on for help.” He may well have scuppered his chances of having an ally in his escape, but he’d take that chance. Time would soon tell if this pathetic man standing in front of him was on the level.

  Chapter Forty

  They had driven through the night but were spent. Even taking shifts the drive through Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota and into South Dakota was a long haul. The I-90 switched from two lane to single and back again, depending how far you were from a town. They had crossed the Mississippi and caught sight of the wide body of water over two-thousand miles from where it emptied into the Gulf of Mexico. Caroline was surprised just how wide and full it looked, so far from its ultimate destination, but she didn’t voice it. That was something she would have talked about with King and the thought depressed her further.

  A long pull through mountains and they were high above sea level and drove the continuous plateau to the Great Plains. The sun broke above the distant horizon behind them, a golden hue giving way to pitch darkness ahead of them. When the dawn overtook the darkness and daylight slowly enveloped them, they found themselves in an ocean of grassland. Green as far as they could see in every direction.

  “I need breakfast,” Rashid said.

  “I’m surprised you’re not still full from that bloody pizza,” Ramsay commented flatly.

  “I could go something to eat, too,” Marnie said sleepily. “And a bathroom break.”

  “Very American of you,” Ramsay commented.

  “Okay, then,” Marnie said tiresomely. “A bloody great pee…”

  “Me too,” said Caroline. “I’m sure the others are hungry as well. Let’s pull off at the next exit.”

  The road was much the same as the rest of America. And being a well-travelled and long route, the exits did not simply lead to fuel stations and fast-food outlets, but to clusters of independent and chain motels. Although at no time did the road feel busy. They had driven miles without seeing another vehicle and had spent hours with a car behind their convoy and another up ahead without change. The seventy-five mile-per-hour speed limit allowed for swift progress, and being almost completely traffic free, their progress had certainly been swift. The miles were simply sailing by in a way one would never achieve in Britain, despite the faster, more erratic drivers. The sedate pace of the I-90, utterly free from congestion and bottlenecks, made the overall journey faster than a German autobahn.

  Ahead of them a sign indicated a mile to the next layoff. Ramsay slowed down and took it, he slowed down further, the slip road was little more than a track. There was a diner next to the fuel station. Ramsay parked up and the other two SUVs swung around in the parking area and parked nose outwards.

  “Time for scran!” Big Dave shouted through their closed windows and didn’t wait for them as he marched off into the diner.

  The other men stretched, and Powell lit up a cigarette. “Ah, get us a coffee and a Danish and I’ll be there in a minute.” He stretched his neck and paced around the front of the diner smoking as if it were the last cigarette he’d ever have.

  The booths and tables were in twos and fours and the men spread themselves out while Rashid and Marnie took a four and motioned for Caroline to join them. Ramsay checked his phone, then slid in beside Caroline. Marnie checked her phone, looked up at Caroline. “Still there,” she said. “Just to let you know.”

  “Thanks,” Caroline replied. She was tapping the edge of the table with her fingertips. Her apprehension had been building since they had left Chicago. She had been unable to nap in the car. She sighed loudly, shook her head. “I’m so nervous,” she said. “It just doesn’t seem real. I’m so close to getting him back, but it’s such a risk, the odds seem ridiculous.”

  “We’ll get him back,” Rashid said emphatically.

  “I know,” Caroline replied, but she did not sound confident.

  The waitress came over and they gave their orders. Another waitress was doing the rounds with coffee. They all loaded up on the caffeine, nipped off independently to the lavatories. The windows on the east side of the building had turned golden and the diner brightened as the sun rose high above the sea of green.

  Outside a group of bikers pulled up and revved their engines. They were big, chrome and loud. Indian Chiefs and Harley Davidsons. Most of the men were overweight, but not merely fat, and tattoos featured heavily. Those who were not overweight were sinewy and muscled. They were all in their late middle age, to sixties and beyond and all of them wore cut-off denim vests and sported mahogany-coloured arms. Another band of bikes came in. There were a few Ducati Monsters and Triumphs, but mainly it was American-made muscle. There were a few women, too. Some of the bikes towed trailers and there was an array of add-ons
like drink holders, GPS and sound systems. The noise of the bikes shook the windows of the diner.

  “Could be trouble,” said Ramsay, watching another group of bikes.

  Big Dave got up and took a piece of French toast with him as he headed for the door. He walked up to a group of bikers and started chatting and pointing to various parts and nodded.

  “We’ll soon see,” said Rashid.

  Big Dave got on one of the bikes and took a selfie with his phone. One of the bikers got into the frame with him and they laughed. Adams had joined him and was like an eager child waiting for his turn on a one-pound mechanical ride outside a supermarket.

  “I think it’s safe to say we’re in the clear,” said Marnie.

  The bikers made their way in and the diner was starting to buzz. Their food came, and Big Dave returned to his table just in time for his twenty-ounce T-Bone and hash browns. The steak was an inch thick and bloody and the hash browns were piled high.

  “Christ, that man can eat,” said Ramsay. “The expenses are taking a bloody hit.”

  The other three shared a look and Caroline tucked into her eggs Benedict and smiled. “Steak’s cheap in these parts. We’ll hit your mini-bar later.”

  “You bloody well won’t!”

  When they travelled, Ramsay often directed meetings in his own hotel room, where the rest of the team would generally use up his complimentary coffee, tea and biscuits, then empty his mini-bar. It had become standard operating procedure to enrage the man who held the purse strings.

  The diner was full to capacity now. Big Dave got up and dropped his paper napkin onto his empty plate. A single gnawed bone was all that was left. He stepped near their table and said, “I’ll be outside checking out the metal,” he said. “If that’s okay?”

  Ramsay nodded and asked, “What’s with all the bikers?”

  “It’s Sturgis,” he said. “It’s a motorcycle rally here in South Dakota. Half a million bikers will attend in the ten days it runs for. There’s rock groups and circus acts, a stunt show and the US equivalent to the Red Arrows are putting on a show.”

  “Sounds cool,” said Rashid. “And these guys are heading there?”

  Adams joined them and smiled. “They are. Half these guys are dentists and bankers,” he said. “This has been a dream of mine since I first got a bike. I’d love to do Route sixty-six, just me, my hog and the road. I ride a sports-bike at home, but out here a Harley really works. Some of these rides cost over fifty-grand. Most of them are between ten and twenty.”

  “Just old bikers looking to feel young again,” said Marnie.

  “If you could say that any louder?” Ramsay said. “There are certainly enough of them within earshot not to upset them.”

  Marnie shrugged and finished her pancakes and blueberries. “I bet there are lawyers here, too. The vibe is okay, Neil. I don’t think this will be like one of those old Clint Eastwood films where he beats up all the Hell’s Angels.”

  “The one with the monkey!” Caroline said, excitedly, clearly a moment of relief.

  “Clyde,” said Rashid. “And he was an orangutan. And the bikers were called The Black Widows…”

  “I have no idea what you are all on about,” Ramsay said, getting up and taking out his wallet. He thumbed through a stack of fifties and looked for the pay station. “Let’s get going.”

  Rashid looked at the bikes out of his window, then turned to Caroline and said, “You know what? This has given me an idea…”

  Chapter Forty-One

  “I’m bloody starving!”

  “Eat some crisps.”

  “I can’t eat bloody crisps for breakfast,” Yates complained. “I need a full English.”

  “Good luck. The bacon out here is shit and they fry their eggs dry. All crispy on the bottom and cold yolks.”

  “You can ask for them over-easy.”

  Macintosh shook his head. “You want to try their scrambled egg. Hard as nails.”

  “Stop talking about food!”

  Macintosh pointed at the fuel station and diner. “That’s them, parked up.”

  Yates switched on the receiver device and nodded. “All three vehicles. The bastards are eating breakfast.”

  “This road is straight and goes on for at least a couple of hundred miles before any major turn-offs. There are more restaurant stops up ahead. We’ll shoot on, take a piss-stop and get some breakfast. We’ll let them pass us, then follow them like we have since Chicago. This road is a dream and the trackers are holding up well. How much longer will they last?”

  “About two days,” Yates replied.

  “That should be enough. I’m figuring we could be on the West coast by then, but I don’t reckon they’re heading that far.”

  “Look! There’s an off-ramp and a bridge over the road. There’s a burger joint and petrol station on the other side of the carriageway.”

  “That’ll do,” said Macintosh. “And they won’t see us on the other side of the road.”

  “We’re close now. I can feel it. Whatever is going down, it’s near. We’re near the Black Hills. There are new gold mining concerns starting up here again. They thought all the gold was gone, but some Canadian firms have bought up permits to mine and a company mining gold in Alaska has secured land after extensive drill tests.”

  “You an expert all of a sudden?”

  “Wikipedia,” Yates said. “But this has to be it. They are hitting the gold mine at clean-up time, and that bloke King is on the inside. That’s why Rashid wants non-lethal rounds used.”

  “So, what’s the angle?” Macintosh asked, scratching his head as he swung the SUV into the car park. “You were convinced the desk guy and the women were ‘Box. So why are they hitting a mine? Funds?”

  “Has to be. Getting money together for black-ops operations,” Yates paused. “Or, they have simply come up with a scam and the taxpayer is footing the bill.”

  “Well, we’ll soon find out,” the Scotsman switched off the engine, took in the peace and quiet, the huge expanse of grassland in front of them. “But either way, we waste the fucking lot of them…”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  King opened his eyes, waking suddenly from the deepest sleep he’d had in over two-weeks. He looked up at the man standing over him. Strong features and black skin, which highlighted the whites of his eyes. He felt uncomfortable, knowing the man Johnson had referred to as Cole must have been watching him for some time, King oblivious as he slept.

  “I could have killed you,” he said.

  King raised his right arm and the handcuff clinked against the metal bars of the bed. “That would have been big of you. All tied up and all.”

  “I could have pinned your arm and strangled you.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said King. “It hasn’t panned out that way for anyone yet.”

  “Me neither. Or anyone else on the planet, when you think about it. So, lying in your bed, all tough-guy and stuff means nothing.”

  King shrugged. “But not everybody has had our life, have they?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “It’s not mine.”

  “Johnson’s then.”

  Cole smiled. “There are a lot of Johnsons,” he said. “This isn’t his place. Not exclusively, at least. Many agencies send a Johnson out here to interrogate, or occasionally disappear an inmate.”

  “Well, whoever runs it, it’s a shithole.”

  “It serves a purpose,” Cole said. “We put all the shit nobody wants in here.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “If I were you, I’d be in a quandary,” said King.

  “You would?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well, I guess I ain’t you.”

  King shrugged. “What’s Johnson got planned for me?”

  Cole smiled. “Tell me about Chicago.”

  King shook his head. “Got any kids, a wife?”

&
nbsp; “I don’t see what business it is of yours.”

  “Just answer me,” King said. “Humour me, at least.”

  Cole relented. “A wife and son.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Cole looked at him and shrugged. “Where are the rest of your team?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “You’re lying.”

  King shrugged. “Prove it.”

  “That psycho Scottish guy is out there, isn’t he?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Okay, King. You saved my ass. I’ll acknowledge that.”

  King shook his head. “You have a wife and child, you son of a bitch! You’ll do more than fucking acknowledge it! You found love, had a child. However all of that worked out for you, it wouldn’t have happened without me.”

  Cole shook his head. “It can’t change a thing,” he said.

  “Bullshit! I saw you with Johnson and I thought it was a sign,” said King. “If ever there were a higher being, it was then. That was it. A secret prison in a country of over a quarter of a billion people and in walks a guy I saved from being beheaded. At best. What are the chances of that?” King shifted up the bed, the handcuff hampering him. “You and another SEAL and the helicopter pilot. You remember?”

  “Of course I remember!” Cole snapped.

  “Good. For a moment I thought you’d forgotten that I saved your arse and could sit by and watch me incarcerated, perhaps worse. Not when you saw what happened to the two French soldiers I didn’t get there soon enough to help. One burned to death in a cage, the other spilt down the middle with a fucking shovel! From groin to head, Cole. You remember that, don’t you? Watching, pissing your pants and crying your fucking eyes out?”