by David Carter
Spider stirred from his slumber. A piece of cheesy-pepperoni fell from his cheek as he sat himself up, leaning back against the sofa in the middle of the room. “Fuck, my head’s killing me,” he muttered. “Been awhile since we had a decent night on the turps.”
Trigger was next to wake after hearing Spider’s voice. As soon as his mind registered consciousness, his cheeks bulged and his face turned a pale shade of green as he scrambled across the room towards the bathroom and emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.
“Looks like you boys could use some help getting your motors running,” Doyle chuckled.
Ryan kindly took over from Ace. “Go take a seat,” he offered. “With the state you’re in you’ll likely burn the place down.”
Ace offered no protest. He dragged his sorry ass to the couch and flopped into the rigid, leather seat, groaning as his stomach churned.
Ryan presented all three bikers with a mug of steaming-hot coffee while he explained what he and Doyle had discovered about the brotherhood, and that Blaze was indefinitely locked up in The Tombs.
The three bikers sobered up within seconds.
Spider gave Doyle a cold stare. The untold anger in his eyes was evident. Ryan interjected before he gave Doyle the third-degree. “Before you go nato on Agent Doyle, Spider, you need to take heed and realise his hands are tied. Believe me when I say that Blaze’s release from The Tombs remains a priority.”
“Just not top priority, right?” Trigger sneered.
There was an awkward silence before Ryan replied, “Look, we need to take action against the brotherhood. The scale of their operation is off the charts. I’m sure Blaze can look after himself for the moment.”
“Just remember why we’re here, detective,” Spider said through clenched teeth. “We didn’t fly half way round the fucking world to get involved in the FBI’s affairs. “You gave me your word that if we found Blaze and returned him to New Zealand that we’d all cut a deal for a lighter sentence. And right now all I see is the light at the end of the tunnel getting dimmer by the fucking second!”
“But surely you can see that circumstances have changed–”
“Not for us they haven’t. We’re here for Blaze and we ain’t fucking leaving without him.”
“Oh, and you expected me to think you would simply come quietly once we’d recovered him?” He scoffed. “I’m not that bloody naive. What was the real plan? Clobber me over the head, strip me of my valuables, and leave me for dead?”
“Something like that,” Spider answered defiantly.
Ryan rolled his eyes. “I figured as much. I knew I’d be sleeping with one eye open.”
“And what was your plan? Wrestle us all into submission?” Spider scoffed.
“No, Spider, I’m not as stupid as that.” He looked directly into his eyes as he bluntly said, “I was just going to shoot you.” He opened his suit jacket, revealing his firearm in its holster. “Commissioner Marshall cleared it with U.S. customs before I arrived in the country. And my orders are plain and simple: if any of the SAS try to run: shoot to kill.”
Spider’s face went pale; he held his tongue.
Ryan continued. “So, Spider, I’d appreciate it if you’d shut your whining trap and let the men in the suits do the thinking. If we help Agent Doyle with his case, we should have sufficient wiggle-room with his superior in order to spring Blaze. For now I’d say we’re closer to growing money on trees than busting him out.”
“Not necessarily,” Ace piped up.
“Excuse me?” Ryan turned to face him.
“There’s a way we could possibly spring him, that is, if you men in the suits feel I’m worthy of speaking...”
Ryan dropped his superior attitude. “I’m all ears.”
Ace’s voice grew in confidence as he said, “Have you ever wondered how Blaze is so smart, not just with numbers, puzzles, and quick thinking, but with general knowledge as well?”
“No, not particularly. I assume he was born that way and chose to otherwise waste his talents.”
Ace ignored his snide remark. “Well, Blaze, among other things, has always loved watching the history and crime channels on TV. And this one time on the crime channel we were watching the greatest prison escapes of all time, and the particular one we saw together could work if we gave it a shot.”
“You want to break Blaze out?”
“Damn fucking right I do.”
“But how? We don’t have the manpower or resources.”
Ace smirked. “Why should we do all the leg-work when the Department of Corrections can do it all for us?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t follow...”
“All we need is a pencil and a pack of cigarettes—Camels to be exact.”
“Why Camels?”
“Because that’s the brand Blaze smokes. We’re gonna send that crazy son of a bitch a message.”
Chapter 42
Jefferson Army Base
New Zealand
“Ready to roll, private.” The supply officer banged the driver’s door on the army truck after checking the final item off his requisition list.
Private Andrew Thompson saluted and put the heavy truck in gear, chugging his way over to the main gate at Jefferson Army Base before the private on duty checked his credentials and let him pass.
The first three hours of his voyage went smoothly. He drove north along the main highway towards Brighton, the largest city in New Zealand’s North Island, before heading out west towards Fotheringham Army Base. It was located in a remote patch of rugged bush and farmland where virtually no one travelled.
After three hours of driving he started to feel a little drowsy. He wound down the window and soaked up the crisp, fresh air as it billowed through the window and brushed his face. Relaxed, and with his earlier stop for coffee starting to take effect in his bladder, he pulled over to take a leak. He checked the desolate country road to make sure it was all clear. He squinted as he made out what he thought was the outline of a four-wheel-drive far off in the distance. He was sure he could take care of business before the vehicle made his position.
“Oh, God, that feels good,” he muttered while urinating on a patch of tall weeds on the verge of the road, before zipping up his pants and returning to the cab.
He indicated to pull back on to the road, but had to wait as the four-wheel-drive rapidly approached.
Private Thompson impatiently tapped on the steering wheel.
The four-wheel-drive slowed its pace as it passed, then came to a complete halt in the middle of the road.
Four men wielding military-issue Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns deployed from the vehicle. Private Thompson reached for his radio, but had a sudden change of heart as the windscreen shattered into thousands of pieces after a spray of bullets was fired.
He held up his hands in surrender.
“On the ground, now!” the leader of the hijackers demanded.
Private Thompson quickly scrambled out and lay down with his nose flat on the tarmac; he locked his hands behind the back of his head. He didn’t move a muscle.
“Want me to kill him?” one of the hijackers asked the leader.
“Please, no! I have a wife and children,” Private Thompson begged.
The leader crouched down. The black cloth covering his face muffled his voice. “Did you radio for help?”
“No, I swear on my daughters’ lives.”
“Good. Hand over your wallet.”
“What?”
The leader held the barrel of his MP5 against the back of Private Thompson’s head. “I said give me your goddamn wallet!” he shouted.
Private Thompson reached into his pocket and extracted his worn, leather wallet. The leader snatched it from his grasp and rifled through its contents. “You have a beautiful family, Private Thompson. It would be a shame for anything to happen to them, wouldn’t it? So if I find out you’re lying, you and your family will be hearing from me and Maggie in the near future.”
“Maggie?” Thompson asked.
The leader patted the barrel of his MP5. “Maggie has no tolerance for liars.” He butted the back of Thompson’s head, leaving him unconscious and sprawled in a heap on the side of the road.
“Let’s wrap this up, gentlemen!” the leader commanded.
One of the four men hopped in the cab of the munitions truck and carefully navigated a three-point-turn on the narrow lane before heading inland.
The leader sat in the passenger’s side of the four-wheel-drive, satisfied, as he escorted his newly acquired merchandise back to their hideout after completing the perfect heist.
Chapter 43
“You’ve been here less than forty-eight hours and turned my mess hall into a goddamn morgue. What do you have to say for yourself?” the warden asked Blaze after the effects of the TASERS had finally worn off.
“Your guards are shit at their job,” he replied.
“Insolence!” the warden shouted. “I’ll have your hide for this!” He certainly could bellow for a wiry, old man in his sixties. He calmed himself, running his hand through his thinning white hair.
“Then get on with it. I ain’t here for a fucking social chat.”
“Shut your goddamn mouth, boy. I don’t take kindly to trash like you.” He paused, then quietly handed Blaze a shiv and a piece of rope.
Startled, Blaze said, “What the fuck is this?”
The warden gave him a cruel grin. “You and I both know you’re going to remain in solitary for the rest of your days. This is merely a courtesy to the American taxpayer. Why should they bust their asses earning an honest day’s wage, while you, an arrogant piece of shit with no respect for the American way of life, have a roof over your head and three square meals a day? You might think you’re tough, but let me tell you that only those with the strongest minds can survive The Box. I expect a man of your abilities to last at least thirty days before the walls start closing in around you. And when that day comes, and believe me it will, you’ll have the power to make a choice: to give back to the mouths you are literally stealing from. Take the rope and string yourself up, or alternatively, take the coward’s way out and slit your wrists. Either way I expect to find your rotting corpse within sixty days.”
The warden caught a whiff of Blaze’s musky breath as he sniggered. “That’s not going to happen, Warden. I can take anything you dish out. Besides, I’d have thought you might be out of a job with the mess I caused.”
The warden paced back to his desk and retrieved a bundle of photographs before tossing them on Blaze’s lap. They were shots of an elderly man and a young lady having sexual relations in a cheap motel room. “Who the fuck are they?” Blaze asked.
The warden chuckled. “I’ve lived my whole life by one motto: always have a backup plan. The man in the picture is New York State’s Minister of Corrections. The woman in the picture is his niece.”
Blaze felt a rush of rage swarm through his mind. “Fucking rapist...” he muttered through clenched teeth.
“Not so fast,” the warden snapped. “What you see is completely consensual. God knows why a pin-up-model would be interested in having relations with her uncle in a grotty motel suite, but that’s not for me to judge.”
“You’re telling me she wanted this? How could you possibly know?”
“I had my suspicions, as the young woman in the picture happens to be my niece, too.”
Blaze cackled in amusement. “You’re blackmailing your own fucking brother to keep your job? Oh, that’s priceless.”
“I’m glad you see the funny side.” The warden smirked. His stern features returned as he said, “but now you realise there’s nothing I can’t do to you and not get away with.”
The smirk on Blaze’s face vanished. “I’m not afraid of you, or anyone else for that matter.”
“Why would you be? I’m old, frail even. I wouldn’t be so foolish to take on a psychopath in a physical battle. So let’s even the playing field, a battle of wits if you will. You take the rope and shiv to your cell, and I’ll see to it that you decide your own fate. If you survive for sixty days I’ll deem you the winner and throw you back into gen-pop. But should you lose your will to live, well, use your imagination...” The warden motioned to his gifts.
“Bring it on, asshole,” Blaze said defiantly.
“Let the battle of wits begin.” The warden called for the guards waiting outside.
“Enjoy your new home,” one of the guards said as he roughly shoved Blaze into his cell, slamming the door behind him.
Blaze slumped back against the wall and slowly slid down to the floor. The word barren was all he could use to describe his new living quarters. Four concrete walls and a bunk to sleep on. The door was made from solid steel with a food slot in the centre. A stainless steel toilet and hand basin sat quietly in the corner. Reminds me of fucking Winterhill, he thought.
“Hello in there.” A sadistic voice slithered through the food slot. It was the guard who oversaw the solitary wing. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need to do is ask...” Blaze noticed the head of an extremely long, erect penis slip through the food slot.
“Fuck off, faggot,” Blaze replied.
Sick Mick replied with a dirty cackle as he retrieved his genitals and returned to his rounds.
Blaze knew that life was about to get difficult. He gazed at the rope and shiv the warden had given him. He closed his eyes and pictured Jane lying in the pool of blood in her apartment, reaffirming his decision to come inside and have his revenge on her behalf. And now he was only two cells away from making it happen. I’m coming for you, Beppo, he thought angrily.
Chapter 44
Blaze was starting to feel the pinch of thirst and hunger. The warden had had the water to his handbasin disabled. He had almost contemplated drinking the water from his toilet bowl, but wasn’t that desperate, yet. “If you want a main course, all you have to do is give Mickey some pudding,” Sick Mick’s vile voice wafted into his cell.
Blaze dropped down on one knee and peeked through the small opening in his cell door. A skinny white man with short, fuzzy red hair and a prominent moustache stood in the corridor. “I thought I told you to fuck off,” Blaze replied.
The slot suddenly filled with dirty, cigarette-stained teeth as Sick Mick squatted down. “Ooh, you like talking dirty, don’t you, baby. Mickey can show you a good time if you’re hungry. I can get you anything. Think about it,” he husked, then snapped to attention as another guard entered the solitary wing.
“Everything okay in here, Mickey?” the guard asked him.
“Er—yes—everything’s fine. Just giving my new inmate a gob full after he mouthed-off at me.”
“Good work. Carry on.” The senior guard left the wing.
Mickey squatted down and in his slimy voice, said, “Ooh, yeah, I’d love to give you a gob full baby...”
Blaze tried with all his strength to ignore the pervert at his door. He wanted nothing more than to beat him into oblivion. There was something Mickey could do for him, but it would cost him dignity. He asked himself if he was prepared to do the unthinkable.
The simple answer was no.
Blaze knew he was running out of options, and that taking the low-road, no, trawling through the goddamn sewer, was his only avenue to Beppo. And then there was Cyrus and Joey Jackson. They were both within metres of his grasp. Killing Joey would assure the brotherhood he could be trusted. He needed to complete Doyle’s objectives in order to be released from this hell-hole, and most importantly, he wanted revenge for Jane. But that would mean getting down and dirty with Sick Mick. The mere thought crushed his pride.
Blaze heard Mickey’s bundle of keys rattling on his belt as he delivered the evening meals to Blaze’s fellow inmates. That was when he had an idea.
A brilliant idea.
Thanks for the free weapons, warden, he thought.
“Hey, Mick, I think I’m ready for some pudding,” Blaze cooed through t
he slot.
Blaze heard Mickey’s footsteps rapidly approach his cell. He concealed his shiv under his pillow. He had to assume Mickey knew about the gifts the warden had given him, but he didn’t know for certain. It was a fifty-fifty call. He was deciding how to handle the situation when his thoughts were interrupted by a loud CLUNK!
Blaze peered down to see a set of handcuffs fall from the food slot to the floor. “Clip em’ to the bed frame,” Mickey said.
“You’re sure you can give me what I want?” Blaze asked as he secured his left hand to the steel frame of his bunk.
Mickey’s mind clicked into overdrive. His cock went rock-hard as he unlocked Blaze’s cell, and said, “With a pretty mouth like yours, you can have anything you want.” He wiped saliva from his lips.
“I need some alone time with Cyrus, Beppo, and Joey Jackson.”
Mickey sniggered. “Ooh, that’s gonna cost you, not one, but three favours.”
Blaze figured as much. This ultimately decided how his plan would play out. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable. But Jane was worth it. Degrading himself might pay for some of the atrocities he had previously committed and was about to inflict on Beppo. He had always lived his life by certain rules, and beating a woman within an inch of her life was certainly worthy of the worst kind of payback.
Mickey unlocked the cell and entered. The sound of his zipper slowly opening sounded like grinding metal in Blaze’s ears. “No tricks, maggot, or you’ll regret it,” Mickey said.
Blaze closed his eyes as he enveloped Mickey’s throbbing knob with his mouth and tongue, gagging as it thrust in and out, while desperately fighting the urge to bite down as his anger bubbled within boiling point. He wanted to reach for his shiv, but gaining Mickey’s trust was top priority. Two minutes later Mickey moaned with pleasure as he relieved himself in Blaze’s mouth. The hot, salty load ploughed into the back of his throat. Blaze choked profusely. He went to spit the revolting lumps out onto the floor.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Mickey said. “Swallow it and show me it’s all gone, or you can kiss today’s favour goodbye.”