“Next time,” he said, putting a finger the size of a sausage in his face, “mind your manners.”
Farley said nothing, but he seemed dangerously close to throwing up.
Gesturing to the body in the bed of the truck, Chong said, “We’re on our way to bury old Franky, but he ain’t in no hurry, man. Hop in the back, and we’ll run you up to see Laroche.”
Mason nodded his thanks. It simply couldn’t have gone any better.
After they scrambled aboard, the truck did a wide U-turn and started up the long winding hill. Peeking under the tarp, Mason saw that Franky had suffered a single gunshot wound to the chest.
Brooke’s kill.
Hoping that he might learn a little something, Mason leaned around so that Chong could better hear him through his open window.
“What happened to your friend?”
“He was shot, man.”
“Yeah, I see that. Who shot him?”
“It was a young lady. Pretty little thing, but boy did she have a temper.”
“Did you manage to grab her?” Mason said, already knowing the answer.
“We did, but it wasn’t easy. We finally came at her from three sides, and poor Franky drew the short straw.”
“Did you take her up to the jail?”
“Sure did. Laroche insists on meeting all the ladies. Not sure why exactly, since he doesn’t lean that way, if you know what I’m saying.”
“Do you think he’ll hurt her?”
“If she minds her manners, she should be okay. Why all the interest, man?”
“Just wondering how things work around here, that’s all.”
Not wanting to further raise suspicion, Mason sat back and settled against the wall of the truck. He didn’t know if Brooke was still okay, but at least he was on the right trail.
As they proceeded up the hill, Farley leaned out the window and heaved. Nothing came out, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Mason looked over at Beebie. “Was that your way of introducing yourself?”
“I’ve dealt with men like him for most of my life. If you let them smart off, it’ll only get worse.”
“Even so, you may have just made an enemy.”
He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first, won’t be the last.”
Chong continued up the narrow road, passing a small subdivision on the right. A few cars moved about, and Mason could see armed men coming and going from the homes. There remained no sign of the jail, however.
It was only after they rounded the next bend that it finally came into view. The structure was surrounded by trees on all sides, a single rectangular parking lot out front. The road continued around back, obviously designed for laundry pickup and food deliveries. The building itself was an odd stitching of eight smaller square structures, the largest of which faced the parking lot. Had it not been for the recent addition of a tall fence topped with razor wire, the entire compound might have been mistaken for a large postal facility.
Beebie leaned closer. “Once we’re inside the gate, the only way out will be through the trees.”
“Understood.”
“You sure about this?”
“It’s either this, or we shoot our way in.”
Beebie did a quick count. There were at least twenty men in sight, and no doubt many more inside the jail.
“Fine, but if you get me killed, I’m going to be pissed.”
“We’re just a couple of mercenaries looking for work. Play along, and we should be fine.”
Chong leaned his head out the window as the truck pulled up to three men working the gate.
“It’s just us again, man. We got some new recruits for Laroche.”
One of the guards came around to get a look at them. He was a burly man with a thick beard and dark eyes.
Bowie’s ears folded back, and he let out a growl.
“Laroche doesn’t like dogs,” the man snarled.
Mason gave Bowie a reassuring pat.
“He won’t be a problem.”
“I have half a mind to shoot the mutt.”
Mason shifted slightly so that his hand could better get to the Supergrade. Engaging in a shootout with a compound full of armed men was suicide, but so be it.
“He won’t be a problem,” he repeated, this time with a bit less Charles Ingalls and a bit more Lucas McCain.
“He better not be.” The guard continued around the truck before finally waving them through.
The truck continued ahead, finally stopping at the front entrance. The awning had been painted a cheerful shade of blue, but the handful of armed men standing outside didn’t look like a welcoming party. Some appeared to be on guard duty, others just taking a smoke break. None looked particularly dangerous. Instead, they gave off a general feeling of complacency. Some of it was due to their disheveled appearance, but mostly it was the way they mindlessly milled about with no awareness of the direction that their weapons were pointing.
Beebie noticed it too.
“Amateurs,” he said under his breath.
“Yeah,” agreed Mason, “but lots of them.”
Chong climbed out of the pickup and wandered toward the entrance, motioning for them to follow.
“Come on. I’ll make sure you get in.”
For his part, Farley seemed content to stay behind and cast evil eyes in Beebie’s direction. His tongue, however, remained still.
Mason, Beebie, and Bowie climbed down from the truck bed and followed Chong into the building. The men standing out front gave them a cursory once-over, but no one seemed particularly concerned. They were either accustomed to the influx of armed men or had simply concluded that only a fool would mount an attack against such overwhelming odds.
The entrance opened into a large waiting room. To the right was a counter designed to process visitors. An elderly man with tiny round spectacles sat behind a thick plexiglass window. A boy, no older than sixteen, stood beside him.
As soon as they entered the room, the man pushed a handle, and a long drawer slid out toward Mason and Beebie.
“Weapons go in the boot,” he said, pointing to a row of lockers behind him.
“The hell they do,” growled Beebie.
The armorer seemed unfazed. “Give up your weapons, or don’t go in. It’s your call.” He leaned around to get a better look at Bowie. “Dog stays out, too.”
Mason turned to Beebie. “I’ve got skin in this. You don’t. How about you and Bowie wait for me outside.”
“Fine, but just know that I’ve got no need for a dog the size of a grizzly bear.”
“Understood,” he said with a chuckle. “If something were to happen to me though, at least do me the favor of taking him to Betsi Greene, the communications operator aboard the Kennedy. She always said she’d care for him.”
He nodded. “Will do.”
Mason squatted down and cupped Bowie’s face with both hands.
“I need you to go with Beebie.”
Bowie whined softly.
“I know, but you can’t come this time. Now go on.”
Beebie motioned for the dog to follow him out, and Bowie reluctantly complied. Once they were clear, Mason turned and placed his firearms into the drawer. He made no move, however, to surrender his knife.
“Purpose of entry?” asked the armorer.
“I’m here to see Laroche about a job.”
The armorer studied Mason for a moment and then turned to say something to the young man behind him. Mason couldn’t hear what was said, but it sent his assistant scurrying from the secure room. A few minutes later he returned and whispered something into the man’s ear.
“Well?” Mason said, feeling a bit naked without his weapons.
The armorer turned to Chong. “Check his pack for weapons.”
“Sure thing, man.” Chong stepped around and quickly rifled through Mason’s backpack. “Nothin’ in here but some food and a few supplies.”
The armorer nodded, and his assistant came around to un
lock the thick metal door that allowed entry into the prison. Mason stepped through and found himself in a long white hallway.
The young assistant motioned to Chong.
“Laroche said that you should escort the visitor to his room.”
“Me? What for, man?”
He shrugged. “You brought him here. I guess he figures he’s your responsibility.”
“All right, whatever you say.” Chong moved up beside Mason as the young man disappeared into the armory. “You’re not going to cause any trouble, are you, man?”
“Not at the moment, no.”
“Good, cause I’ve found the best way to survive around here is to just go unnoticed.”
Mason nodded. “Understood.”
Chong turned and started down the long hallway. Private visitation rooms sat to either side, and while empty, Mason was confident that a black light would reveal a long and sordid history of their use. A little further in was an open space configured with bunks and lockers, no doubt for the guards. Most of the bunks were haphazardly made and the floor littered with nudie magazines, further indication of a general lack of discipline among the troops.
“Do the men stay here in the prison?” Mason asked, recalling the subdivision they had passed on their way in.
“Some do, but most find the neighborhood down the road to be more comfortable.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t tell anyone, man, but I like to get away from this place every chance I get. Honestly, I think I’m gonna take an extended vacation. Maybe go check out the Colony over in Norfolk. Heard they got hot water, man.” He sniffed his shirt. “Might even get me a bath.”
Given the stench coming off the man, Mason said, “The sooner the better.”
He nodded. “Yeah, man, for sure.”
They continued down the hall until arriving at another thick metal door, this one manned by two armed guards. Chong seemed ready to explain why they needed to get through, when one of the men turned and unlocked the door.
Chong looked over at Mason, “Wow, man, that was easier than normal. Laroche must really need some help.”
They continued ahead, maneuvering another long series of hallways before finally arriving at a cafeteria on the left and a long row of jail cells on the right. The cafeteria was littered with wrappers and other garbage, and a handful of guards sat around stainless steel-tables, eating the equivalent of sack lunches. Surprisingly, the jail cell doors all had keys poking out of their locks. At the top of the doors were sliding peepholes, and at the bottom, open rectangular slots for trays of food to be inserted.
Curious, Mason stepped up to the closest door and slid the peephole cover aside. The ten-foot-square concrete cell was illuminated from light coming in through a small barred window. A young woman sat on a plain metal bunk, a sheet draped across her naked body. At the sound of the cover opening, her eyes went to the door, fear and resignation filling her gaze.
Coming up beside Mason, Chong said, “I know it ain’t right, man, but Laroche says we need women to keep everyone happy. Me, I’d rather just pay for it on the outside. Seems more natural, you know?”
Mason thought of Caruso and how his daughter had decided that life was sometimes not worth living. Now he understood what had driven her to make such a decision. Feeling compelled to make some sort of contact with the woman in the cell, Mason motioned for her to come closer.
Reluctant at first, she slowly got to her feet and took a moment to wrap the sheet around her naked body. Shuffling toward him like a helpless geisha, she finally stopped when her face was just a few inches from the peephole.
“Sir?” she said in a weak, breathy voice.
Mason leaned closer. “How long have you been here?”
She glanced back at fingernail marks on the wall that had been used to tally her time in prison.
“A week? A month? I gave up counting after a while.”
He eyed the bruises on her neck and cheek.
“Do they beat you?”
She shrugged. “Some do. Some don’t. It doesn’t really matter.” She looked down at the floor. “You can do what you want to me. I won’t fight anymore.”
Mason felt his belly fill with rage.
“Don’t you dare give up,” he growled.
She looked up, confused. “Sir?”
“You heard me. You fight like hell every single time.”
“Who are you?”
“Mason Raines. What’s your name?”
“Men call me what they want.”
“What’s your name?” he repeated.
She hesitated. “Carol.”
“Listen to me, Carol. You’re not going to be in here forever. I promise you that.”
She shook her head. “They’ll never let me go. This is my life now.”
“No. This is just a dark chapter in a long and beautiful life. Remember that.”
She smiled, and tears filled her eyes.
“I’ll try.”
“Come on, man,” Chong said, nudging Mason shoulder. “We gotta go. Laroche don’t like to be kept waiting, and I still gotta take care of old Franky.”
Mason had no choice but to continue on. He did, however, make a promise to himself to get poor Carol, and those like her, out of the prison. He had no idea how he would ever keep such a pledge, but as with Caruso, he accepted that every mission began with a decision to take action.
As Chong led him deeper into the prison, Mason did his best to create a mental map, anticipating that one day soon he would be returning. The facility proved more complicated than he had hoped, but there were two things working in his favor. First, there were signs labeling each of the cell blocks, and second, the corridors seemed to join back together at common intersections, meaning that one could never be lost for too long.
He counted nearly fifty men in the facility. Surprisingly, most of them were unarmed. Only the men working security seemed to be allowed to carry firearms. Even so, that meant there were a dozen men with rifles between him and freedom, not to mention several locked steel doors. If things went south with Laroche, a knife wasn’t going to get the job done.
Chong didn’t stop again until they arrived at a door with a polished brass plate that read, Warden’s Office.
Mason wasn’t surprised. A warlord’s lifespan was often directly proportional to the heights of his authority. For a jail, such authority would be found in the warden’s chair.
Chong gave a tentative knock on the door.
“Mr. Laroche, sir, are you in there? I got someone looking for a job.”
The door opened, and a man with ghost white hair and faded pink skin stood before them. His complete lack of skin pigmentation, as well as eyes that flicked from side to side, suggested that he suffered from albinism. Perhaps hoping to draw attention away from his condition, Laroche’s flamboyant outfit resembled something off the set of Amadeus. Covered in a bright yellow shirt, sleek black satin pants, and a white silk scarf tied loosely around his neck, he looked nothing like any warlord Mason had ever seen before. The powerful odor of Versace Eros wafted away from him in every direction, so pungent that it smelled as if Laroche had bathed in the cologne.
“Looking for a job, you say?” His voice held a slight French accent that was as effeminate as his clothes.
Mason squinted to keep the odor from overwhelming his senses.
“That’s right,” he said, barely able to suppress a cough.
Laroche looked him up and down, wetting his lips as he did.
“My, my, and what is it that you do, exactly?”
The truth was always easier than a lie to remember.
“I was a soldier back in the day.”
“Ooh,” he said, clapping his hands together with excitement. “What kind?”
“Army Ranger.”
“How delicious. Well, Ranger boy, please come in.” He motioned for Mason to enter, but when Chong tried to follow, he stuck an arm across the doorway. “You, dreg, can remain outside.
But stay close, I have something for you to do.”
Rejection seemed to be part of Chong’s everyday life, and he offered only the slightest shrug as he settled against a nearby wall.
Stepping inside, Mason discovered that the warden’s office had been converted into a private living space. A queen-sized bed covered with a bright purple comforter sat along the far wall, and next to it was a modular closet brimming with all manner of colorful clothing. On the left side of the room, two decorative chairs had been placed next to a small round table. An ornate tea kettle sat in the center of the table as did a small tray of pre-packaged Little Debbie cakes.
As he entered the room, two men came into view. Unlike those outside the prison, these two looked as if they stepped straight out of Quantico, short haircuts, dark three-piece suits, freshly shined shoes, and matching Sig Sauer semi-automatic handguns holstered at their waists.
“Please, sit,” Laroche said, sliding a chair out from the table as if he were a maître d at the Le Chateaubriand.
Mason sat, and Laroche settled into the chair across from him, crossing his legs with a flourish. He unwrapped one of the cakes, took a dainty bite, and then almost as an afterthought held it out to Mason.
“Hungry?”
Mason shook his head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Laroche shrugged and took another bite.
“I suppose you’re wondering why a person of my stature is living in a prison.”
“Not really.”
“Oh?”
“A man lives in a prison for one of two reasons. Either, he’s being held prisoner, or he’s afraid of something on the outside.”
Laroche smiled. “Right you are. There are entities out there who would love nothing more than to see me hang. Until I can bring them in line, I find myself sleeping better with reinforced walls surrounding me.”
“Not to mention a small army.”
“Indeed.” Laroche took another bite of the cake before making a face, as if it didn’t agree with him. He turned and tossed it over onto the floor near one of the two armed men. “Roger, be a dear and finish that, will you?”
Without saying a word, the man picked up the sweet and ate it.
Laroche studied Mason for a reaction.
There wasn’t one.
The Survivalist (Solemn Duty) Page 12