Jack Frost

by Diane Capri

  Keegan nodded and collected a bottle from the back of the Suburban for him. They’d lived in Boston all their lives. The only snakes they’d had to contend with were the two-legged variety.

  While Walsh and the kid handled their tasks, Keegan changed into different street clothes and stuffed his old ones, along with the orange jumpsuit, into a garbage bag.

  When he’d finished dressing, he caught Walsh’s gaze and gave him a solid nod. He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard and noted the time.

  Walsh quickly overpowered the kid. Knocked him to the ground and, even with his own injuries slowing him down, managed to choke the kid to death.

  At first, the kid kicked and bucked and tried to pry Walsh’s strong right forearm from his neck. None of his efforts made any difference. Walsh kept the pressure hard and strong.

  The kid stopped struggling after twenty seconds. He lost consciousness sixty seconds later.

  Walsh kept his weight against the kid’s neck, never letting up until the deed was definitely done.

  Keegan glanced at the clock again. The whole thing, start to finish, lasted eleven minutes.

  He’d watched closely while Walsh worked. He was sloppy. Not as fast or solid as he normally was. Again, Keegan wished he’d let Denny into the Suburban back there in the yard.

  When he’d finished the kid off, Walsh rolled off his chest and stood up, a little breathless. “Take the body with us? Dump it with the Ford when we drop it off?”

  “No.” Keegan shook his head. “Spray him down good with the bleach. Then roll the body under the SUV. With luck, those snakes and a few other predators will get him before he’s found in a few days.”

  “I can set this Suburban on fire. Burn the evidence,” Walsh suggested, still breathing harder than he should have been.

  “No. The fire would draw attention that we don’t want. We’ll be long gone before they find him,” Keegan said, moving toward the Ford. “Come on. Get changed. We need to get on the road.”

  Keegan donned a pair of latex gloves, sprayed the kid’s body with the bleach, paying extra attention to potential evidence transfer spots. He rolled the kid under the Suburban with his running shoes.

  Then he rummaged through the contents of the Suburban. He found the kid’s wallet, cell phone, and another laptop.

  Walsh pulled everything out of the wallet and tossed the contents into the weeds. Then he smashed the cellphone and removed the SIM card and battery. He threw most of the pieces as far as possible and flung the rest into the water-filled ditch near the rattlers’ nest.

  He destroyed the laptop and tossed the pieces as far as he could fling them, saving a few of the more fragile looking electronics for the ditch.

  Nothing he did would thwart the discovery of the hacker or his role in the prison break. But it might slow the feds down enough. All he wanted was a bit more breathing room.

  When he’d finished, Walsh found his fresh street clothes in the Explorer. He pulled off the white T-shirt and tore it into a wide strip. He tied the strip around his bicep, hoping to staunch the bleeding that had started again when he strangled the kid.

  Then he changed quickly, shoved his bloody prison wear into another bag, and moved in behind the wheel of the Explorer.

  Keegan got into the passenger seat. Walsh slipped one of the pistols into his pocket, started the SUV, and drove slowly to the roadway, his left elbow on the armrest with his forearm raised.

  Walsh rolled onto the northbound county road. He looked into the rearview mirror. Keegan turned his head and glanced south toward the prison. Flames and black smoke rose high in the sky.

  “We lost a little time, but we can make it up on the road,” Walsh said. “It’ll be nothing but chaos back there at the prison for a while.”

  Keegan replied. “Yeah. The building was severely damaged. Dead inmates and guards. At least a dozen escapees, and probably more.”

  “All the cop shops will be scrambling. Can’t see helicopters yet.” Walsh peered upward through the windshield.

  “They’ll be on the way if they’re not out there already,” Keegan said.

  “What do you guess is going on at the prison?”

  “Right now, they’re overwhelmed, I’d imagine,” Keegan said. “Trying to get an accurate headcount, rounding up the escapees, getting the injured to medical care, locking down the destroyed prison for the night.”

  Walsh chuckled. “All of that should keep them occupied for a while.”

  With any luck, they wouldn’t even know Keegan and Walsh were gone. At least, not right away.

  The more distance they could put between them and the prison, the better.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Friday, May 13

  Bolton, South Dakota

  7:45 p.m.

  Fern Olson looked at the big clock high on the wall. Forty minutes had passed since she’d left the client meeting room. No one had come through the heavy doors to check on her. Perhaps they didn’t realize she was there.

  Something had happened, but she didn’t know what it was. Thinking it through, she’d narrowed down the options.

  She’d ruled out tornadoes and derechos because the weather forecast had been clear. No storms anywhere in the area.

  Fires and explosions were possibilities. Terrorism was too, she supposed, although terrorism was a rare thing in South Dakota.

  Prisoner escapes were even rarer. If Bolton Prison had ever experienced an escape attempt, she hadn’t heard about it. And she would have heard, she thought.

  Most likely, the cause of the disturbance was a prison riot. They’d had a couple of those out here in the past. They’d had a couple of false alarms, too.

  One of the firm’s clients had been charged in a riot years ago. As she thought about it, she recalled that was when her friend Janet Salter had died.

  Olson was a junior lawyer and she’d been forced to learn the case so she could write the briefs. With her forefingers, she kneaded the headache that began behind her temples as she thought about her friend and the rest of the facts, as well as she could recall them.

  The prison had a crisis plan back then. If a riot started, Bolton PD would serve as the backup for the prison guards. Secondary backup was the Highway Patrol.

  Riots could start without warning, and that’s what had happened. Maybe the riot was to cover up an escape, too. She couldn’t recall exactly.

  Anyway, when the siren went off, all of the Bolton PD rushed out to the prison, and while they were gone, someone killed Janet Salter.

  Olson remembered more of the facts as she thought it through. It turned out to be a false alarm, hadn’t it? “There had been no escape. No riot, either. Janet died for nothing.”

  Olson looked around. The emergency lighting cast a red pallor over the empty waiting room. The smell of burning petroleum had wafted through the ventilation system but had not filled the room with characteristic heavy black smoke.

  Maybe this was a false alarm, too. Just like all those years ago, maybe there was nothing terrible occurring now, either.

  “A training exercise? Maybe that’s all it is.”

  Even as she spoke the hope quietly, she knew this was no false alarm. Whatever was actually happening, this was not a drill.

  She heard sirens continue to blare around the prison. Occasionally, she heard footsteps and clanging and heavy boots pounding on the floor and shouting between men.

  She’d heard no shots fired and she imagined that was a good sign. Or it could be that the solid walls surrounding her were muting the noises outside.

  Olson shivered slightly and pulled her jacket closer around her body. It was a visceral reaction. The room itself was climate-controlled. It wasn’t too hot or too cold. At least, not yet.

  She wished she had her phone. Or any phone. But she didn’t.

  How long would she be required to sit here? Her son would be wondering why she’d never made it home. Maybe he’d call her office. Maybe someone would call the police.
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  “Or not,” she said. “Someone will find me eventually. Could be a long night’s wait.”

  She stood up and walked around the room, just to work the kinks out of her muscles. On the third lap, she thought she heard sirens coming up the driveway and stopping in the parking lot out front.

  “Hallelujah,” she said, feeling a smile spreading along her face when a gloved fist pounded on the heavy exit door.

  “Open up! Bolton PD!” the guy yelled.

  Olson hurried over to the door and pounded and yelled back. “It’s Fern Olson. I’m locked in. Let me out.”

  “Ms. Olson, it’s Captain Irwin Mitchell. Bolton PD. Hang tight. We’ve got to find someone to open the door,” he shouted through the reinforced steel.

  She put her back to the door and waited. Her legs were rubbery. She needed the support of the heavy door. Tears of relief sprang to her eyes and she wiped them away and sucked in a deep breath before the tears became a flood.

  She’d be out of here, get debriefed, and on her way home in no time. She whispered as if her son could hear her. “I’m coming, Noah. I’ll be there soon.”

  Another ten minutes passed before Mitchell returned with a key to unlock the door. Olson had regained her composure and began to notice the outrage deep in her gut.

  When Mitchell opened up, Olson grabbed her briefcase and stepped outside into the fading sunlight. She took a deep breath of outside air and coughed when the pollution hit her throat. The smoke was stronger out here where it hadn’t been filtered through the ventilation system.

  A group of four Bolton PD officers, suited up in anti-riot gear, dashed past her into the lobby.

  The parking lot swarmed with official vehicles, lights flashing, personnel weighed down by various gear, scurrying to and fro like moths circling bright light.

  “You okay?” Mitchell asked, concerned about her coughing probably. “You need a medic or anything?”

  She shook her head. Her limbs had begun to quiver again. Shock, probably. “No. I’m good. I just want to get in my car and go home.”

  “Tell me what happened in there,” Mitchell said, feet apart, hands on his duty belt.

  “I don’t really know. I was here for client meetings. I’d finished up and left the room with an escort. We made it to the lobby. Next thing I know, everything’s locked down, and I’m alone, literally in the dark.” She heard the catch in her voice and cleared her throat again. The irritating smoke had settled quickly into every crevice.

  Mitchell nodded. “Okay. We’ll need a detailed statement from you. But right now, I don’t have anyone who can do it. We’ll contact you as soon as we can.”

  He turned to walk away and she grabbed his arm. “Wait. Tell me what happened here. I deserve to know, don’t you think?”

  Mitchell ran a palm over his weary face and gave her the bare facts. “We’re still gathering intel. But it looks like a cargo plane crashed into the exercise yard out back. It hit the prison wall, too. Did some damage. We don’t know how much. Might have a few prisoners on the loose. We’re not sure.”

  She stared at him as if he was speaking an alien language.

  “Can you drive yourself home?” Mitchell asked, turning to wave to one of his officers who was calling to him from inside.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a car. Over there,” she turned to point into the parking lot where she’d left her red BMW a few hours ago. She gasped. “It’s gone!”

  Mitchell turned toward the empty parking space. “Okay. I’ll get you a ride. We’ll talk about the car later.”

  A female officer came over when Mitchell waved. “This is Officer Flax. She’ll drive you home. Give her the details on your car. I gotta go.”

  He turned and walked into the building while Olson stared after him, mouth agape.

  Officer Flax said, “Come on. I’ll take the stolen vehicle report and get that going. So you won’t have to wait so long. How’s that?”

  They walked side-by-side to the Bolton PD vehicle and climbed in. Flax started the engine and drove toward the exit.

  “How many prisoners escaped?” Olson asked.

  “We don’t know. We’re trying to get a headcount. The ones in the exercise yard just scrambled. And it looks like the area of the building that was damaged might have opened up an escape route for a few more.”

  “Give me a ballpark number,” Olson said, fastening her seatbelt and cinching it tight.

  “Forty. Fifty, maybe.” Flax shrugged, watching the road, dodging oncoming traffic. “We’ll find most of them in short order. We’ve got plenty of personnel out there. A couple of helos and a lot of cars, and these guys are on foot. Highway Patrol is on the way. The fugitives will be getting tired and cold and hungry, too.”

  “Where are you planning to take them?”

  “We’ll house as many as we can. Otherwise, there’s an evacuation plan in place. It’s just a matter of transport. It’ll take us a few days, but we’ll get it all sorted out. Don’t worry,” Flax said, like a mom talking to a five-year-old. “Now, tell me about your car. I’ll put out a BOLO. They’ll run out of gas and they don’t have any money to refill. So it’ll turn up. We’ll find it. Don’t worry.”

  “One of the inmates probably stole it, I guess,” Olson said with a sigh. “And I think I know who it was.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Friday, May 13

  Bolton, South Dakota

  7:55 p.m.

  Burke had increased the Navigator’s speed well over the legal limit and they’d covered significant ground. As they approached Bolton, the fire north of town became more visible, even as it seemed to weaken in strength.

  Black smoke billowed skyward in the distance. Burke kept one hand on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road while he turned the radio dial attempting to find local breaking news.

  Kim removed her sunglasses and peered into the distance. She listened to the radio with one ear while she waited for Gaspar to pick up her call. Her former partner was always available to her. The fact that he didn’t answer seemed ominous somehow.

  She stopped counting the rings after six and waited for his voicemail to kick in. When it did, she left a message and disconnected.

  Only one choice now.

  She located the Boss’s cell phone and hit the speed dial button.

  When the Boss didn’t pick up her call, Kim didn’t leave him a message. She was the only person who had access to this phone and the burner he’d connected to it on his end. He knew she was calling. He was deliberately ignoring her. He’d return her call when and if he felt like it.

  She frowned. Situation normal.

  The Boss was way less reliable than Gaspar in every way that mattered.

  “I’m not finding anything on the airwaves,” Burke said as they sped eastward along the highway.

  Big ditches had been dug on each side of the road to carry running water. Maybe it was snowmelt. Maybe spring rains. Either way, it looked deep and fast from her vantage point.

  Kim replied, “Might be too soon. If it just happened, the locals are scrambling to get whatever it is under control.”

  “We didn’t hear an explosion.”

  “If it’s the prison, we’re too far away. Sound travels slower than light, and we saw the aftermath, not the event itself.”

  “That’s a lot of black smoke. And what looks like a huge fire to go along with it,” Burke said, still messing around with the radio. “Some kind of petroleum fire, probably.”

  Kim nodded. The familiar thrashing in the pit of her stomach worsened. She reached into her pocket for an antacid and popped it into her mouth.

  Not many things were capable of producing a big petroleum fire like that. She mentioned the least likely option first. “Are they drilling oil out there?”

  “No idea.” Burke shrugged. “South Dakota is an oil-producing state. Most of the drilling is done down by Sioux Falls, as far as I know. But I didn’t see anything about oil drilling near the prison or the town. Not i
n the reports Cooper gave us.”

  He glanced across the cabin and seemed to notice the pained expression on her face for the first time. “You’re not going to vomit, are you?”

  The back of her reptilian brain kicked into high gear. Every nerve ending in her body began to vibrate. She struggled to control the quivering in her voice.

  “Where were you on nine-eleven?” she said quietly.

  He frowned. “What? SEAL training. Why?”

  “I was living in Washington, DC. Still in law school. Ten minutes after nine-thirty-seven in the morning, I saw smoke in the sky exactly like that. When Flight 77 crashed into the Pentagon.”

  “Are you kidding me?” He’d seen a lot of things in his life, but he hadn’t been close to those attacks.

  She paused, inhaled a deep breath, and held it for a count of four before she said, “From the looks of that smoke and the flames, if there’s no oil rig out there, then I’m guessing we’ve got a downed jetliner.”

  “That’s a pretty big leap, isn’t it?” Burke’s eyes widened, and his nostrils flared as he considered the idea. “Let’s think this through. There’re no railroads nearby. Might have been a big rig. A tanker. Those trucks can carry ten thousand gallons.”

  “Sure. But there’re no roads for that kind of tanker anywhere near Bolton Prison. What would a big rig hauling that much petroleum be doing out there in the middle of nowhere?” Kim said just before her phone rang.

  Gaspar.

  She picked up the call. “Thanks for calling me back.”

  “Tell me you’re not anywhere near Bolton Prison, Suzie Wong.” His words were light, but his tone was deadly serious.

  “Can’t do that, Chico. Much as I’d like to,” she replied. He was tracking her phone. He knew precisely where she was. The teasing was his way of telling her that he didn’t like it. She didn’t like it, either. “I’m going to put you on speaker.”

  She nodded toward the phone as she made the introductions. “Burke, this is Gaspar, my former partner. Gaspar, this is Burke. Just assigned to replace you. What’s going on?”