To The Lions - 02

by Chuck Driskell

  The pull drape revealed a bedroom with a twin bed, a nightstand and a toilet in a corner. Fortunately the bed had clean sheets and there was an extra sheet on the nightstand, presumably to cover the ejaculate-infused couch.

  Gage studied the toilet for a moment. It wasn’t the type in the cells, gravity-fed, built into the floor, similar to what one would find in a sports stadium. This was a standard European toilet, like one might find in a home, with a reservoir that was bolted down and held by a clamp. He passed back into the sitting area, using the spare sheet to triple-cover a spot on the sofa. Reasoning to himself that he’d sat, and slept, in far filthier environments, Gage perched on the edge of the sofa and studied the kitchenette. He eyed the stove, briefly remembering the natural gas explosion he’d once created outside of Metz, France.

  That’s got to be nearly a thousand kilometers from here, he mused. I did that back when I was a prisoner to grief, but free. Now I’m no longer grieving, but I’m imprisoned.

  He pictured Monika, recalling the blackness of her death, shaking the image away with a wobble of his head. Then his mind created a vision of Justina, in bed next to him, viewing him as if he were the only male on earth, moving her hands through his hair, drinking him in, touching him, loving him.

  Though he’d told the captain he wouldn’t reveal Justina even if tortured, Gage knew enough about torture to know that every man has a limit.

  So, don’t let it come to that.

  Gage refocused his efforts. Unfortunately the stove was electric, small and chintzy. He turned his eyes to the refrigerator. It was about three-and-a-half-feet tall, not unlike the type found in an office or a college dorm room, quietly humming as it impotently cooled a few presumably empty cubic feet of air inside itself. He bounced several times on the couch, listening for the squeak of springs. After a glance through the drape to the bed and nightstand, his eyes drifted up to the overhead light, which was nothing more than a single bulb, the glass fixture having been removed. His gaze rotated through the unit and…

  There! Right there in the corner above the door, black and with a plano-convex lens for fisheye viewing, only about the size of a Sharpie pen’s tip, was the security camera’s aperture. There would certainly be another one in the bedroom.

  But did you spring for night viewing, Capitana de la Mancha? Did you pay the big bucks, or did you spend that on one of those paintings in the office you claim you didn’t decorate?

  Sliding backward on the disgusting sofa, he furtively pulled the phone from behind him, using his right hand to push it, cord and all, down into the cushions.

  That done, his eyes drifted left, to the outer wall. He’d knocked on it on his way in. It wasn’t brick or mortar—probably laid in sheets of some sort of hardboard. The camera was on that wall, as was electricity, marked by the wall outlet. Next to the electrical outlet was a rectangle, the same size, covered in a steel plate. Gage focused on the plate, seeing dual holes—like eyes—on the screws. The screws were spanner-drilled, meaning whoever installed the plate didn’t want tampering.

  Fighting to keep from smiling, Gage felt almost certain the plate covered an old phone jack. And, if so, was the jack live?

  “We’re going to find out,” Gage whispered inaudibly, hoping.

  Eyes moving back to the kitchenette, and back to the overhead light, he licked his lips, suppressing his excitement over the tiny chance that had bloomed on this dreary prison day.

  * * *

  Capitana Angelines de la Mancha emerged from the blistering hot shower, turning on the exhaust fan and using her hair dryer to blow the condensation from the full-length mirror. As the chill air of the office swept into the bathroom, she studied herself in the mirror, fighting to view her familiar features objectively. This time she wanted a cold appraisal.

  Her face, minus the arguable benefit of her trademark caked-on makeup, still held its shape for the most part. Sunspots dotted her temples and forehead. Tiny random bumps, pigment-free moles according to the dermatologist, had grown in a few areas of her face. The spots and bumps were easily taken care of with makeup, but the crow’s feet and the slight wattle of loose skin under her chin couldn’t be readily concealed. She bared her teeth, one of her best features along with her full lips, satisfied with their bleach-aided whiteness and straight, square appearance.

  De la Mancha took a few steps back, feeling gooseflesh as the powerful exhaust fan ushered in more cold air. Squinting her eyes at her reflection, pretending she was a man viewing her form on a beach from a distance, she knew she could pass for thirty at a quick glance. She’d birthed her son, Jordi—her secret son—thirteen years before and had worked hard to regain her form afterward, especially on the loose skin that gathered below her navel. Being hyper-conscious about her body, she’d chosen not to nurse Jordi and, ever since she’d given him up to her mother, she’d spent at least ten hours per week in exercise to combat and slow the inescapable aging process.

  With a trim stomach and a decent set of medium-sized breasts, she admitted to herself that she’d done a nice job with her fitness. But, despite all the hard work, a slight gathering of extra flesh had grown just below her waistline, on her hips, a shadow of the wideness her mother had carried nearly her entire adult life. Despite that small flaw, she possessed a killer set of legs and even her feet and painted toes seemed cute and dainty.

  The grin that had grown quickly dissolved as she had one final place to view. Desiring to get it over with quickly, Angelines de la Mancha turned, looking over her right shoulder at the ass she’d grown to despise.

  If polled, there would be hardly a man on earth who found her rear end as grotesque as she. In fact, though she’d never admit it to herself, most men would find it quite desirable. It looked perfectly at home on a fit woman of her age. Nevertheless, she loathed her backside, wearing uncomfortable body shapers and tights under her outfits to help improve her shape. Her butt was trim and without cellulite or deformity but, to Angelines, it now had one very fatal flaw. Since she’d turned forty, her ass had begun a faster-than-wanted trip southward. In other words, it sagged. Not a great deal but, despite all her running and time spent sweating on the elliptical, her ass had not gotten the “stay in shape” memo.

  She whirled back around and, using her thumbs, gently tugged backward on her temples. The crow’s feet disappeared.

  Bringing her thumbs downward, she touched her neck, lightly pulling under her ears, watching as the gentle wattle became youthfully taut under her chin.

  Taking a steadying breath and turning, Angelines touched her dimples of Venus with her oh-so-helpful thumbs, briefly closing her eyes and pretending she was again 28. Then, with some pressure and a tug, she watched as her butt gloriously levitated to the one she once knew and loved.

  After staring at it for a full minute, she donned her robe, lit an ultra-light cigarette and walked into her office, dropping a few rough cubes of ice into a highball glass and pouring mineral water in, hearing the crack of the protesting ice.

  “Nearly one million euro,” she said aloud, thinking about what Gage Hartline had said about Zurich. Sitting on the leather sofa, she flipped the cover over on her iPad and made sure she was on her cellular connection and not Berga’s WiFi. She typed in a quick search about the world’s best, and most affordable, plastic surgeons.

  Singapore was mentioned often.

  After reading a few top-search entries on the high quality of available Singaporean plastic surgery, she reclined on the sofa, a wistful smile on her face as she searched the nearby countries. There were a bevy of affordable homes for rent in Indonesia, and the pictures were captivating.

  A year with her mother and son, mending fences and washing the sludge of Berga Prison from her mind.

  She dropped the iPad on the sofa beside her, pointing her toes and stretching, groaning from the pain. Angelines’ groin area ached from earlier—not because El Toro, sicko, was well-endowed. Not in the least. The pain was from the beginning of their copulati
on, before her body was able to provide its own natural lubrication, when he’d jabbed her with his fingers and his pint-sized organ. She blew smoke upward in a lacey stream, telling herself that, along with plastic surgery, she’d get some psychiatric help to blow away (or at least hide) her hellish prison memories.

  Setting aside the sexual abuse she’d endured, she recalled the scornful expression Gage Hartline had worn when she’d justified the killings that had occurred under her watch. She’d always told herself (especially after enduring one of her frequent nightmares) that the men she’d allowed to be killed were dead anyway. They were in Berga Prison, the definition of hell on earth, for life with hardly any chance at parole. Yes, often their end was fraught with suffering but, wouldn’t a person be better off with a few moments of pain followed by death over a lifetime spent in misery, also followed by death?

  Sipping the bracing mineral water, she closed her eyes again, resetting her thoughts and making a mental note to line up the psychiatric help first—even before the butt lift.

  So, getting the money from Hartline was priority one. Added to her savings and the cash she’d squirreled away, she would have well in excess of a million euro. Then, as quickly as possible, she’d have to collect her mother and son and go to ground. They would need new identifications, disguises, and rail transport out of Spain.

  “Assume Los Leones will find out within hours,” she whispered to herself, her voice quavering. “Just accept it and understand what you’re up against.”

  Because when El Toro figured out that she’d escaped, he would immediately tell Xavier Zambrano. And, if Xavier caught her, a well-compensated trustee, double-crossing Los Leones, her end, and that of her family, would be beyond her darkest fears.

  “Unless El Toro is dead,” she whispered, a smile relieving the lines of stress on her face.

  A final drag and a swill of her drink. It was time to put herself back together, to forget about the “rape,” and to go home for the evening. Assuming she could make all the arrangements this evening, she could awaken early, with the dark, for a long run in the Aviàn forest. It would be the very first physical step in the cleansing after the disgusting liaison with El Toro—and to prepare for what it was she had to do on the morrow.

  In the bathroom, Angelines lifted the hair dryer but paused. She slumped forward, dropping the hair dryer onto the counter as she supported herself with her arms. The hair dryer switched on in its tumble, running loudly and twirling back and forth like an untended garden hose on full blast.

  Though hurtful pieces of her life would occasionally strike her like cosmic debris hitting a hurtling spacecraft, this time, at this very moment, the thudding realization of what she’d become crashed down on her with the weight of the prison itself.

  “I’m their whore,” she rasped, her voice well under the sound of the hair dryer.

  Unable to hold herself up, she crumbled to the floor, curling up on the shaggy throw rug, shaking in her sobs.

  “I’ve got to get out,” she whispered through the tears. “I’ve got to get out.”

  * * *

  Sitting there on the coverlet, eyes closed, his hands laced behind his head, Gage prayed the lights would soon go out. With no watch, no clock, and no windows, he could only guess at the time. He had plans, lots of them, but had no idea what direction they might take. Tonight he would be drawing on several arcane blocks of military training, melding them with his own creativity, imagining contingencies, dreaming up scenarios, and numbly hoping for an opportunity or two.

  Finally, there was a loud electrical click, like a breaker tripping. Then darkness.

  Gage went to work.

  He moved into the bedroom, stretching as if he were preparing for bed. After stripping off his shirt, he climbed under the seemingly clean wool blanket and leaned over, switching off the lamp, an item he was surprised to find in the apartment. He was certain, before a person was allowed to leave the apartment, that the guards would probably inventory the apartment’s items—the power cords being first on the list. Once in bed with the lamp switched off, chancing the fact that he could no longer be seen, he emerged from the bed, padding to a spot next to the main door where he touched the metal cover over the outlet. The only illumination in the entire room was a strip of light coming under the door from the hallway. There, licking his lips, he waited for his eyes to adjust, wondering if the sliver of hallway light would be enough to work by. While he waited, he made his way to the sofa, removing the phone. Then he flipped the sofa over and went to work on the springs.

  At least an hour later, when he’d finally torn three springs from the underside of the sofa, Gage moved back to the front wall, trying to decide if he had enough light to proceed. The light from the gap under the door—it was nearly an inch—was sufficient, allowing him to see the wall plate and the two dark dots on each spanner-screw. Using one of the springs, he slowly and steadily picked at the top screw, trying to be quiet even though he’d found no evidence of a resident microphone. After ten minutes he flirted with the idea of burrowing into the hardboard wall but, following a few more tries, he managed to get the first screw moving. Once he’d turned it one revolution, he was able to remove the screw by hand and followed it by removing the next one in a third of the time.

  Screws in his pocket, Gage opened the socket, feeling inside, well aware that, in the event the socket was electric, he could get zapped by the European standard 220 volts. There was a coiled wire inside, too thin to be electrical. He tugged the wire out, finding a great deal of slack in the wall. Holding the wire beside the light of the door gap, Gage was happy to see the familiar old D-station wire like he’d trained on years before. Using the sharp point of the spring, he ripped at the rubber coating at the wire’s end, finding the universal colors of black, yellow, red, and green.

  Phones typically use 48 volts, twice that when ringing, but not a lot of amperage. Gage knew this as he stripped the wires away from the coating, taking what seemed forever to strip the thin wires with his smallest spring. That eventually done, Gage went back to the sofa, reaching into the filth behind the cushions and spiriting away his stolen phone. He’d found a semi-sharp edge on the back of the refrigerator. He gripped the phone’s springy cord on both sides, sawing back and forth until the cord separated. Then, repeating what he’d done with the wall cord, but this time using his teeth on all four, Gage stripped the wires and, in the scant light, set about matching the colors and twisting the wires together.

  With no electrical tape, he had to bend the four wires out, so they wouldn’t touch one another. After making each of the unions fast, Gage took a breath as he prepared to twist the red wire together. This was the hot wire and, as deflating as the prospect was, Gage was afraid the phone wire might be dead and this entire project completely futile.

  He touched the wires together. There was no spark. No light from the phone. Nothing.

  “Damn it,” he mouthed, twisting the two copper leads together and carefully lifting the phone to his ear. It was dead.

  Gage leaned against the outer wall, his head pressing backward as he closed his eyes, a tiny piece of him reasoning that he might as well just get some sleep.

  A sound jolted him.

  It came from just outside the door. Gage opened his eyes and looked at the strip of light, seeing two dark patches in the long strip. He heard metal jingling.

  Keys.

  Shit!

  He looked at the phone wire, seeing that the green wire had actually come undone when he’d lifted the phone. Unable to worry over that, he jerked the three other splicings apart, coiling the wire and stuffing it in the jack housing.

  The key scraped at the door, sliding into the lock.

  There was no time to cover the housing. Gage grabbed his three springs, his phone, and the outlet cover.

  The lock turned, the sliding bolt sounding like trains uncoupling to Gage’s highly attuned ears.

  He leapt from his spot, lurching through the space, divi
ng into the bed and scattering his items under the chintzy wool blanket, sprawling the way people do once they’re well asleep.

  His closed eyes were aware of the antiseptic hallway light spilling into the room. Footsteps, slow and steady, thudded across the floor. They didn’t sound like sandals. Gage wondered if the drape between the two rooms was swaying.

  And please, don’t look at the open wall outlet.

  The steps stopped in the bedroom, by the bed.

  “Bé, bé, aquí està el senyor important,” came the deep, raspy voice, speaking Catalan. Gage felt something prod the bed. Feigning sleep, he turned, shielding his eyes.

  Standing there above him was a guard Gage recognized by silhouette—the one Gage called “Weeble Wobble” because of his pear shape. He usually worked nights, dragging his baton along the bars to awaken the inmates as he prowled. Short and quite portly about the midsection, the guard’s belly strained his uniform shirt, making Gage briefly wonder if the thread on his buttons had ever been reinforced. Though the guard’s wide face was cast in heavy shadows, Gage could feel a malevolent air coming from the man.

  “Habla Espanol?” Gage asked. “Yo no hablo càtalan.”

  “Sí, sí, Espanol,” the guard chuckled, switching to Spanish. “You’re a very important man, Señor Harris. I was told by my night commander not to bother you by orders of la capitana.”

  Gage didn’t like where this was headed.