The opposite door opened—the one leading to Whiskey’s quarters. But Victor was the one standing there.
“Over here, quick! Don’t let her see you.”
What the hell was this? Well, there went his brilliant plan. Had they somehow figured it out, and this was their way of defusing it? No. That made no sense. He hadn’t uttered a word of the plan. It had been entirely hatched in his mind.
“Come on, mate!”
So Hardie limped over to the doorway, and saw a dirty, torn suit neatly folded on the tile floor. His old warden outfit.
“Put these on,” Victor said.
“Where’s Whiskey?”
“Look, you want to get out of here or not?”
Hardie dressed himself quickly. The feel of the suit on his wet skin was unpleasant, but it was better than the smock. Anything was better than the smock. All he had were the trousers and jacket, no underwear, no shirt, no belt, no socks, no shoes. But it felt like a suit of armor compared to that smock. He’d hated the smock so much he didn’t even want to think the word smock ever again.
“This way.”
They moved through Whiskey’s room and then through the control booth Hardie could never see from his cage. So where were Yankee and X-Ray? And Whiskey, for that matter? Was she still waiting outside the shower door? Hardie must have slowed down because Victor was tugging on his arm, urging him forward.
“Come on.”
“What is this about?”
Victor paused long enough to whisper, “You were right. It took me a while to piece everything together, but you were right, mate, and if we’re going to do anything about it, we need to move now.”
Victor hated this next part. It really made him feel like the world’s king supreme dick. But it was a necessary part of keeping this facility running smoothly. You needed conflict, for the good of the guards, for the good of the prisoners. If you didn’t let the pressure out in small, controlled doses, the whole facility was likely to explode. And shaking up the status quo helped reveal the actual traitors, the escape plots in the making.
The Prisonmaster had carefully explained this when he named Victor the “secret warden” a little over a year ago, not long after Victor had proven himself worthy. New “wardens” may be sent to the facility, the Prisonmaster said, but Victor was still the man in charge, the one he depended upon to keep the most dangerous people on earth contained.
Victor craved the validation, the responsibility. He loved being special.
Which eased his conscience a little.
Thing was—
and Victor had no idea about this—
the Prisonmaster had told the other guards the exact same thing.
Victor and Hardie walked into the elevator vestibule, which was dim and quiet. Victor took Hardie’s arm and led him toward a corner.
“Over here.”
“I’m guessing you have some kind of escape plan that won’t kill everyone down here?”
“Oh, yeah, I do.”
Victor’s plan was this: guide Hardie to the dark corner of the vestibule. There, Victor would pick up Hardie’s electrified walking cane—confiscated when they threw him in his cell—and jam it against Hardie’s heart and press the button. After Hardie did the sixty-cycle spin, Victor would sound the sirens and flash the lights, and soon everyone would realize there had been yet another escape attempt.
The other three guards would scramble down here and find their former “warden” holding his electrified cane and wearing his old suit jacket and trousers. Hardie would have to explain himself. Hardie would be interrogated. After all, how did he manage to escape from his cell? Where did he find his old suit? How did he recover his old weapon? Answers would have to be given. Brutal yet necessary interrogations of the prisoners would begin. Guards would be questioned, too—clearly, Hardie had a collaborator. Suspicion, naturally, would fall on Victor. Hardie himself would testify to that fact.
“But don’t worry about that, Victor,” the Prisonmaster explained. “This just puts you in the unique position of being able to uncover the real traitor.”
Which was the whole point: find the traitor among them.
“Help me, Victor. Help keep this facility safe,” the Prisonmaster had said.
“You know,” Hardie said, “Prisoner Three told me something very interesting about you.”
“Oh, yeah?” Victor asked. “What’s that?”
Hardie gritted his teeth and jackhammered his right fist into Victor’s lower back, dead bang between his kidneys, giving the punch everything he had, his entire body weight focused on that single target.
Victor yelped, twisted slightly, dropped to his knees.
“That you’re a nance,” Hardie said. “Whatever the hell that means.”
What Cameron had actually said was that his former partner Ashley (now “Victor”) had once suffered a serious lower-back injury, and that in subsequent adventures, he’d added further insult to that injury.
“That’s the cunt’s Achilles heel. Punch him hard enough in the small of the back and he’ll fold like a fuckin’ deck chair. All I want is one shot at his back. Just one, for old times’ sake.”
Well, Hardie was simply passing the sentiment along.
Hardie knew he didn’t have much strength or time. He had to incapacitate his old buddy Victor/Ashley here quick and clean.
He was considering a chop to the throat and a few more punches to the kidneys when he saw it, over in the corner.
His cane.
That little black beauty with the curved handle and the fifty thousand volts of sheer electric hell inside.
Hardie shuffled over to it, unsheathed the end—oh, how he wished he’d realized what this puppy did when he first arrived—then came back and gave his old buddy Victor enough shocks to make him reconsider consciousness. Then after picking Victor’s pockets clean of cell keys and the Smith & Wesson tactical pen, military and police edition, Hardie felt armed and crazy enough to try it.
An honest-to-God jailbreak.
He quickly made his way back down to the main floor, an excitement in his blood he hadn’t felt in years.
23
Bide your time. That’s what prison teaches you, if nothing else. Bide your time and everything becomes clear and you can act accordingly.
—Terence Stamp, The Limey
HARDIE SPRANG EVE first—her cell was the closest to the elevator vestibule. She had been in one of her otherworldly Zen moments. After he unlocked her mask, Eve rubbed her eyes and asked what the hell was going on—where he got the old suit and weapons. Hardie said he’d explain later, then offered her a choice of weapons: the pen or the cane. Not surprisingly, she went with the pen. Very gallant of her, Hardie thought. The old man still needed his cane.
“You know, this is probably a trap,” Eve said. “They’re going to catch us and then torture the living shit out of us.”
“Probably. You want me to lock you back up?”
Eve smiled. “Duh.”
Cameron was next. Hardie unlocked his face mask and clapped him on the shoulder.
“That shot to his spine?” Hardie said. “It worked. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” said Cameron. “Tell me, did he cry like a little bitch?”
Next they went around the corner and freed Archie, who was stark naked and seemingly unconcerned about it. Hardie found it a bit difficult to take seriously a man whose balls were swinging around like the pendulum on a grandfather clock, but so be it. Eve, who seemed immune to the posthypnotic sway of genitals, asked if he was up for this. Archie merely nodded. Good enough for Hardie.
Finally they came to the cell of Horsehead. The man was still curled up in a fetal position, never having fully recovered from his beating and electrocution of some time ago. The same thing that Hardie would have endured. His cell stank of urine because he repeatedly wet himself, having lost all bladder control. He twitched, and his hair stuck up in odd tufts here and there, stiff as dreads.
&n
bsp; Hardie slid a key into the back of Horsehead’s mask, but nothing happened. Horsehead cursed in Italian, then tried to take the keys from Hardie. “Hang on, let me try another one.”
“Do you want to stay here?” Eve asked, pointing to the floor of his cell. “Or do you want to join us?” Pointing to the outside.
Horsehead nodded and pointed.
Yeah, he was down with the jailbreak.
Hardie tried another key, but nothing.
“We don’t have time for this,” Cameron said. “The mask stays on for now. We’ll figure it out later.”
Eve extended her hand. Horsehead, trembling, allowed himself to be pulled to a standing position. He swayed, as if intoxicated, and would have fallen back down to the floor if Cameron hadn’t grabbed him and thrown one of his beefy arms over his shoulder.
“All right, let’s go,” Archie said.
“Wait,” Eve said. “What about Prisoner Zero? We can’t just leave him.”
“Well, we can’t bloody well carry him,” Archie said. “We’ve already got two walking wounded.” Then, with glance at Hardie, “No offense.”
Hardie wanted to tell him to bloody well suck it. But Archie was right.
“We’ll have to come back for him. Victor told me that X-Ray and Yankee are in there with him. If he was telling the truth.”
“Where’s Whiskey?” Eve asked.
“No idea.”
Eve nodded. “Okay, she’s gotta be in here somewhere. So let’s sweep the outer ring, room by room, incapacitate the bastards, and take control of the prison. Lock them up in those cells.”
“And then find a way out of this hellhole,” Archie said.
“Where did you leave fuckface?” Cameron asked.
Hardie led them to the elevator room. No one was there except a still-unconscious—or faking—Ashley/Victor. Cameron knelt down beside him, touched his fingers to the guard’s wrist, then to his jugular, nodded to himself. There was a sadness to his movements, as if Victor were a longtime family dog who had suddenly turned and bitten the baby. Such a creature needed to be put down, but you did not relish the task.
“Stupid wanker,” muttered Cameron as he launched his fist into his former partner’s face. The punch was a single jackhammer blow—a white-hot blast of kinetic energy, expertly focused. If Victor had been faking, he wasn’t anymore. Cameron quickly stripped his former partner of his brown uniform.
“What are you doing?” Hardie asked.
“Camouflaging myself,” Cameron said. “I take the lead, maybe the outfit fools ’em. Buy us a second or two of time.”
The door to the break room was locked, but Hardie still had the keys from Victor’s chain.
“Let me,” Cameron said, holding out his hand.
Hardie hesitated, but knew it was right to hand them off. His left hand was still unreliable. Last thing he needed was to drop the damned keys.
The ragtag strike force gathered by the door: Cameron in the lead, Archie behind him, followed by Eve and Hardie, and, bringing up the rear, on his hands and knees now because he couldn’t support his own body weight—Horsehead.
Hardie nudged Eve. “What about him?”
“We’ll come back for him.”
The odds: not great. What, three and a half tired, beaten prisoners versus three guards with weapons? Eve had a pen, and Hardie had his cane. That was it. Hardie even felt vaguely guilty about hanging on to it. The one true weapon should be put into the hands of the most able-bodied prisoner. In this case, Archie.
“You want this?” Hardie asked, showing him the cane.
But the man shook his head and showed them his balled-up fists. “These are all I need.”
Cameron slid a key into the door, nothing. Tried another. Nothing. The third time, however, was the charm: a beep sounded, and the door clacked open. Cameron slipped inside the room, and—
“YEAGGGHHHHH!”
A horrible, inhuman scream as an insane amount of voltage ripped through his body.
The guards had been waiting for them.
That was because the Prisonmaster had informed Yankee and X-Ray that a jailbreak was in progress, that Victor had betrayed them, had given his former partner his keys and the uniform. He told Yankee, in English:
“This is the most dire threat we’ve ever faced, Yankee, and I’m counting on you to set things right.”
He told X-Ray, in German:
“This is the most dire threat we’ve ever faced, X-Ray, and I’m counting on you to set things right.”
He also told Yankee:
“You can trust X-Ray for the time being, but keep an eye on him. You’re the only one I know I can trust. I’m counting on you to uncover the betrayers.”
He told X-Ray, in German:
“You can trust Yankee for the time being, but keep an eye on him. You’re the only one I know I can trust. I’m counting on you.”
“But you need not fear,” the Prisonmaster told both of them. “Because in the end, after the rebellion is quashed, there will be extra prisoners in the cells, and new wardens will surely be sent down to live among you—good men and women who will help you restore order at long last.”
The Prisonmaster knew the power of hope, and, more important, how to exploit it. He’d been doing it for decades now.
Archie pushed Cameron’s twitching body aside and went in, swinging his fists as though they were studded metal balls attached to leather bands. Cameron’s keys went clattering to the cement floor.
Hardie thought: Someone pick up the keys.
Over near the door Archie traded chops and kicks with his archnemesis, X-Ray. Hardie dove past them, through the doorway and straight into the fray, aiming for those keys. An elbow slammed into his chest right away. Then another fist whipped across Hardie’s face. Somebody kicked the keys. They shot across the floor through the open doorway and into the corner room—where food and clothes were delivered. Without those keys, they were fucked. Might as well kneel down and take their beatings just to get them over with.
Scrambling across the floor, his right leg screaming at him, threatening to cease all movement, Hardie crawled through the doorway, then reached out and wrapped his right hand around the keys. A second later a boot came down on that hand, trapping and crushing it at the same time.
Instinctively, Hardie tried to yank his hand free. It wouldn’t move. The pain was unreal. Hardie thought he could feel veins bursting within the flesh sac of the thing that used to be his right hand, which was being crushed by the rubber sole of a boot from above and the sharp keys from below.
Hardie balled up his left hand into a fist and struck out, at crotch level, with all his strength. His fist struck its target. The boot released his hand. The boot turned out to belong to Whiskey.
And although she did not possess the pair of testicles that Hardie had imagined, the punch had its intended effect. Whiskey dropped to her knees, clutching at her private parts.
Yep, I’ve still got it, Hardie thought. Hitting women like a pro.
Hardie checked his hand. It still could open, but his palm was cut and punctured with key marks. There was a blur of motion to his left. Hardie looked up at the exact moment a fist smashed into the side of his head. Whiskey. She threw another punch, a sloppy but powerful left jab, muttered something profane in her own language, and followed up with a right hook that slammed Hardie back into the wall.
He also dropped the keys, and Whiskey swept them aside with a kick of her boot.
She looked like she was about to use the heel of her hand to drive a piece of his nose cartilage up into his brain when she stopped. Something crackled in her ear.
At that moment the Prisonmaster was shouting:
“Go to the break room and bar the door shut. Now! It’s your only chance!”
* * *
And Hardie could hear it.
Meanwhile the two able-bodied prisoners, Archie and Eve, battled Yankee and X-Ray back into the delivery room. X-Ray tried to use his wristband mace blas
t, but Archie slapped his arm away and gave him a brutal head butt to his nose. Blood gushed out and clung to the wispy blond hairs hanging down from Archie’s forehead. “For my brother, you cunt.” X-Ray staggered backward. Through the pain, though, he heard the voice of the Prisonmaster, speaking perfect German:
“Lock them in the delivery room and get back to the control room. Now! It’s your only chance!”
X-Ray grimaced and raced forward, smashing into Archie’s midsection and flinging him to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Hardie could see that Yankee was doing the same thing with Eve, smashing his way past her body, except that he was scrambling in the other direction, toward the control room.
The realization hit Hardie and Eve at the same time: the guards were splitting up…to seal them in the delivery room.
If they were trapped in a single room, it was game over.
Hardie scuttled across the floor like a crab escaping a boiling pot of water. He scooped up his cane and threw it to Eve—who caught it and wedged it between the door and the frame just as Yankee and Whiskey were pulling it shut. The guards on the other side tried, but no amount of strength was sufficient to snap that cane in half. Meanwhile Archie held it in place, so they couldn’t kick it loose.
For the moment they were at a grunting, sweating impasse.
Eve, breathing heavily, lips bleeding, said, “Okay.”
Hardie said, “Wait—what’s okay?”
“We can’t go back to the way it was. We’ll never get this chance again. Got to end this thing now.”
“How are we supposed to do that?”
“I’m talking about winning the fucking war, the whole thing, once and for all, change everything forever.”
“Spit it out already,” Archie said.
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