THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BREAKOUT
J.T. Brannan
GREY ARROW PUBLISHING
First Edition
This edition published in 2017 by Grey Arrow Publishing
Copyright © 2017 J.T. Brannan
The moral right of the author has been asserted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved
For Justyna, Jakub and Mia;
and my parents, for their help and support
“Not all psychopaths are in prison –
some are in the boardroom”
- Robert D. Hare
Prologue
The dog park. There’s nowhere like it. For Kane, anyway.
For me, I can live without it. It’s not the dogs, you understand; it’s the people, all cooing and crooning over their pets. It’s all Mitzie, don’t do that! and Bitsie, come here! and it’s the seventh level of Hell for me.
Lafayette Dog Park was a case in point; twenty-nine people at the last count, all crammed into a fairly small strip of land bordering Sacramento Avenue, forced to smile and be polite – things that I’m not terribly good at.
But Kane liked it, and I thought he deserved a little break; after traipsing around America after me, following me from one crazy adventure to the next, it was nice for him to mess around with some other dogs for once.
And those other dogs seemed to like us more than the owners did, which was typical in places like this. Kane’s a scary-looking crossbreed with what I guess is a lot of Alsatian mixed with Mastiff, and he still has the ugly scars he got from the dog-fighting pit I rescued him from. To be honest, I don’t look a lot different; most nights I sleep rough as I wander about the States, and I’m about as far away from the preppy accountant-type as you can get. Even if I was friendly, nobody would believe it.
“What kind of dog is he?” the man next to me asked; an ordinary question perhaps, but I could see from the slightly fearful look in his eyes what he really meant –
Is he dangerous?
“Pardon?” I asked, turning to the guy – who was the preppy, accountant-type.
“I asked you, what sort of dog that thing is,” the man said, pointing at Kane with obvious distaste before looking at me disapprovingly over his Oakley shades.
I breathed out imperceptibly; that was two things he’d done to piss me off. The first was his condescending tone of voice, and the second was calling Kane a “thing”. As far as friends went, he’d been there for me any time I’d needed him, and was a lot better than most of the human beings I’d met. The only “thing” around here was the pink-shirted preppy asshole in front of me. But Kane was enjoying himself, and I didn’t want to ruin his day by punching this guy in the face. So, I thought to myself, why not have a little fun instead?
“He’s a Moldovan Cage Fighting dog,” I answered, deadpan. The man’s eyes flickered momentarily, a nervous twitch as his gaze shifted from me, to Kane, to his toy poodle which was sniffing at Kane’s backside.
“A . . . a what?” he asked.
“Moldovan Cage Fighter,” I said. “They breed them over there in cages, make them fight from being puppies, you know? Only the strongest ones survive, the Moldovans see it as natural selection.” I smiled proudly. “Little Rambo there killed seven of his brothers and sisters before he could even bark. Not the record, but pretty close.”
“And you . . . rescued him?” the man asked, unable to figure out if I was being serious or not.
“No,” I said, “I imported him to protect my house. Rottweilers are kind of pussies, you know?” I winked at him, then smiled. “I’ve got things in my house that need protecting,” I whispered conspiratorially. “Drugs, explosives . . . people I don’t want escaping. You know the score, right?”
“Ah . . . yeah, I . . .” the man began, clearly confused. “No, no,” he corrected himself, “I don’t know the score, I guess. What, ah . . .” His gaze turned again to his little poodle, getting a good old whiff of Kane’s butt, and he moved away from me and called to her. “Okay, Lulu,” he said in a high-pitched tone, “come on, it’s time to go.”
Lulu? Damn, that was about right. He kept on calling to her, but the little darling just ignored her and he was too scared of Kane to go close enough to put her lead on.
I let him panic for a while, until his prissy voice started to piss me off too much; and then I clicked my fingers and Kane broke away from the poodle and went trotting away to the other side of the park, leaving precious Lulu behind.
The guy grabbed his dog and ran, without even so much as a goodbye; but he wouldn’t be missed, that was for sure.
I followed Kane and took a seat on a nearby bench, stretching out my tired body and relaxing in the warm, noonday sun.
I turned as someone sat next to me, annoyed that my moment of peace had been broken. The last thing I needed was some other asshole asking me questions about Kane.
Maybe it was time to leave?
But then I saw her – an absolute knockout, not long into her twenties, with short dark hair, olive skin, and the most fantastic set of legs that were only just covered by a pair of denim cut-offs – and I decided that maybe I’d stay a while longer.
“Hi,” she said with a smile, and I smiled back. “Which one’s yours?”
“The big guy over there,” I replied, pointing at Kane as he did relays between one set of fences and the other.
“Wow, he’s cute,” she said, growing ever more lovable by the second. “What’s his name?”
“Kane. Which one’s yours? No, wait,” I said with a grin, “let me guess.” I scanned the park, taking in the many and varied breeds on display, before my eyes settled on one of them. “That her?” I asked with a raised eyebrow, pointing toward a black and white French bulldog that was lapping water out of a bowl not too far from Kane.
“That’s her,” the girl said, “how did you –”
But her words were cut off as someone walked past us and dropped onto the bench between us; a gym queen, a poseur, tight jeans over skinny legs while his chest and biceps were pumped up beyond belief. “Damn, girl,” he said, ignoring me completely, his sweaty, polo-shirted back turned to me, “you are fiiiine. What say you and me hook up, you know?”
He put a hand on her leg and I heard a mutter of disgust as she plucked the hand away. Who the hell was this guy? Damned arrogant creep.
But whoever it was, it looked like the dog park was about to get interesting.
“Hey,” I said, putting a hand on his meaty shoulder, “how about an ‘excuse me’ before you dump your fat ass on a bench where two people are talking?”
“And who in the name of holy fuck are you?” the big guy said as he turned toward me, eyes glaring over his shades – Ray-Bans this time, not Oakleys. “You best pipe down and get your faggot ass away from this bench. There’s a real man at work here.”
I noted the grip he had on my new friend’s thigh, pinning her to the bench, and decided a verbal response was unnecessary; he’d already overstepped the mark. A man of few words myself, I was about to smash those shades across his face with a headbutt, when I sensed another presence nearby.
I turned my head downward, to see a white and tan Pit Bull
Terrier staring up at me, teeth bared and panting heavily in anticipation. It was joined quickly by another, then another, all staring at me.
I felt shadows fall across us then, and turned once more, this time seeing two more goons rolling up to my side of the bench, presumably the big guy’s friends, and the owners of dogs two and three.
“This guy hassling you, Beau?” one of the new guys asked, eyeing me up and down.
“Hey, fellas,” I said, at the same time as I started to stand, palms out in what I hoped looked like fearful placation, “there’s no need for this, I’m out of here.”
Even though it was a lie, the hurt look on the girl’s face was like a hard slap. The dogs started growling, and Beau laughed. “Don’t shit your pants now, sissy-boy, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I said, still backing away. At the same time as I calculated lines and angles, I clocked Kane as he made his way slowly across the park toward us, like a tiger stalking through the jungle.
And when he was close enough, I acted.
My first shot slammed one of Beau’s gym queen buddies right on the jaw; but although the impact made him stagger back several steps, he didn’t go down.
He was dazed for the few vital moments I needed though, and I immediately turned my attention to the next man, slamming my boot into his knee at an oblique angle; the snap of ligament and cartilage came at the same time as the high-pitched scream of pain.
The girl was screaming too now, and the dogs were barking, moving toward me, and Beau was already halfway out of his seat. But then Kane was there, his own savage growl more terrifying than the other three dogs combined, his raised hackles instantly scaring them into submission, and they instinctively backed away from his sheer ferocity.
More people were screaming now, but I ignored the sounds as I planted a knee in Beau’s rising face, connecting solidly and plastering those shades all over his forehead.
The first man I’d hit got to me a moment later, tackling me heavily to the ground; but I managed to use the momentum to turn him over with a judo stomach throw, gripping hard on his shirt and planting my foot in his gut and spinning him over me into an ungainly heap on the floor. I saw the second man moving and kicked out from the floor at his bad leg, knocking him down to the ground with me. I stomped my booted foot into his face as he landed, and I heard the teeth crack inside his mouth.
I made an attempt to get up, but Beau was suddenly on top of me and I had no time to roll him over; he’d recovered from the knee to the face and was coming for me full-force, fists raining down on me from the top position.
I instinctively reached up and pulled him in toward me by his neck, jerking the top of my head up into his jaw as it came down; it hurt like a sonofabitch, but I knew it hurt him more. I heard a gurgling noise, and wondered if he’d bitten through his tongue and was choking on his own blood.
But however bad it was, it had certainly weakened him, and in one smooth movement I rolled him to the side, taking position on top and letting a few savage elbows slam down onto his unprotected skull.
He was out of it, and I got back to my feet just as the guy who I’d thrown over my head regained his senses and came for me once more. I buried my foot in his gut with a front kick as he came charging in, and it dropped him again, knocking all the air out of him and leaving him clawing at the sky as he rolled around on the grass next to his unconscious friend.
I looked across at the man whose knee I’d ruined, and it was clear he wouldn’t be getting up for a while; and then I checked the pit bulls, and was happy to see that they were still being kept at bay by Kane.
Damn, that had been harder than it should have been – maybe I was getting out of shape? But three guys in less than a minute wasn’t too shabby, I supposed. Not as clinical as I would have liked perhaps, but not bad. I wasn’t getting any younger, after all.
I turned to the scared young woman and smiled, trying to put her at ease.
“You want to go get some coffee?” I asked her, as if I’d just been strolling the grounds rather than fighting three heavyweight goons.
I waited for her reply with bated breath, but finally relaxed as she smiled back. “Sure,” she said. “I’ve got coffee at my place.”
My smile widened. “Well,” I said, knowing exactly what she was really offering, “let’s go drink it.”
I looked at the office block for a while – seven levels of brick-walled rental units stacked above a glass-fronted restaurant at street level – and finally decided it was safe to approach.
I’d seen the advert in the classifieds of the local rag that very morning, when the girl – whose name was Tanya – had finally taken me for coffee, after a night of fun at her apartment. The café where we’d had that first coffee was also where we’d said our farewells. She had wanted to meet up again, but that wasn’t how I lived my life; I never stayed in one place too long, and had no burning desire to cement new relationships. I guess I’m just not the settling down kind.
I’d watched her leave, sorry to see her go – she was a professional masseuse and had done quite a job on me the night before – but knowing it was the right thing to do; for me, anyway. I’d then ordered another coffee and reached for the classifieds in the local newspaper. It was one of the ways people could contact me, and I’d wondered if there would be any jobs coming my way.
It wasn’t that I needed the money; it was the rush I was missing, the sense of purpose that a job – a mission – gave me. It had been a couple of months since I’d had something I could really get my teeth into, and the results of my inactivity were starting to show; I should have wiped out those three guys inside of ten seconds, forget sixty.
I’d seen the advert pretty quickly – THOUSAND DOLLAR MAN! it had read, as they so often did, help needed urgently, please call for further details. A number had followed, and I’d found a payphone, popped in my change, and had been put through to a lady who sounded to be in her middle years, her voice kindly but suspicious. It hadn’t surprised me – anyone who placed such an advert was often a target of prank calls, and she’d probably assumed that this would be just one more.
To be fair, I was just as cagey as her – such adverts were often amateurish attempts to draw me out into the open. Sometimes it was people I’d wronged, other times it was reporters trying to expose me, but I was always a little cautious during these initial contacts.
A bit of checking on the details she’d given me had put my mind at rest though, at least to a certain extent. Her name was Kathryn Powell, and she was the director of a group called the California Prison Human Rights Alliance, based out in Oakland. A couple of calls to buddies of mine verified her identity, and the bona fides of her organization – a civil liberties group which fought for prisoners’ rights. More space, less time in solitary, better conditions, that sort of thing.
Powell had been vague on the phone, but her interest in hiring me was clearly related to her work.
But what the hell would the California Prison Human Rights Alliance want with me? I wasn’t terribly well known for my liberal attitudes, after all. When it came to criminal justice, my views were slightly further to the right of Genghis Khan.
But what the hell? If you don’t ask, you don’t know.
And with that final thought, I walked toward the lobby door that sat next to the glass-fronted restaurant and rang the bell.
“Weren’t we supposed to meet downstairs?” the woman said to me with a raised eyebrow. “In an hour?”
Kathryn Powell was right, of course. Even though I was now in her private office, the original arrangement had been for us to meet at the bar of the restaurant below, sixty minutes from now. But I’m not a fan of sticking to the schedule; in my line of work, that could prove fatal.
To that end, the bell I’d called downstairs was actually for the offices of Wild Affairs magazine, on the fourth floor; and once I’d sweet-talked my way inside the building, I’d made my way up to the fifth – where the CPHRA was based – with
nobody the wiser.
The outer offices were bland and unimaginative, and it was clear that this place was run from the heart – there were no luxury executive offices here, only metal tables and folding chairs, a couple of computers and a lot of goodwill. Powell’s own office, which I was shown to by one of the volunteers who’d been stuffing envelopes when I’d arrived, was no different. The computer was perhaps a little newer, but not much else.
And – more importantly – there was nothing here that set off my danger radar.
“Sorry,” I said to the woman. “My memory’s not so good, I guess.”
She looked at me with curiosity, then tried a smile. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m glad you came, anyway. I wasn’t sure you would.”
I shrugged. “So what’s the job?”
“Are you familiar with San Quentin State Prison?” she asked, gesturing for me to sit down opposite her.
“Familiar, as in have I heard of it? Or as in, have I even been a ‘guest’ there?”
“Either.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Okay, well let me fill you in on a few extra details. It’s the oldest prison in California, built in 1852. Now big enough to house three thousand and eighty-two inmates, but it’s actually running at three thousand, eight hundred and forty-nine, one hundred and twenty-five percent of capacity. Conditions are about as bad as you would expect.”
“But that’s not why I’m here.”
“No, it’s not.” She sat back in her chair and placed a manila folder on the desk between us.
I peered at the front cover, saw a black and white photo clipped to the top. A young Caucasian guy, looked like – late teens, maybe early twenties. I decided not to touch the folder until I knew what this was all about.
“There some sort of problem with this guy?”
THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BREAKOUT: Colt Ryder Uncovers A Deadly Fight Club At San Quentin State Prison . . . Will He Escape With His Life? Page 1