THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BREAKOUT: Colt Ryder Uncovers A Deadly Fight Club At San Quentin State Prison . . . Will He Escape With His Life?

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THE THOUSAND DOLLAR BREAKOUT: Colt Ryder Uncovers A Deadly Fight Club At San Quentin State Prison . . . Will He Escape With His Life? Page 2

by J. T. Brannan


  “You could say that. He’s dead.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking the bait. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

  “Patrick Murphy,” Powell began, “age nineteen, just started a pro career in mixed martial arts before he got busted for drugs and sent to San Quentin. Real shame, he was a good kid by all accounts. Was found with steroids and a bit of grass, you know, nothing too heavy, definitely not a dealer, but the judge decided to make an example out of him, said professional athletes had to set a better example to the kids, right?”

  “Right,” I said, refraining from saying more. Everyone who’d ever been locked up was a “good kid” to somebody.

  “Anyway, he’d been inside for four months, he was behaving well, no problems or anything, then he suddenly drops dead of a heart attack.”

  “The drugs?” I asked.

  Powell shook her head. “Let me roll back a little here – we first got notified about Murphy’s death when the family became concerned over the matter. They tried to talk to lawyers, but they couldn’t afford to hire one and nobody was offering pro bono on this. Nobody was interested. But a friend of the family had heard of us, we’d helped out one of their relatives a couple of years ago, and Murphy’s mother came to see me.”

  “But a heart attack for a known drug user – especially steroids – doesn’t sound too unusual,” I said, confused. “I can understand that she was upset, but why did she think something was wrong with the story?”

  “Murphy had just had a medical for a fight before he got sent down, his heart was in tip-top condition.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She did, and we checked it out with the doctor, got the results and everything else. No problem with the heart, it was perfect. That’s not all, either.”

  “Go on.”

  “Prison officials identified the body so the family didn’t have to. Body was lying in a casket clothed in a suit by the time Murphy’s people got there. But word got back to them that a couple of other inmates saw the body in the infirmary and it was – to use the terminology we were given – ‘all busted up’.”

  “Busted up how? Like beaten? You think he was beaten to death?”

  Powell shrugged her shoulders. “We don’t know, but the prison authorities definitely dealt with the whole thing very quickly. When we contacted them, they wouldn’t let us see records, or anything else, no visits allowed.”

  “I assume you’ve probed into things anyway.”

  “Not as much as we would like. Problem is, the whole place is currently off-limits to visitors like us.”

  “Why?”

  “Big hoo-hah about Death Row. San Quentin has the biggest one in the state, over seven hundred people waiting to die on it. Governors have been trying on and off to get the whole thing shut down, and the place is undergoing some sort of in-depth assessment at the moment while decisions are being made.”

  “So, you can’t get inside?”

  “We can’t.”

  “But,” I said, thinking I’d got the measure of this woman, “you think I can?”

  “I’ve heard that – for a thousand dollars – you can get things done.”

  “Most things,” I said. “But getting into one of the most secure prisons in the country while it’s under lockdown?” I shrugged my big shoulders. “I’m the Thousand Dollar Man, not the Impossible Man.”

  “So you won’t help?”

  “I didn’t say that,” I stopped her. I hadn’t decided yet, but I was interested. “I need some more details though.” For some reason, I got the feeling that she hadn’t told me everything yet.

  Powell fixed me with her gaze. “A big place like that,” she began slowly, thoughtfully, “with some of the worst criminals in the state – hell, in the country – and violence inside is going to be pretty endemic, okay? Whether it’s their own fault, their parents’ fault, the fault of the government, whatever the case is, the fact is that violence is a way of life to many of the inmates. Gang tensions are always high. Add to that the overcrowding issues, and it’s a recipe for bad things to happen, right?”

  I nodded my head. “Right.”

  “Well, San Quentin has always had its problems, but they’ve been pretty much in line with other prisons of that size. Some years it’s doing worse, others it’s doing better, but not by much.”

  “And that’s changed in some way?”

  Powell nodded her head. “You could say that, yeah. In the past eighteen months, suicides have rocketed up by over seventy percent, killings by other inmates have nearly doubled, killings in ‘self-defense’ by the guards have done the same, and two inmates have ‘escaped’, and haven’t been heard of since.”

  “Percentages don’t mean a lot to me,” I said. “Give me numbers. How many people have died or gone missing?”

  “Twenty-four – and that’s fourteen more than in the previous period.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Not unheard of, no – sometimes riots spike the figures, it can happen – but in this case, there’s no single incident that can explain it. But more than that even, it’s the silence coming from the warden’s office, his inability to offer us a good explanation.”

  “And?” I probed.

  “And these things only started happening when San Quentin got this new warden.”

  “So you think something’s going on?”

  Powell nodded. “I do.”

  “And that it’s related to Murphy’s death?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I do.”

  “You think the new warden’s clearing house, is that it? Going wild in there, his own personal crackdown?”

  “It’s possible. Patrick Murphy’s family want answers, but we can’t help them. And now I want answers, and I hope you can help us. His death has opened a real can of worms, and I want to know what’s inside.”

  “Just find out, and report back?” I probed, and Powell held my gaze.

  “That all depends on what you find out,” she replied. “If it’s bad, and people’s lives are in danger, it might be better not to wait, but to . . . how do I put this? To see if you can stop it, somehow.”

  “Might be a tall order,” I said.

  “Might be,” she agreed.

  I shifted in my chair, mulling things over. “You have a plan for getting me in there?” I asked finally.

  “Will you help us?” she asked in return.

  “If you have the money,” I told her, the decision made, “I’ll help you.”

  She reached into her desk drawer and drew out an envelope full of cash, placed it onto the tabletop between us and pushed it over. “Thank you,” she said, holding my gaze, and I could see that she genuinely meant it. “And in answer to your question,” she continued with a smile, “yes. I do have a plan to get you inside.” The smile widened. “Only I’m not too sure you’re going to like it.”

  Part One

  Chapter One

  “Mr. Delaney,” I said, extending my hand to the man who sat handcuffed in front of me. “I’m Atticus Baker, your new attorney.”

  Powell had been right – I didn’t like her plan.

  One of the worst things about it was the suit and tie; I was a combats and t-shirt kind of guy, and I felt extremely ill at ease in such a get-up. But I knew it was essential to our little scheme, and so I just had to grin and bear it.

  Another reason was that it called for a convicted criminal to be freed – rescued, actually – and that caused some personal angst, even though Powell had reassured me that the man in question was wrongly convicted, one of the reasons that he had come to her attention in the first place. But then again, which member of the world’s prison population wasn’t wrongly convicted, at least in their own mind?

  On the other hand, the plan called for a rescue, and I decided to take Powell at her word, as it would at least enable me to feel a little better about it.

  Several days had gone by while Powell and I had worked out the details of our little opera
tion, while she selected the exact person we needed, and Kane and I had been staying in Powell’s spare room during that time – probably the longest we’d stayed in one place for as far back as I could remember. The apartment in West Oakland was nice and homely, and it was an interesting change of pace; and yet by the time we knew we were “on” for the job, I was keen to leave. I’d left a normal life behind me long ago, and I felt liked a caged animal, penned in, my energy coursing through me, begging me for release.

  And so while I still had my doubts about what we were doing, the sight of the prisoner in front of me still gave me a positive feeling, the symbol that a new mission was about to begin in earnest; the energy was about to be released.

  “Ain’t it a bit late for that?” Delaney said as the guard closed the door on us. “I’m movin’ on out to San Quentin today, unless you got some good news for me?”

  I was in an interview room at San Francisco County Jail, looking into what seemed to be a mirror. I had to smile – Powell had chosen well.

  “I might have,” I said, with the first trace of a smile playing on my lips, “I just might have.”

  “So what is it, man, what –”

  I held up my hand for silence; the room was empty except for me and Mitch Delaney – recently convicted for drugs offences and sentenced to San Quentin for eight years – but I knew we might be still being observed by anyone monitoring the CCTV camera that was housed high up in the corner of the small room.

  Instead of talking, I withdrew a piece of paper from the inside pocket of my jacket and slid it across the small trestle table to Delaney.

  I checked my watch, knew that Powell was on her way to the guard room; she’d said to give her three minutes to get things organized, and I took her at her word.

  I looked up, watched Delaney unfold the note and start reading, noted as his eyes went wide, then flashed up at me, disbelieving.

  I merely nodded my head, confirming what the note said.

  Mitch Delaney was never going to San Quentin.

  Because I was going to take his place.

  As Delaney read the note over and over, eyes flitting nervously around the room, not sure if he was being tested in some way, I checked my watch again. Still a minute to go – and then every second would count.

  The waiting was unfortunate, causing my mind to swim back into the past, where another man had pretended to be a lawyer, a nice clean suit and a phony ID being enough to fool the right people.

  We’d been operating from a base out in the western Iraqi desert, supporting a combined group of Delta Force, SEALs and CIA operators as part of Task Force 20. We’d brought a shit-load of prisoners back from a raid on a local Al-Qaeda stronghold, and were keeping them temporarily at the base for tactical interrogation. We never found out how, but word got around about it and, the next thing we knew, we had a whole squad of lawyers and human right activists bearing down on us, demanding their release, claiming the CIA was torturing them.

  One of the men – clean-shaven, hair slicked back, eyes calm behind rimless spectacles – was Mohammed Al-Bayati, supposedly a high-flying lawyer from Baghdad.

  Only he was really a soldier for Al-Qaeda, and had been since his teens; but in the onslaught of lawyers and activists, his real identity was missed, and he managed to pass through the first and second gates before his identity was finally challenged.

  But by then it was too late – he blew the suicide vest that rested unseen underneath his tailored suit, and killed the two Rangers who had stopped him, along with a nearby SEAL and three genuine lawyers.

  Tommy Greene and Trey Deakins had been the Rangers’ names, and they’d been friends of mine; but when I heard the blast and came running from my bunk, there was almost no way of me recognizing them. All that was left of my buddies were unidentifiable chunks of bloody meat, scattered around the camp entrance, mixed up with the body parts of the other victims. Limbs and eviscerated organs law strewn all around the area, and the groans and screams of more than a dozen others who had been injured made the whole scene appear like something straight out of Hell itself.

  For several minutes, before I was moved to the side by the taskforce medics, I wandered around that dusty, bloodstained courtyard, picking up bits and pieces of what had once been my friends.

  I must have been in a daze, the horror of the incident grotesque in its intensity; when I was pulled to one side, I was clutching a severed arm in my hands. It was taken off me and I sat down on a set of stone steps, head in my hands.

  I never did find out who that arm belonged to.

  The pager in my pocket bleeped, bringing me back to reality with a jolt.

  I knew what it meant. Powell had temporarily disabled the CCTV – or at least distracted whoever was monitoring it – and the game was on.

  Less than a minute later, the pager beeped again, warning me that the guards were watching us again – but we were already done.

  As soon as that first beep had sounded, I’d leaped forward, slashing through the bindings that held Delaney’s wrists with my concealed folding knife.

  This is a rescue, the note I’d given him had read. I am going to take your place. Do not ask why. Just do as I say. I will cut your cuffs, and then take my suit and shirt off. I will hand them to you and you will put them on, over your jumpsuit. You will then leave the jail as Atticus Baker, and I will stay here. Do not ask questions. Just act FAST.

  The suit was rigged as a single piece with a hidden zip so it could be easily slipped off, shirt and tie with it, and I had it off in less than three seconds, handing it over to the bewildered man in front of me. But to his credit, he swallowed his surprise and acted fast, just as the note said; he had the suit on in under ten seconds, and I used the time to pull the fake shoe covers off my white sneakers, slipping them quickly over Delaney’s feet. They wouldn’t pass close inspection, but to the casual observer, it appeared that he was now wearing a pair of polished Oxfords.

  I then handed over my hairpiece and eyeglasses, and as soon as he had them on, I was happy; as far as could be expected in thirty seconds, he looked as much of a lawyer as I had.

  I was glad to be rid of the wig – it was itchy as hell on my newly-shaved scalp.

  The temporary tattoos I’d had done over the past couple of days – specifically to match those of Delaney – were also itching, although that might have only been psychological. The guy who’d done them said they’d last a month, and should withstand the daily pitter-patter of prison showers. Should didn’t exactly fill me with confidence, but it would have to do.

  I had my orange jumpsuit on already, concealed underneath my suit, and while Delaney put on the wig and glasses, I pulled out a pair of cuffs from my briefcase and slipped them on.

  I moved toward the chair he’d been sitting in when I’d come into the room, and took his place, nodding at the briefcase as I went. He picked it up and looked at me, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” he said. “You’re me.”

  He got around to the lawyer’s side just as the pager beeped the second time, and I smiled. “Close enough,” I agreed, nodding my head.

  I just had to hope that close enough was good enough.

  I gestured to the door with my head, and Delaney got the hint and nodded. “That concludes our meeting then,” he announced in his best lawyer’s voice. “Thank you.”

  I noticed a section of the severed cuffs dangling loose out of his suit sleeve, and I rolled my eyes toward it. Without a word, he casually pushed it back up with his other hand, concealing it.

  And then he turned and knocked on the locked door, which was immediately opened by the police officer who’d been waiting outside.

  This was the first test, and I waited nervously; but the cop seemed to find nothing amiss whatsoever.

  “You know how to get out?” he asked Delaney. “Down the corridor and take a left.”

  “Thanks,” the escaping con said, and marched straight off to his freedom.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I he
ard the footsteps retreating down the corridor, although I soon wondered what I was so happy about.

  I was now the convicted felon, and the only reward I would receive for getting this far was a cozy little cell in one of the worst prisons in America.

  Chapter Two

  As I sat in the back of the prison transport, hands and feet chained together – and also chained to the guy next to me, and also chained to the seat frame – I couldn’t help but think how stupid I’d been.

  Who in their right mind would send themselves to prison?

  Especially one that was apparently more violent and dangerous than the rest, and getting worse?

  It wasn’t as if I had any recourse if things went wrong, either. Anyone else going undercover in a penitentiary – a cop, let’s say, or a government agent working for the FBI or the DEA – would be able to just call in to HQ if things went wrong, and get their ass pulled straight out of there.

  Who did I have as back-up? Kathryn Powell, and the California Prison Human Rights Alliance.

  Not exactly heavy duty.

  So, even if I did survive long enough to find out if there was something freaky going on, what then? I’d report my findings back to Powell – or even stop it myself, if I could – and then hope to hell she could get me out. If not, it would be a question of escaping, and I didn’t want to contemplate what my chances might be of accomplishing that.

  But I was a resourceful man, and I didn’t want to remain downbeat forever. Where there was a will, there was a way; and I had one hell of a lot of will, that was for damned sure.

  The guy on the bench next to me was straight out the ’hood, long and lanky with a single teardrop tattooed under his left eye. He was also the quiet type, which suited me just fine.

  The van had rounded up inmates from jails across the county, in order to drop us off to start our terms at San Quentin. San Francisco County Jail had been the last stop on the route, and the bus was already near full when I’d boarded with three other inmates. Now the armored vehicle was loaded with twenty-six unfortunate men – a mixed bag, all races and ages together, some of the most violent men in California, driven by a single guard.

 

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