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

by J. T. Brannan

  “He knows a lot of people,” Bush said, “and he knows how to grease the wheels.”

  “You mean, bribe people.”

  “Yeah, what else? He’s got a deal with the museum director here, got exclusive use of the building for the night – fighters and prison staff are coming in on choppers, spectators are coming in on the night-tour boats, booked them up especially.”

  “Must be hard getting people to watch,” I said, fishing for information; Bush seemed the type who wanted to talk.

  “Hard?” he asked in surprise. “You gotta be joking, people would kill to watch this shit, okay? We’ve got them lined up, had to turn most of them away for this.”

  “Aren’t you worried someone might talk?”

  Bush shook his head as the guards marched me down Broadway, a wide corridor that appeared to separate the cells of B Block and C Block. There were three tiers of cells, the top two levels overhanging those below with a narrow walkway. At the far end, in the distance, I could see a clock hanging over a metal doorway, the words Times Square written on a sign below.

  “No,” Bush answered. “That’s not gonna happen. We vet them all first of course, before we even approach them. And then when they come and watch, we take pictures of them, make notes of their bets, you know, that sort of thing. They’re as culpable as we are, they’re not gonna say a damn thing.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all tied up,” I said.

  “You got that right,” Bush said with a smile, stopping outside one of the cells, near the far end of the corridor. “This’ll do, fellas,” he told my armed escorts, and they brought me to a halt and reached for the gate of the cell we’d stopped at, pulling it open. “You’ll stay here for now,” Bush said. “But don’t worry – the fun will start soon enough.”

  “I can’t wait,” I said, knowing with a certain discomfort that a part of me actually meant it.

  As I lay back on the bed – I wasn’t sure if it was an original, or had just been brought in for our visit – I started to think about my plans.

  What was I hoping to achieve here?

  Point one was, as always, merely to survive. If one of the other fighters killed me, what use would I be then? There was also my value to Gordon to consider – if I won, he’d look after me; but if I lost . . . well, who knew?

  But I still had a mission to accomplish, although I’d already found out a great deal, probably more than enough to justify myself to Powell. I knew that Patrick Murphy hadn’t suffered a heart attack, that he’d been involved in an underground prison fight club, that he’d had his throat bitten out during a fight. I knew the name of the man who’d killed him – Deke Jasper – and had killed that man in turn myself. I also knew that the fight ring was organized at the highest levels, by Warden Nathaniel Gordon himself. I also had Bush’s details, alongside the names of the other guards involved, which I’d memorized from their nametags.

  In addition, I’d also discovered that other prisons were involved in this racket – from what I’d gathered, it looked like Pelican Bay, Folsom and Corcoran were all being represented here tonight, alongside San Quentin. I didn’t know if there were more, but it was always possible.

  I also had the names of many of the people who’d died during the organized fights, and whose deaths had then been blamed on the riot organized by Trent Michaels; organized by Michaels, but subsequently blamed on the Black Gorilla Family and La EME.

  It was enough to cause a real shit-storm, if word got out.

  The only trouble was, for word to get out, I’d have to get out.

  Back in San Quentin, that hadn’t seemed possible. It was a maximum-security facility for a reason. If it took the staff forty-five minutes to get in and out, what chance did I have?

  But here at Alcatraz . . .

  The funny thing was, one of the reasons this prison was so famous, was because nobody had ever escaped from it. But that was a long time ago, when everything was buttoned down tighter than a gnat’s ass. Now, however, the place was a museum. The guards had left, everything was open, and tour boats came and went on a regular basis.

  Yes, there were armed guards here that were imported from their home prisons, but I had to figure that they were as unfamiliar with the place as I was. And there were a hell of a lot less of them here than at San Quentin, that was for sure. Six had come on the chopper with me; if the figure was roughly the same for the other prisons represented here, then there might be somewhere between twenty and thirty guards on the island. It was still a lot, but it was more promising than I’d been used to for the past few weeks.

  There were still the geographical issues though – Alcatraz was an island, over a mile off the coastline. The waters were rough too, especially tonight, and potentially shark-infested.

  But then there were the boats, and maybe the helicopters too . . .

  For the time being, however, I had my hands cuffed, my legs chained, and I was in a locked cell with two armed guards right outside.

  Now wasn’t the time, but I would keep my eyes open, and look for my chance.

  Even though I was on a rock in the middle of San Francisco Bay, it might be the best chance I was ever going to get.

  Chapter Two

  The fights were held in the dining hall of the prison, a large room that Bush told me used to be called the Mess Hall.

  It was a big place, all concrete, the windows barred by thick metal, huge supporting columns running down the length of the hall. The central four pillars made a square, and the fighting area had been set up inside.

  On the outside, there were rows of seats, elevated to get a good view of what went on inside; as I walked down the channel between them, heading for the arena, I could see that the place was full, packed to the rafters. Who the hell were these people? Like at San Quentin, they seemed rich, urbane, well-connected. Roman senators, waiting to watch the gladiators fight to the death for their amusement and profit.

  I hated them.

  As we got closer to the center of the room, I saw that the square fighting area had been sectioned off by barbed wire, strung in multiple layers between the columns. Shit, I’d not been joking about the Romans – this was some brutal, medieval shit.

  There was no door to the barbed wire cage, just a small stepladder placed on one side – I’d have to climb it and jump over that damned wire to get in there.

  “Mitchel Delaney, champion of San Quentin State Prison!” Bush’s voice rang out, to the cheers of the crowd, and the guards moved forward and uncuffed my hands, unchained my legs.

  Momentarily, I considered attacking the guards and making a run for it, but I knew that I’d be cut down by the others before I’d made it halfway back to the cellblock.

  Instead, I raced up the stepladder and jumped straight over the wire, landing gracefully – but painfully, my ribs still not a hundred percent – on the concrete floor beyond.

  The crowd cheered, and I turned, raising my arms. Having them on my side, I figured, might help later on.

  The door to the cells opened again, and I saw another man being led down to the arena – black guy, fit and athletic, but not young either. His short hair was greying, and the corners of his eyes were wrinkled. He’d been around, and survived, which told me that he might be good.

  “Douglas Marks, champion of Folsom State Prison!” Bush’s voice rang out. “If you have any last-minute bets, place them now!”

  I watched as these bets were placed, the crowd buzzing, excited, loud with conversation, and then as Bush hushed the crowd as Marks approached the fence.

  “Delaney,” Bush shouted, “get back to the far side!”

  I didn’t move, wanting to attack Marks as soon as he leaped into the arena, but then the guards raised their rifles toward me and I did as Bush asked, retreating to the far side of the barbed-wire cage.

  Marks climbed the stepladder but didn’t jump straight over it like I’d done; instead, he placed his hands on that wire fence, the barbs cutting into his palms, his finge
rs, and he looked down at me with eyes that showed no pain, no emotion. Dead, like glass.

  Then he gripped it hard and vaulted over, landing easily just ten feet away from me.

  As his feet touched the concrete, our eyes met.

  And then we moved, charging hard toward one another, two irresistible forces about to meet.

  Chapter Three

  Marks swung high and I ducked low as we both reached the center of the cage simultaneously, and my arms cinched around his hips, shoulder hitting his hard gut.

  I felt him give slightly, but then he held firm and slammed his elbow into my back, narrowly missing my spine; I felt the elbow hit again, and then saw a knee coming up toward my face.

  I got my hands up to it, absorbing the blow, then reached between his legs and grabbed his balls, digging my fingertips in and pulling hard, twisting harder. He grunted in pain but kept his cool and hit me with a short hook that got me in the side of the head, heavy knuckles clipping my temple. I let go immediately and sagged to the floor, dazed and weakened.

  Marks reached down after me and hit me again, but I got a hand up and deflected the shot. I sensed he was overcommitted, and I instinctively grasped his arm, pulled my foot up into his stomach, and threw him in an arc over my head, using the same judo stomach throw I’d used back in Lafayette Park, what now seemed like a lifetime ago. Marks went flying over toward the barbed wire fence, and the crowd shouted its approval.

  I shook off the head injury and raced over to join him, getting there as he regained his feet and propelling him straight into the barbed wire. He got his hands up, but it wasn’t enough, and his face and chest hit the fence hard, the barbs digging in, cutting him open.

  The crowd cheered again, and once more, I wished it was one of them in here and not Marks. Maybe then, they’d understand, and keep their damn mouths shut.

  He pushed away with his hands, the barbs pulling out, opening up the skin of his face and chest, and blood pumped out over the wire, bright in the stark lights of the mess hall. I tried to push him back but he was too strong and he stamped down hard onto my shin, before swiping at my head with the back of his forearm. He made contact, but only partially; I’d seen it at the last moment, and moved my head slightly. But it was enough to lose my grip on him, and he jerked away from the fence, turning to face me, circling away and trying to occupy the central ground.

  Bleeding everywhere, he still looked calm, unruffled, as if he did this sort of thing every day, just for fun.

  Hell, maybe he did.

  He whipped a round-kick toward my leg, and I blocked it by raising my knee, taking it on my hardened shin. I threw a jab at his chin at the same time, and it made contact, but only just. It was enough to keep him at bay though, and I dropped my foot and powered through with a straight right palm-heel aimed at his face. He covered it with his forearm and I followed through with a hard slap with my left that hit him clean. He brought a knee up into my balls and I felt as if I’d swallowed them up in my throat; but I ignored the pain and – close-in now – I smashed the heel of my palm upward, crashing up underneath his jaw. I saw the eyes flash, but he didn’t go down, and my fingers snaked up into his eyes, digging in as I stepped in behind his leg, tripping him to the ground.

  He rolled out of the way as I stamped down toward his body, and I followed him as he rolled and stamped again, then again, finally catching him on the third go; but he’d let me do it, and I felt him grab my foot and pull hard, sending me off balance, crashing into the cage.

  The barbs raked down my arm and side, hooking into me and hurting like hell; and then Marks was by my side pushing my head into the fence with one hand while sending a blistering hook into my exposed ribs with the other.

  The shot hit the ribs that had been broken during the last tournament, and the pain that shot through my body was excruciating, doubling me over, the barbs pulling out on the other side and making the pain even worse.

  I felt Marks moving next to me, sensing the weakness in my ribs and knowing he had to hit them again, to capitalize on it; but as he threw another hook, I turned my body slightly, taking the blow slightly off to the side. It still hurt like hell, but Marks had committed to a powerful blow and his energy was still traveling forward; I moved in a tight arc now, pulling him back into the fence, kicking out at his shins at the same time. He bent and fell, and I rammed his face right into the fence, raking it down, shoving as hard as I possibly could. The wire scraped down his face and eventually caught on his forehead, hooking deep through the skin, into the bone itself, and – for a few vital moments at least – I knew he was stuck there.

  I slipped to one side and rammed a knee up hard into his body, ignoring the pain in my ribs; and then I banged a hook into his liver, doubling him up; he tried to pull away, but his head was caught tight on the wire and he just squirmed around helplessly. And then I pulled back and loaded up everything I had, unleashing the biggest right hand I’d ever thrown. It caught him flush on the temple, and I saw that it had worked, had knocked him out completely. His body gave out an instant later and – with his bloody forehead still attached to the barbed wire – he sagged but remained upright, as if he’d been stapled to the fence.

  The crowd went wild – the winning bettors cheering in joy, the losers shouting in disgust. But win or lose, the champagne flowed for all.

  “The winner,” Bush announced to the crowd, “from San Quentin . . . Mitchel Delaney!”

  The cheers increased in volume and I tried to raise my arms in victory, to get them on my side even more, knowing that their love, their support, might even help me get out of here at some stage during the night; but the pain in my re-broken ribs was so severe that I brought my arms back down instantly, trying not to wince, not to show the pain, careful not to give anything away to the crowd. The last thing I wanted was for someone to tell my next opponent about my weakness.

  I wondered how the hell I was going to get out of this pit, when Bush threw over the stepladder.

  I climbed it, the cheers of the crowd still ringing in my ears; but the pain in my side was so bad that I doubted whether I’d be able to jump over the fence and land safely.

  And so I followed Marks’s routine, placed my hands on the barbed wire and climbed over the damn thing; the pain in my palms nothing compared to that in my ribs.

  But as I got to the bottom, and saw Marks still hanging from the other side – face embedded, blood everywhere – I supposed things could have been a whole lot worse.

  And the good news was that there was only one more fight to go.

  Chapter Four

  I lay on my cot, listening to the muted roar of the crowd coming from the dining hall beyond as they cheered on the next fight. Pelican Bay versus Corcoran. I didn’t even bother wasting energy wondering who might win; it didn’t matter anyway. I’d fight whoever they put in front of me, and find a way to beat them.

  The crowd had cheered for me all the way back to my cell, and – though it wasn’t in my nature to bask in glory – this time, I’d played it for all it was worth. I’d still been under armed escort, but this time they didn’t cuff me back up before leading me away from the pit. Whether it was because they were beginning to trust me, or else the excitement of the crowd had made them forget to do their job right, I didn’t know; but it was a step in the right direction, and a plan was starting to form.

  It was risky, but – at this stage – I felt I had little choice left; anything I did now was going to be risky, and it was just a question of choosing the strategy that was least likely to fail.

  My side was in flames, the pain in my ribs burning me up, white-hot agony no matter how I positioned myself. It didn’t bode well for the final, but I told myself that my opponent would probably be pretty banged up too, would maybe have even worse injuries than I did.

  A doctor had come to patch me up in my cell, guards watching from behind their rifles at all times. He’d disinfected and cleaned up the mess from the barbed wire as best he could, altho
ugh my entire body was a maze of bloody wounds and he’d had his work cut out for him.

  He’d wanted to tape up my ribs, but I didn’t let him – we were fighting shirtless, and I didn’t want the next guy to see those ribs taped. If he did, it would tell him exactly where to throw his punches. And then I changed my mind, and asked him to tape up the opposite side of my body instead. Deception was, after all, the first rule of war.

  As I lay on my bed, I heard the roar of the crowd reach a fever pitch, and I knew one of the fighters was down and out. Maybe dead.

  Sure enough, a few minutes later I heard the metal door to the dining hall clank open, footsteps along the corridor almost drowned out by the cheers, and then heard a cell door open on the other block. The guy – whoever he was – was getting a rest before the main event. I hoped he needed patching up by the doctor too.

  The rest period would also give Bush and his cronies time to get in among the crowd to sort out those bets. Who would people be putting their money on now?

  None of the fighters ever saw one another before the bouts, and I knew it was intentional. Gordon wanted everything to come as a surprise to us. Made it more of a challenge, more of a spectacle.

  I didn’t know how long I had to wait, and so decided to do what I did best.

  I slept.

  The guards woke me before the dreams began, and I woke up instantly, clear-headed and refreshed.

  “How the fuck can you sleep at a time like this?” one of my guards asked. “Aren’t you worried?”

  I shrugged. “I’m tired,” I told him.

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Well, I hope that’s a good sign.”

  The guard laughed. “Well, I guess we’ll see, won’t we? Let’s go.”