Parker kept watch on the corridor as he put on the utility belt, collapsing the baton that he’d used to poleax the guards. He slipped one Beretta into the leg holster he’d appropriated and tucked the other into his pants at the small of his back. It made the already tight garment more uncomfortable to wear, but he wasn’t leaving the gun behind. His last action before leaving the cell was to cuff both guards behind their backs, and to lock the door behind him. He thought about gagging the two of them, but considering they were out cold and the only extra fabric he had on hand was covered in human excrement, he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. They’d be a while waking up, and he’d be gone by then—with any luck.
The corridor was quiet.
It felt weird to be out of the cell, and even weirder to be clothed. Parker had gotten used to nudity over the last few weeks, and the clothes restricting his movement with their tightness were distracting him now, when he needed to be most alert to the dangers that being loose in the prison presented. Parker repeated his mantra in his mind.
Focus.
Stay alive.
Find Sara.
Focus.
Stay alive.
Find Sara.
Soon, any concerns about his tight clothes melted away. The mission was to escape and find his daughter, and everything else was secondary.
Parker went right, out of habit. There was no visible difference to either end of the corridor, so it was as good a choice as any.
He walked briskly, but without undue haste, figuring that if there were cameras operational anywhere in the facility, he didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself before he got a chance to try to escape. More aware than he’d been in weeks, he took in every detail, expecting a guard to approach at any moment. The corridor was painted institutional green and it looked like it had seen better days. The damp rising through the concrete floor back in the cell had already told him that he was on the ground floor, suggesting he’d have a greater chance of making it out into the open.
The corridor ended on a steel-barred, prison-style gate that Parker could see would have been opened and shut electronically in the past. Now, though, since the EMP, the failsafe fallback of locks and keys would be in operation. Beyond the steel gate was a short corridor, this ending in another gate—a prison sally port. He took the bunch of keys from his belt and, after three tries, found the one that would open the gate, which slid aside easily. Parker closed it behind him.
As Parker moved toward the second gate in the port, he heard the mumbling of voices. It sounded like general conversation, nothing raised or excited. His attack on the guards hadn’t been noticed.
Yet.
Parker stepped toward the gate and slipped the correct key into the lock immediately. The mechanism didn’t turn. He tried two more keys. Nada.
Shit.
The guards coming into this area of the prison mustn’t have keys to get them out in the event of a prisoner takeover. Basic prison security. Parker mentally kicked himself for not thinking of this possibility already. And then glint of gold caught his eye and he almost laughed. In the corner next to the door was a small golden bell.
There’s low-tech, and there’s LOW-tech, he thought with some amusement. Okay, if this breakout is going ahead, it’s going to have to go ahead with a small bell being tinkled. Parker shrugged, picked up the bell, and shook it.
The voices stopped, and Parker heard a door just beyond his sight line opening into the corridor. A woman’s voice was saying: “About time, Carson, we thought you and your boyfriend were smooching in an empty cell!” Two male voices laughed at the bad joke. The female corrections officer approached, accompanied by the jangle of a much larger bunch of keys. Parker looked at the nametape on his shirt. He was Carson. The guard lying cuffed in a puddle of human waste was his “boyfriend,” apparently. What an exceptional bunch of professional corrections officers this facility employed. Reminded of his uniform’s tightness, he hunched into himself, standing against the wall; at least Carson had been about the right height.
The female guard hove into view, head down, still looking at the keys bunched in her chubby fingers. She was short and curly haired, in her mid- to late-fifties and running to fat, with a chest you could hide footballs in. She maneuvered the correct key into the lock and looked up.
Then, she froze, her eyes wider than windows.
Parker already had the Berretta pointed at the dead center of her forehead. His finger was on his lips, daring her to make a noise. Parker flicked his eyes to the key in her hand. The guard didn’t need to be told what to do. She turned the key in the lock and the gate slid across the opening. Keeping the gun leveled on the woman’s head, Parker motioned for her to enter the sally port. The voices in the room around the corner hadn’t changed in pitch or tone. Someone was bemoaning the fact that there were no longer any NHL games or TVs to show them on.
The woman stepped through and Parker grabbed her by the shirt front, bringing the butt of the Berretta down on her temple in a savage arc as he did. She sighed and collapsed onto him. Her weight was barely manageable as he lowered her gently to the floor and, hooking the new set of keys he’d gained to his belt, he bent to secure the guard with her own cuffs. For good measure, he tore one of her shirt sleeves off and tied it into a makeshift gag. Then he stepped into the corridor beyond the port, closing it behind him.
Parker’s view into the guardroom was partially obscured by the door, which was of similar construction to the one Parker had been living behind. Through the slice of air between the edge of the metal plated door and the frame into which it fitted, he could see a brightly lit room. Clipboards, rule sheets, and rosters were attached to the walls, a desk was butted below a window, and two guards sat shooting the breeze, one with his feet resting casually on a desk.
Parker stepped in, pulled the guard with his feet up backwards in the office chair, and dashed the back of his head against the concrete floor. Before the other guard could react, Parker had the gun trained on his face.
“Get up and cuff your sleeping friend’s hands behind his back.”
The guard was young, and already looked green with nausea. He did as he was told. When Parker was certain the guard on the floor was sufficiently immobilized, he read the young guard’s nametape. Phillips.
“What’s your first name, son?” Parker asked, noting the fear in the boy’s eyes. He was in his early twenties, he guessed, certainly no older than Sara. His sandy hair was thinning and there was a slick of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“K-K-Kenny,” the boy said.
“Well, Kenny, I’m sure you want to stay alive today; would I be correct?”
Kenny nodded.
Parker didn’t let his face register that he saw a dark patch spreading on the crotch of Kenny’s tan pants. “That’s good, son. Now, I want to get out of this place today, and you’re going to help me. Do you think you can do that?”
Kenny nodded again, anxiously. “I’ll help if I can.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Now. How many sally ports between here and the main gate?”
Kenny’s face crumpled with concentration. He was thinking as hard as he could, and Parker could tell that the gun pointing at the boy’s face wasn’t lubricating his thought processes any. He lowered the gun.
Kenny relaxed a little.
“There-there are four ports between here and the main entrance, sir.”
Parker held up the bunch of keys he’d taken from the woman. “How many of those ports will this set of keys get me through before the next set of gates won’t open?”
Kenny thought again. “Three, sir; you’ll have to be let out again once, at the last one, like Marcia let you out just now.”
“Okay, so if we work our way toward that fourth port, you’ll speak to the guards there and get them to let us out without any trouble, yes?”
Kenny nodded.
Parker stared hard into his eyes. “Because if you don’t, and you ale
rt the officers at the fourth port to my presence, you will be the first person I kill. I will end you like you never began. Is that clear?”
Kenny’s eyes were as big as hubcaps, his words garbled with fear. “Y-yes, sir. Understood. Copy that. Positively, ten-four.”
“Let’s go, buddy.”
As they moved toward the next port, along another quiet corridor, Parker thought back to the quick scan he’d made through the window in the guardroom that had looked outside. In truth, there hadn’t been a lot to see. Along one side had been the broad face of one wing of the correctional facility. Dotted along the entire two-story length of the building had been barred cell windows. Parker hadn’t been able to see into any of the cells to see if there were occupants.
Below the cell windows, he’d seen a windswept area of concrete leading out from the cell block to three rows of chain-link fencing. The fences were there to frustrate any approach toward the high prison wall beyond.
Parker hadn’t been able to see much past the wall other than the sky—which was deep blue, looking unbelievably fresh and enticing after his time in confinement. As a view, it had been glorious, but as a source of usable intelligence it was of limited value. All it told him was that he was in a purpose-built prison and getting out was going to be a bitch.
In front of him, Kenny was trembling as he walked, and the small droplets of urine that fell from his pants cuffs didn’t stop until they reached the next port. Parker cursed himself for not getting the boy to change his pants in the guardroom—all it would take was for one corrections officer with his eyes on straight to see that Kenny was a walking puddle of sweat and piss, and the game would be up.
The sally port came into view at the end of the corridor, and Parker realized asking about the ports wasn’t the only question he should have asked.
Beyond the port was a prison recreation area, with cells running down each side of a wide hallway. As a design, it made sense. Keep the prisoners as close to the recreation area as possible, and reduce the possibility of movement snafus or trouble. As far as facilitating Parker’s easy egress from the prison, though, it left a lot to be desired. The cell doors here, running down each side of the hall, were modern and didn’t show the signs of wear he was used to. This port appeared to transition between two phases of the prison’s development: the old and the new.
In the center of this now much wider corridor were two dilapidated table tennis tables, and beyond these a row of plastic chairs and tables were fixed to the floor. There were no prisoners in sight except for one. A thin black man in his sixties, with white hair and a creased face. He wore an orange jumpsuit and was mopping the floor from a plastic bucket similar to the one Parker had had in his cell.
“Who’s that?” Parker hissed to Kenny as they reached the gate.
“Gabe Henshaw. Trustee. He’s on janitor duty, sir.”
Parker worried at his temple with the back of his hand. “If we go back the way we came, is there another way out of the building?”
Kenny’s shoulders shook; he wasn’t happy about giving bad news to a man who had threatened to kill him. “No, sir, this is it.”
Parker cursed to himself, but his course was set.
“Okay, Kenny, I want you to open the port and walk through the rec hall on my right side, furthest away from the trustee. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. And if he does speak, you will acknowledge him in the normal way, but you will not engage in conversation.” Parker holstered his Berretta and nudged Kenny toward the gate. “I can kill you with one twist of your neck, boy, so don’t get brave just because I’ve put my gun away. Do we have an understanding?”
Kenny nodded and put the key into the first gate of the sally port, his hand trembling slightly. Henshaw kept swabbing the floor like a bored metronome. Soon Kenny was locking the gate behind them and moving toward the entrance to the recreational area.
Kenny reached for the lock with the key.
Parker put a hand on his arm to pause Kenny’s reach. He moved to the left side of the boy, ready to walk out.
“Okay,” said Parker. “Let’s do this.”
But as the key turned in the lock, the emergency prison klaxon began to wail, and all hell broke loose.
8
There was only one viable route Lieutenant Solon could have taken to hide himself so quickly. Across the highway from the Christian Center was a line of cross-gabled, small, ranch-style houses, set ten yards back from the blacktop. The front gardens had been abandoned. Grass was waist-high and what borders there’d once been had been overgrown with weeds. If Solon was anywhere, he was in or around one of those houses.
Ava followed Sara, motioning the rest of the cell to spread out and search the other houses for the officer. Once again, they’d naturally taken the lead—after the training they’d had, and the experience, this had become the fallback hierarchy for missions. Even the resistance members who had more experience with weapons didn’t, for the most part, have as much experience actually resisting the government as Sara and Ava had had at this point. And Ava knew their position was bolstered by the fact that they didn’t particularly want to be leaders—they weren’t in this for leadership or power, and everyone knew it.
But the whole game now was finding Solon and taking him off the board before he reached his command and control center in Terre Haute. If he did reach his command, or found a way to contact them, that would bring rolling Armageddon onto the ARM cell before they’d had the opportunity to attack the penitentiary.
Ava approached the nearest house and ducked below the window line. She watched as other cell members, both those in ACUs and those still in their civilian clothes, jogged between the houses. Some went between the properties to see if Solon had tried to get behind the buildings and run for the far treeline, across the grassland. Sara ducked down beside Ava and whispered, “Well, the most unlikely hiding place is probably the most obvious. I think he’s in here. You?”
Ava concurred as they edged toward the porch. There, she paused, listening intently, hoping to hear something from within the property. Nothing. If Solon was in there, he might already be in a defendable position. They got to the doorway, still crouching. Ava reached out and touched the door. It swung back smoothly on its hinges, already open. In the small section of hallway beyond it was a large selection of framed family photographs hanging on the wall. An ordinary family. Dad. Mom. Two kids, all curls and braces.
Normal? What’s normal anymore? Ava thought bitterly. The world was a shitshow and her best friend Finn was dead. This new “normal” was still taking some getting used to. She leaned further forward as, twenty yards from this dwelling, three cell members entered the neighbor’s property. Probably also home to the All-American Normal. Those days were long gone, though, and she wasn’t feeling nostalgic… she just felt sad. If six months ago you’d told Ava that she’d be slaughtering U.S. soldiers by slicing their carotid arteries as they walked into a goddamned church hall, she’d have laughed in your face. But Ava felt a long way from laughing right now.
She inched forward and pushed the door fully open. The hallway was empty, its wooden floor whorled with dust and blown leaves. But in the center of the once-shiny beechwood floorboards were three definite boot prints. The light wasn’t good enough to tell Ava whether they were fresh or the recent marks of someone gaining entry to the property, looking for food, supplies, or ammunition. Better to err on the side of caution. She pointed out the prints to Sara, who nodded and raised her MP7 to her shoulder. Ava brought her SIG Sauer up and cupped her free hand underneath her right. Still tense, Ava and Sara entered the building.
Out of the April sunlight, the house was cool and silent, and it smelled damp. The prints led toward a closed internal door. The hallway continued on past this door, and Ava could see the entrance into what she assumed was the kitchen. To her left were two other white painted wooden doors, both of them closed. Each
had a paper drawing attached to it. The first drawing was of a horse, made by a child’s hand—beneath the horse was one word, Jessica. The furthest door held a drawing of a hundred tiny multicolored balloons spelling out the name Corey.
Sara rolled to the wall by the door to which the boot prints led and aimed her MP7. Ava came to stand in front of the door and prepared to kick it in.
Sara held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
And— Jessica’s door clicked open behind them. Ava spun, ready to fire. Sara did spin and fire; a spray of bullets daggered up the wall and across the ceiling.
Sara had narrowly avoided killing the girl who now stood in the doorway only because Ava had had the presence of mind to shove the barrel of Sara’s MP7 up with her arm.
The girl, maybe ten-years-old and dressed in a pink T-shirt, black jeans, and yellow Adidas sneakers, had flinched into a ball, expecting to be peppered with steel-jacketed death.
Ava moved toward the girl, who matched the face on the photographs in the hall.
It was good fortune that she had moved, too, because as she stepped away from the door they’d been about to enter, three concussions tore fist-sized holes through the paintwork and embedded slugs in the wall and door opposite.
There was no time to think. Ava rushed for Jessica, bundling her back into the bedroom as Sara followed them, walking backwards, firing bursts of gunfire into the door and wall hiding Solon as she moved.
The bedroom was a typical ten-year-old girl’s bedroom, in pink shades and decorated with posters, horse books, Disney character figures, dolls, teddy bears, and a long-silent TV. The furniture was white with faux brass handles, all of it covered in princess and horse decals. It was a little girl’s dream. Ava picked up Jessica and dumped her on the floor between the bed and closet, as far from the door as possible and over to the side.
Dead Reckoning (911 Book 3) Page 7