by William Oday
What could he do?
He was head of the Secret Service, not a mastermind criminal defense attorney. He worked for the guy that condemned them to death.
Another big wave slammed into the side of the boat. He winced as the shackles bit into his wrists and ankles anchoring him to his seat.
He deserved the pain. That and worse.
And he was going to get it.
But Theresa was going to get it, too. And she didn’t deserve it. He had to save her. Make a move before it was too late, if it wasn’t already.
Alcatraz loomed large as the boat slowed and drifted toward a dock that extended out into the water. A long rectangle building perched above everything else at the center of the island.
Alcatraz.
Where only the most dangerous criminals were sent at some point in history. It had operated as a museum for tourists back before the outbreak. And now it had returned to its roots.
But why were he and Theresa the reason for its reopening?
It was ridiculous. He would’ve laughed if not for the specter of certain death that came with tomorrow’s rising sun.
One guard got him ready to disembark while another stood nearby as back up. They each carried a gun holstered on their belt, a baton attached to the same, and a hard scowl that invited Elio to make trouble.
He knew the type. These guys wore a badge, but they were no different than the guys in the Venice Ten. They longed for him to give them a reason to do violence.
Getting his ass kicked would’ve been cathartic. Like he was getting what he deserved.
But it wouldn’t have done shit to help Theresa.
So, he followed instructions as they were marched off the boat and across the dock.
Elio glanced up at the squat buildings higher on the island. They all looked old and forgotten. He didn’t know if two months of neglect did it, or if it was always that way so tourists could feel how it used to be for prisoners.
Whichever it was, it worked.
The drab buildings suffocated hope. They made bleak resignation the only sane option.
A sign above what looked like the old ticket counter said United States Penitentiary. Above that, Indians Welcome was spray painted in red.
One of the guard’s jerked his arm forward. “Walk.”
He hadn’t realized he’d stopped.
They ascended a series of steps passing by signs that designated where tourists could find the book store or get first aid. Up a switchback ramp and they arrived at the main building.
The jail house.
On The Rock.
If only Elvis had seen this. He would’ve written a completely different song.
Elio’s mother would’ve loved the song either way. When they escaped from Los Angeles, she’d insisted on bringing a picture of Elvis along with a greatest hits album. She had yet to find a record player to play it, but that didn’t stop her from singing his songs all the time.
All the time.
Elio didn’t like Elvis, but he knew the words to almost every one of his songs by heart. He frowned as another thousand pounds of guilt settled onto his shoulders.
His mother would be devastated. Destroyed.
He didn’t mean to turn out to be such a loser in life. After he’d escaped the trap of becoming a gang member, he thought life might be getting better.
Then the outbreak happened.
But he and his mother had survived. And again, it looked like life might get better. He should’ve known.
The guard guiding Elio jerked him to a halt in front of a pair of green metal doors. They looked like the exterior doors found at every high school in Los Angeles. Stenciled above the door said Administration Building. Above that was a bald eagle perched on a shield painted like the American flag.
At least they weren’t taking them to the jail cells.
Another guard sorted through an endless ring of large keys and finally managed to find the right one. He unlocked the doors and pulled one open.
“Put them in the hole.”
Life was not better.
It was almost over.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The guards led them through a series of offices. Up another short flight of stairs and they entered a cavernous room. A fetid, dank odor permeated the air. A rot so thick it coated Elio’s mouth with the first breath. The few lights that worked cast a forlorn sort of twilight on the scene.
And the depressing scene didn’t need the help.
This was the main cell house.
The place Elvis had clearly never visited or the song his mother loved so much wouldn’t have been so upbeat.
It would’ve been a mournful dirge.
One only a hopeless suicide would play, right before he slit his wrists and welcomed the arrival of cold oblivion.
The guard escorting Elio shoved him in the back making him stagger forward. “Don’t be so gloomy. You only have to stay for one night.” He and the other guards laughed at the hilarious joke.
The joke that implied how funny it was that he and Theresa would be executed tomorrow morning.
Fucking assholes.
Elio almost said it out loud, but a thin thread of self-preservation kept his mouth shut. On the one hand, he had nothing to lose with death knocking at the door. On the other hand, there were worse things than death.
The guards marched them down a narrow corridor that a painted sign named Park Avenue. This wasn’t like any Park Avenue he’d ever heard of. Two stories of jail cells lined the right side. Thick metal bars stretched into the distance. It looked like library shelves stacked with books. Brown rust mingled with peeling paint. Flecks of green on the concrete floor added to the overall sense of decay.
Each cell was no more than five feet across and double that deep. A small toilet and sink were affixed to the back wall. A pair of empty shelves hung on the wall above. A metal bunk swallowed up half the available floor space.
They were cages.
Small cages.
Tiny cages considering people had spent years of their lives inside them.
The guard escorting Elio chuckled. “Keep dreaming, kid. These are the honeymoon suites.”
They continued on until they arrived at the end of the corridor and turned left, into another area with D BLOCK stenciled on the wall.
The illumination from the few working lights in the corridor faded the deeper they went. They turned left again and now walked past cells on the left side.
There were no lights back here.
Elio glanced up at the ceiling.
Not just not working ones either. There weren’t any at all.
The guards clicked on flashlights as the darkness deepened. They arrived at the end of the corridor and one of the guards pulled open a solid metal door. This cell was not secured by bars that let air and light pass through. He shined a light inside to reveal the interior.
There was no bed.
No sink.
No toilet.
No shelves.
No nothing but a small round hole in the floor.
The guard at Elio’s side laughed. “Welcome to the Hilton. I hope you have a nice, if brief, stay.” He shoved a hand into Elio’s back and sent him stumbling forward.
The shackles around his ankles prevented him from taking a big enough step to keep his balance so he fell down on the cold, concrete floor. Agony jolted through his knees and elbows as they took the brunt of the fall. He rolled to his side gritting his teeth through the pain.
Theresa screamed and all the flashlights turned to her. The glow of the lights painted her face a ghostly white.
“Quiet down, little lady,” one of the guards said.
The one standing next to her put an arm around her waist. “Hey boss, what say we have a little fun with this one?”
Elio was on his feet and diving at the man before anyone saw it coming. He lowered his shoulder and hit the bastard in the gut.
They both went down hard with Elio on top.
One of the guards pinning Elio to the wall laughed. “He messed you up pretty good, Joe.”
“Fuck you, Oswald!” Blood flew from his lips as he screamed.
Their boss stepped in front of the injured guard before the altercation turned violent. “Pipe down, shitbags! Joe, you fucking degenerate, we’re not touching the girl. However, I’d say you owe this kid a little something special.”
Joe’s eyes shined as he wiped at the blood pouring down his face. He flew at Elio in a rage.
And Elio had no way to defend himself.
After what turned into a blur of beating and blood, the boss stepped in. “Okay. Okay. We can’t kill him. That’s for the president to do tomorrow morning.”
Joe punched Elio in the gut one more time before stepping back. He bent over holding his knees trying to catch his breath.
Elio couldn’t catch a breath because blood clogged his nose and mouth.
The guards released him and he slumped to the floor in a heap.
Theresa shuffled to his side and knelt beside him. She pulled him into her lap, cradling his head, crying tears that mixed with his blood.
The boss stepped forward shining a light on them. He grinned. “See you in the morning.” He backed out of the cell. “Lock it down!”
The metal door creaked shut and closed with a hollow thud. The locks thunked into place. The muffled voices of the guards outside were no louder than whispers.
The only sounds were Theresa’s stuttered breaths and bubbling pops as Elio forced air through the blood clogging his throat.
He coughed and spat to clear it out.
“I’m sorry, Theresa. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t say that.”
Their words echoed into the black.
“I have to. I may not get another chance.”
“Don’t say that, Elio. Just don’t!”
The rising edge of panic in her voice sliced like a dagger into his gut. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.
“I wish Cesar had killed me. I’ve been nothing but trouble for you.”
She hugged him in her arms. “I’d rather die than be without you. Don’t you understand that?”
He did.
He did with all the aching sadness in his heart.
In the void, her trembling fingers found his cheek. Her soft lips found his battered ones. The warmth of her breath slipped into his lungs dulling the pain in his chest. Her other hand found his and their fingers intertwined. The heat in her palm soaked into his.
Their lips parted, but only a fraction.
“I love you, Elio. I wish we could’ve had more time.”
“I love you, too, Theresa. More than anything else in the world.”
And in the dark chill of their final hours, Elio’s heart burned with love while his gut twisted with guilt.
He had to save her.
But how?
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
MASON clenched and relaxed his fist as he waited outside the Oval Office for the president to return. His phone rang and he dug it out of his coat pocket. He knew who was calling before the screen confirmed it.
“Have you spoke with him yet?”
“No. He hasn’t been back all morning.”
“Where the hell is he? He’s going to kill our daughter and Elio in less than twenty-four hours!”
“Beth, I told you. I’ll take care of it.”
Easier said than done.
“You have to, Mason. You have to.”
“I will.”
The president’s voice echoed down the long hall. Other voices accompanied him. One that made Mason want to punch a hole in the wall. Police Chief Fowler.
“Beth, the president is back. I’ll call—”
“No! I want to hear what is said!”
“Beth, this conversation is going to be hard—”
“We’re talking about my baby’s life! Do not hang up on me!”
Mason gritted his teeth. What she was asking was tantamount to spying on the president. It wasn’t just unreasonable. It was insane.
But his daughter’s life in the balance was no less crazy either.
“Fine. You can listen only. Mute your phone.”
She didn’t reply, but the ambient noise on her side went silent.
Mason slipped the phone into his coat pocket as the group approached.
The president and Fowler were accompanied by four officers in full riot gear wearing pistols slung low off their hips. The group stopped in front of Mason, notably, with two officers in front between he and the president.
“Mason, the Chief and I wanted to speak with you,” the president said.
“Likewise, Sir,” Mason replied.
The president stepped toward his office and an officer opened the door for him.
Which was strange.
That was usually a common courtesy that Mason or one of the other agents on duty performed. It was a small thing.
But small things were sometimes signs of bigger things.
The president entered and the officers filed in behind. Mason entered last and shut the door.
“Take a seat, Mason,” the president said as he rounded his desk.
“Thank you, Sir,” Mason said as he sat down. He consciously chose to sit. He wanted to keep this from becoming adversarial if at all possible.
His mind felt like the ribbon hanging off the middle of a rope in a massive tug of war. One side wanted to go ballistic about the accusation against his daughter and Elio. They weren’t killers.
He knew killers.
This office contained seven of them right this second.
But his daughter and Elio?
No.
Becoming a killer was something that didn’t come naturally to most people, himself included. He’d slipped into its skin to save his men. But the choice had changed him. Not so much that the old parts of him were lost forever, but close. Beth hadn’t let those parts die even when Mason had believed they were long gone.
He knew killers because he was one himself. Theresa and Elio were not.
And so one side of his mind railed against the insanity of the situation.
Yet, the other half acknowledged the profound obligation to his job, his country, his president. He hadn’t accepted the position lightly. His duty was to protect the life of whoever held the highest office in the land. No matter what happened.
The United States of America tiptoed on the edge of oblivion, and he was determined not to let it fall on his watch. Not if he could help it.
He would sacrifice himself to see it continue. That was part of the pledge to protect the president. Cruz was the man burdened with saving the world. And he deserved all the support every citizen could offer.
But this was wrong.
One man couldn’t decide the fate of two people on a whim. No trial. No due process. Tried, convicted, and sentenced in one day by one man. It was wrong and Mason wasn’t going to let it happen.
Before he could begin, the president jumped in. “Mason, we both know what’s on your mind.” He shook his head. “And I have to tell you. My hands are tied.”
Mason gripped the arms of the chair to keep his hands occupied. “Sir, there has been some kind of mistake. I know my daughter and this boy. They are not murderers.”
“Do you mean the same boy that delivered a bomb that killed the Vice-President? The same boy that somehow escaped a monastery in the north and returned to the city only to kill again?”
Mason bit his tongue.
“Here are the facts. Your daughter and Elio broke the law by going out after curfew and also by illegally assembling in the middle of the night. The meeting was attended by subversive individuals known to be seeking the destruction of o
ur country. Tell me, what were they doing at that meeting?”
Mason didn’t have a good answer.
“We have sworn testimony that Elio and Theresa attacked a police officer as he was trying to apprehend them. In the subsequent struggle, they shoved him off the roof of a building. He fell four stories to his death. That man had a wife and two kids. She no longer has a husband and the children no longer have a father. What do I tell them if Elio and Theresa go free?”
The evidence didn’t look good.
But there had to be a mistake.
He knew the truth, even if he didn’t know the details.
“Please give me some time to figure it out. The sentence doesn’t need to happen tomorrow.”
It was weak. It didn’t get them off the hook. But if he could get some time to investigate, maybe he could discover new angles that might save their lives.
The president took his glasses off and placed them on the desk. He pinched the bridge of his thin nose. “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that.”
He could fucking do it. He was the damn president! If anyone could do it, he could!
“Why?”
Why was a better response.
“Justice must be served. The people demand justice, and I must give it to them. You saw them the other day. They were close to invading this building to get what they wanted.”
“Sir, I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But it’s not justice without being convicted by a jury of their peers.”
The president’s face grew red. His fist pounded on the desk. “Have you forgotten the current state of emergency? There are no juries! There are no trials! Not until we can guarantee the future of this country!”
The joints in Mason’s fingers creaked as he dug the tips into the chair’s padded armrests. He yelled a response before he could stop himself.
“I know how things stand! And I also know that being sentenced to death without a trial goes against the everything we are fighting so hard to preserve! You’re the president, Sir, not a king!”
The president’s eyes narrowed into slits. His lips pursed together. He leaned forward over the desk. “Don’t presume to tell me what I am!”
Something in Mason’s mind shattered. The restraint. The obligation to anything beyond his family.