The Widow's Strike: A Pike Logan Thriller

by Brad Taylor

  She caught a trace of her fear-soaked sweat rising from the gap in her shirt, wondering if Piggy could also sense the destruction about to come. She raised her hands in a fighting stance and looked him in the eye.

  Confused, Piggy said, “What are you doing? You want to go to prison with your friend?”

  She savored the anger flowing through her, a river of violence splashing inside of her looking for a way out. Drawing strength from it, she smiled and said, “Bring it on, you little toad.”

  He gave a guttural scream and charged, swinging both arms in a windmill of ineffective blows. She ducked under and out, grabbing his wrist as he went by and locking up his elbow. Using it like a pry bar, she levered him facedown onto the floor.

  He screamed again, threatening her with all manner of vile things.

  She said, “Turn your head. Look at me.”

  He rolled until he could see her, his left ear still on the floor.

  She said, “I wanted you to watch this.” And lashed out with her foot, catching his elbow against the joint and shattering it, like she was breaking a stick for firewood.

  This time the wail was short, as he passed out from the pain. The front door exploded inward, and she whirled against the new threat, seeing Decoy coming through instead.

  He took in the scene and said, “Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you alert me?”

  She said, “No need. He was no threat.”

  Decoy stared at her for a moment, then picked up her purse and handed it to her.

  “Told you that you were good at this shit.”

  16

  The Thai corrections officer repeated the question. “Why is the prisoner release request on a form from two years ago?”

  Outwardly, I showed nothing, but my mind was ricocheting around like a bullet, trying to find an answer that would preclude a phone call. Which, if what I was doing was for real, would have been exactly what I would want. “I have no idea. Why don’t you call the assholes that made it and let’s get this cleared up?”

  The officer muttered something in Thai. I didn’t catch it all, but it sounded like bitching about idiots at headquarters, and I felt an edge. Nung heard it too and walked right into the role, surprising me again.

  “Don’t complain about the bureau headquarters. You people out here always give us trouble. What difference does the form make? I’ve just driven for hours and it’s still an official request.”

  “Trouble? You idiots transfer prisoners every single day, and you can’t ever get it right. You set the protocol and then never follow it.”

  Nung acted like he was biting back a response, then said, “Just get the prisoner. I’ll talk with the people who made the mistake.”

  The one thing we had going for us was that the form was in his official system. It wasn’t like we’d brought it with us, some forged piece of paper he could question, and that seemed to turn the tide. That, and the fact that a prisoner breakout this elaborate was outside the scope of his imagination. He printed out the requisition, then pressed a button, getting us through gate one.

  “Follow me to control block four. But this prisoner is special and will need local release, regardless of your official requisition.”

  Piggy.

  I acted like he’d just given me a birthday present, smiling and moving into the prison. We went through the visitation area and entered the cell blocks proper, the stench hitting me immediately. A cloying odor of unwashed bodies and fetid water, it caught in the back of my throat like sour milk.

  The prison was a two-story U-shaped building with a courtyard in the middle. The open end of the U held a single building not connected to the other cell blocks and was the newly constructed maximum-security facility holding Knuckles. We had to pass through the courtyard to get to it, and had to get permission to even do that—our next hurdle.

  We reached control block four, which was nothing more than a cage housing a corrections officer who controlled the doorway access to the cells in this block, as well as the courtyard. The first officer told the man in the cage why we were there, handed him the release form, then turned and walked away. The man took one look at the name and brought out his cell phone, saying, “I’m sorry, but I have to get permission from the maximum-security area prior to letting you enter the courtyard.”

  I glanced at Nung, and he slid his hand into his pocket, turning on the cell jammer. I’d given it to him on the off chance they’d make me wait at the front entrance, only letting him proceed forward as an “official” prison representative. The jail was supposed to routinely leverage the encrypted Wi-Fi system for VOIP phone calls through the Symbol PDAs, but on our reconnaissance, we had found they didn’t really use it, preferring to simply dial a cell number. I needed to force this guy onto the backup of the VOIP.

  The guard turned away, the phone to his ear. He stood with his back to us for a few seconds, then pulled the phone away and stared at the screen. He muttered something, then opened a cabinet and pulled out a duplicate of the PDA Piggy carried.

  Here we go.

  I dearly wanted to call Retro using my covert radio, but camouflaging it with my cell phone would be a little weird, given that nobody else’s cell phone seemed to be working for some strange reason, and I couldn’t very well wander around simply talking to the air.

  I glanced at Nung and found him as impassive as ever. Even a little bored. Either he was a cold-blooded bastard, or he didn’t have the intelligence to realize the risks involved.

  The guard was now talking into the PDA, speaking in a whisper and glancing at us. I saw his eyes widen, and he hung up. He punched a button and said, “Follow the yellow line until you reach the next control, directly across the courtyard. The man who will release your prisoner will meet you there.”

  Perfect. On to gate three.

  We exited into the courtyard, the sun blinding but the heat mild compared to the humid air of Bangkok. Following the yellow ribbon of paint, I saw the segregation cells of the maximum-security facility. Brand-new, with the paint still fresh, it looked like a benign hospital wing.

  We marched up like we owned the place, playing the shell game again, with Piggy now “not here” but “understanding” our importance, with us saying we’d talked to him at control four and he’d open the door for us once we checked in. I prayed the new guard didn’t call control four, because the switcheroo was getting ridiculous.

  Two minutes of tension—or, in Nung’s world, two minutes of absolute boredom—as we went through the cell-denial/PDA dance again. Within minutes, Knuckles was brought to us, looking forty years older, with scabs dotting his body like a leper. The only indication he wasn’t an AIDS victim was the look in his eyes. They were bright blue and dancing. He rolled right into the charade, acting like he’d been waiting for the State guys since day one.

  We began following the yellow line back out, with me actually having to help Knuckles walk, the shackles on his legs scraping the concrete.

  Embarrassed, he said, “Sorry, man. Other than seeing you I’ve been crammed in that hole the entire time.”

  I patted his back, saying, “Cut the apologizes, you pussy. Give it to the Taskforce when I tell them how I had to carry you out of here.”

  He grinned and said, “Glad the Taskforce lives up to what they say.”

  The smile was grotesque, his missing teeth making him look like a meth addict, and I felt a spike of anger at how he’d been treated. Along with the Oversight Council’s bullshit tap dance on his fate.

  We entered the courtyard and shuffled as fast as Knuckles could manage, given his chains and health. As we walked on the little yellow ribbon the Thai prisoners in the courtyard only gave us a courtesy look, and I was beginning to pat myself on the back for my incredible knack for operations when Knuckles brought me back to reality.

  “Pike, that crew to the left works for Piggy. They’re the ones I fought. They’re looking hard at us for a reason.”

  I kept walking and saw four prisoners break fr
om the group and start keeping pace with us. The gate to the main prison building was still seventy meters away.

  “What’s their story?” I said. “Do we need to worry?”

  “Oh yeah. That old guy with the tats is the leader. He’s working with Piggy. He’ll know this is bullshit without Piggy being here. Best case, he wants a last shot at me. He won’t give a shit about a fight. He’s had people beating my ass every night, and he’s going to want a final beat-down.”

  The group of four changed direction and began moving toward us.

  I said, “Keep cool. I’m a State Department guy. A US official. They won’t do anything here.”

  Knuckles said, “You think they know that because you’re wearing a suit? They’ve probably never even heard of the State Department. Either way, they don’t give a rat’s ass. I killed their boy, and they’re in prison. All that asshole wants is a final shot. You can’t hurt him.”

  I kept walking, seeing the gate getting closer.

  “What about the guards? What will they do?”

  “Nothing until the fight is over. Happens all the time. Pike, you’ve got to hammer them quick. Trust me, I know. You want some help from the guards, you have to show some strength.”

  I watched them advance, running through the options and finding nothing but land mines.

  “Damn it, we can’t do this. You don’t know what it took to get in here. If we raise a stink, we’re done.”

  Chains clanking, shuffling forward like something out of a Tolkien novel, he stated the obvious.

  “The stink’s already here. Get ready to fight.”

  17

  I saw the four break from a tight-knit walking group and spread into a fighting formation. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew Knuckles was right.

  “Nung, I should’ve asked, but can you fight?”

  He kept walking forward, as if he hadn’t heard. Bored out of his mind because he had snuck into a Thai prison to break out a farang and was now about to get his ass beat by a gang of Thai mafia. Probably going to infiltrate Iran as a male prostitute after this. I was beginning to wonder if he was crazy. Literally crazy, not crazy in a cool, badass way.

  “Nung?”

  For the first time, a grin slipped out, and he showed some emotion. “Yes, I can fight. Is that what you’d like? Remove them?”

  The men were about ten meters away, baring their teeth. For a split second, I thought about flinging out an ID, claiming State Department immunity or some other shit. Anything to stop the contest about to occur. Seeing their snarling visages, I knew it would be a waste of effort.

  “Oh yeah, that’s what I would like. You get the two on your left. I’ll take the two on the right. You sure you can do this? I don’t want someone jumping on my back.”

  The men closed within eight feet, and he skipped a little bit, a small Muay Thai dance, raising his fists head-high, saying, “Yes, I can do this. I was beginning to wonder why my father said this would be fun.”

  Father?

  With that, he hammered the first guy in the upper thigh with a kick, snapping his shin forward like a whip and bringing the prisoner to his knees like he’d cracked him with a tire iron. The man barely had time to wonder why he’d lost control of his leg when Nung wrapped his left hand into his hair and punched him straight above his nose, dropping him flat-out.

  I missed the rest as I focused on my own targets, both circling around to keep me off balance. I decided the State Department route wasn’t a bad idea, keeping Knuckles behind me in his chains.

  “Stop this! I work for the United States. Let us pass.”

  The men grinned, raising their fists. I flicked my eyes toward the wall, and sure enough, the guards ignored everything, simply looking on in interest like a gaggle of pedestrians watching a street fight in New York.

  I played the pussy card one more time. “Please, don’t hit me! Leave us alone!” I gave what I hoped was an expression of absolute fear, then waited for the strike, cowering.

  It came quickly, and the return was just as fast. The first guy, convinced he could get through me without issue and on to Knuckles, simply hooked a leg behind me and pushed, attempting to put me on the deck. Instead, I wrapped up his leg with my own, planted my feet for stability, and looped my arm around his neck, then gave him four straight punches to his face. He was combat ineffective after two.

  The tattooed leader clocked me on the side of the head with a wild punch, then leapt onto my back, his arms around my neck, starting to choke me. I jerked upright, preparing to jump straight back and land on him with my body weight, when the arms left my neck, then the body. I whirled around and found him sitting down, legs straight out, Knuckles behind him, twisting his head around like he was Linda Blair in The Exorcist, the man screaming in a high-pitched wail.

  I shouted, “Don’t!”

  Knuckles looked at me, a ragged bloodlust in his eyes.

  “Damn it! Don’t do it!”

  He kept the head twisted for a moment longer, his jaw clenched. He squinted at me, begging to kill the guy. My eyes bored back into him, an unspoken command to stop. We played the stare game for a second, me feeling the pressure of time and him feeling the need for revenge, then he switched positions, looping his arm around the leader’s neck and cutting off the blood-flow to his brain. A second or two of flailing, and the leader was out cold. I whirled to find Nung and saw him standing over two prostrate bodies. Now back into bored mode. He glanced my way, then glanced at the guards, an unspoken command telling me to get this show moving.

  They were finally starting to move our way, some jogging, most walking. We began shuffling as fast as we could on the thin yellow line, me shouting about the weak response from the guards, waving my black diplomatic passport in the air like I hoped a State Department guy would do. The guards acted confused, first attempting to stop us, then coalescing on the prostrate bodies.

  Nung began shouting something about going to the infirmary, and they let us pass, but I knew we were now on the clock, with a lockdown coming.

  We made it through control block four and into the prison, with me snarling at every guard I could see, whipping them verbally into letting us through. We shuffled past anyone giving us a question and reached the gate to exit the prison, then the alarm went off.

  Here we go.

  Immediately, the initial guard we’d met when we’d entered the prison went into battle-drill mode, shutting down all activities except for slapping on riot gear, a Pavlovian response that potentially could keep us inside forever. I could see our prison van outside, a mere forty feet away. Behind steel bars.

  I said, “Open the gate. We’re leaving now.”

  He ignored me. I glanced back down the hallway and saw official bodies pouring out, like an anthill had been kicked over.

  “Open the damn gate!”

  He shouted something, pointing toward a row of chairs, obviously wanting us to wait. Nung stepped forward and spoke softly in Thai. The guard asked him to repeat it, and Nung waved him over. When he reached the edge of the cage, Nung snapped his hand through the small window like a snake, clamping the man’s neck.

  Nung spoke slowly enough that I could understand. “This prison is run like a child’s school. We have appointments to meet. Justice to bring to the farang we’ve picked up. Open the gate.”

  The man’s eyes bulged, and he slapped the desk, desperately trying to hit the switch behind him. He found it, and we were out, moving straight to the prison van and Retro.

  18

  We made it out of the parking lot without any trouble, the officials focused on the inside of the prison. Thirty minutes later, we met our own vehicles for transfer to our aircraft. I saw Jennifer sitting in the passenger seat and winked at her.

  “Glad to see you made it out without having to use the hush puppy. Good job with the clone.”

  She smiled weakly but said nothing. I knew that look. She was embarrassed about something. “What happened? Did you have to trigg
er Decoy? I got my thirty minutes, so you can’t be worried about that.”

  Decoy turned from helping Knuckles. “Hell no she didn’t trigger me. Didn’t call at all. And yeah, you got your thirty minutes. Could have had twenty-four hours. Shit, a decade after what Jennifer did to him.”

  I started to ask for the story, then said, “Okay, later, at the hotwash. Right now, let’s get gone.”

  The transfer complete, I pulled Nung aside.

  “Hey, I don’t know what you do for a living, but I might be able to use you in the future. You’ve got some serious skills. Can I call you?”

  He smiled and said, “Yes. I can work again, if the price is right.”

  He wrote his number down on a scrap of paper, and out of curiosity, because I wasn’t paying him a damn thing for his help, I said, “How much did you make for this gig?”

  He said, “No money at all. I got my brother into school. A chance for a better life than I have.”

  He handed me the number, then turned without another word, got back into the prison van, and drove away.

  * * *

  The pilot said we were on final for Bangkok, and I waited until the wheels touched down before hitting the connect button for my “company” VPN on my laptop. I wanted to delay the SITREP to Kurt as long as possible.

  I had four different missed calls from him, each one purposely ignored, and I knew he was going to be hot. Especially if the calls were to give me a direct order to back off of Knuckles.

  I heard the computer going through its plethora of switches, getting rerouted about fifteen times before some algorithm decided it was safe for the computer on Kurt’s desk to start ringing. Anyone looking would think I was calling Charleston, South Carolina, instead of Washington, DC. I glanced back into the plane and saw everyone staring at me, wondering what was going to happen when Kurt found out what we’d been up to.

  He came on immediately, and, as expected, he was a little ticked off, but not nearly as much as I’d imagined. In fact, it almost seemed like he was putting on an act.