Breakout

by Don Pendleton

  Burning with curiosity, MacGuire started to ask a question, but stopped. She was physically free, but her mind was still in jail. After only a few weeks in lockup, a person soon learned to never speak unless absolutely necessary. Silence was a form of armor. It confined and protected at the same time.

  “Okay, here are some clothes, money, weapons and fake identification papers,” the lieutenant said, proffering an old suitcase. “Your new name is Mira Jones. Got that?”

  Wordlessly, MacGuire took the case, still barely able to believe what was happening. “Mira Jones,” she repeated woodenly. “So I’m free?”

  “Of course,” the lieutenant replied. He raised an arm to point toward the woods. “Now, follow the edge of the forest until you reach a creek. On the other side, you’ll find a car waiting for you. An old Dodge sedan. The key, insurance papers, title and such, are under the seat.”

  “What about a passport?”

  “Canadian. Inside the suitcase, ma’am.”

  Almost smiling, MacGuire tightened her grip. “Excellent!”

  “What about us?” a prisoner still chained in the van bellowed. “Set us free, too, or we’ll squeal to the cops the moment they get here!”

  “Idiot!” snarled the bald man, trying to reach across the van to throttle the other prisoner.

  “Best turn away, Ms. Jones. You won’t want to get any of the splatter in your hair,” a private said, swinging up the AK-47 assault rifle.

  In sudden understanding, MacGuire quickly turned away and four of the soldiers opened fire with their weapons. The combined roar of the assault rifles was almost overpowering, and MacGuire moved away as the other prisoners screamed then went terribly silent.

  “Well, that was pretty grisly,” a sergeant commented, closing the rear doors of the van.

  “Just part of the job,” another private replied in a bored tone, removing the curved magazine from his smoking weapon and inserting a fresh one.

  “Okay, clear the area,” the lieutenant commanded, pulling a cylindrical object from a pocket.

  All of the soldiers moved fast as he yanked out the safety ring, flipped off the arming lever and gently rolled the cylinder underneath the prison van.

  Running away, MacGuire was barely able to reach the trees before there came an oddly soft explosion, closely followed by a well of bright light and searing heat.

  Following the others, MacGuire zigzagged among the trees. Her mind was awhirl with emotions, ideas and fears. But mostly she was concerned with her own preservation. Every tree, every leaf and blade of grass was in sharp relief, crystal clear, as if she was looking at the world with new eyes. She knew it was just the adrenaline rush, but the effect was both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

  Slowing to catch her breath, MacGuire threw a fast glance over a shoulder to see the entire prison van engulfed in flames. Thick columns of black smoke rose off the tires as the sides of the armored van began to turn a bright cherry-red, then sag and melt.

  As a breeze blew smoke her way, MacGuire mentally commanded herself to only breathe through her mouth. But the impulse to take a sniff was impossible to resist and she gagged on the reek of hot metal, melting asphalt and burning tires, mixed with a sickly sweet smell of...roast pork? Her stomach lurched. That’s what cannibals said human flesh tasted like.

  Coming to a small clearing in the forest, the lieutenant called a halt and everybody paused to catch their breath.

  “Was that...really...necessary?” MacGuire asked, holding a stitch in her side.

  “The police won’t hunt for a dead woman,” the lieutenant said, brushing down his hair.

  “I suppose. But still...”

  “A pleasure doing business with you, Ms. Jones,” the lieutenant said curtly, and he started away with the rest of the National Guardsmen.

  A million questions flooded her mind and MacGuire took a hesitant step toward them. But then they were gone, vanished into the thick shadows under the dense pine trees.

  Standing alone, she listened to the crackle of the distant fire, wisely breathing through her mouth when the next breeze blew some of the foul smoke her way. Stiffly, MacGuire turned and headed for the creek and the old Dodge sedan. A new life awaited her in a foreign land very far away from here. Preferably one with a less stringent code on arson and more easily bribed judges....

  In the distance, a Black Hawk helicopter rose into the sky and angled away to head north.

  Bloomington, Indiana

  EVENING WAS STARTING to fall when Bolan gently braked the big BMW motorcycle to a stop.

  Turning off the softly humming engine, he slid on a pair of U.S. Army night-vision goggles and scanned the area to see if anybody had noticed his arrival. But there were no life signs or anomalous heat sources registering on the infrared goggles. There were only sagging ruins, windowless brick buildings crumbling back into the soil from which they’d originally risen and vacant lots choked with weeds.

  Climbing off, Bolan pushed the motorcycle into a pool of dark shadows behind a splintery billboard displaying an advertisement for a movie that had come out years earlier. The BMW bike was his preferred vehicle for a mission such as this. Instead of a chain, the motorcycle had a transmission like a car. This made it one of the quietest vehicles on Earth, perfect for covert reconnaissance.

  The sprawling industrial complex was a decaying junkyard of abandoned technology. Huge dark factories sat like menacing toads, the windows so filthy it was impossible for Bolan to tell if they were simply dirty or had been painted that color. Enclosed catwalks, electrical cables and heavy pipe extended between every building, merging them into a single homogenous machine now turned off and unwanted. The area was devoid of all living souls. The neighborhood was as deserted as the moon, with one remarkable exception.

  Standing like a precious jewel tucked neatly into a pile of fecal matter was the Belvedere Fertilizer Factory. A tall brick fence topped with coils of razor wire separated the buildings from the surrounding decay, the enclosed acres a sylvan glade of slashing fountains and ornamental bridges, as if this was a giant terrarium and not a workplace. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, there was no graffiti on any of the walls or buildings, and the main structure was made of chrome and glass, the manufacturing plants of glass and steel.

  A brace of guard kiosks blocked the front entrance, the uniformed men inside heavily armed with pistols and shotguns. However, none of them carried mace, batons or handcuffs, which was normal standard issue for any guard.

  Adjusting the focus on the goggles, Bolan grunted at that. Obviously the guards had orders to kill on sight and take no prisoners. That wasn’t really surprising as this was the main drug lab for Ziggy Nine’s criminal empire. It was easy to deduce how the plant remained untouched by the locals. Shoot a few in the face and the rest would stay far away. Brutal but efficient.

  Where the meth labs were hidden and how the drug was distributed across the nation was unknown. But that was not really on the soldier’s agenda this night. First and foremost, he wanted information about the prison break. However, if he got a chance to burn the labs...

  Recovering some of the spent shell casings from the machine pistols used at the bar, Bolan had driven swiftly to a nearby safe house set up by Brognola.

  Checking with ViCAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program—he’d found nothing on the group of men who’d killed Jimmy Winslow. There were no serial numbers on the shells they’d used. But then, Bolan would have been very surprised if there had been. Those men had clearly been professionals, and only amateurs and fools used store-bought ammunition for illegal activities.

  There had been no real reason to go after the hit team aside from revenge, and Bolan had bigger fish to fry at the moment. They had merely been street muscle, hired for a single job then cast aside. Even if he had managed to find them, the hit t
eam would have told Bolan nothing. He needed the man who had hired them.

  The ViCAP file on Ziggy Nine had been extensive. On his way to the top of the drug trade, the man had committed nearly every crime there was on the books. A check for his known associates had not produced any mention of a short man with a beard, so he was probably new to the organization.

  Unfortunately, Ziggy was extremely good at hiding his criminal activities. Material witnesses ready to testify against him vanished on a regular basis; once, an entire police station had burned down, all of the incriminating evidence against Ziggy destroyed in the blazing evidence room.

  Ziggy was the undisputed king of crystal meth in the Midwest, and yet the FBI had only gotten him on a minor charge of tax evasion. Same as they had the legendary crime boss Al Capone. However, Capone had died in prison, while Ziggy had been incarcerated for less than twenty-four hours before escaping. Very impressive. He’d clearly had everything prepared far in advance of his trial, and he did not give a damn about murdering police officers or civilians.

  Ziggy Nine had been on the edges of Bolan’s radar for a long time, but now the drug lord was dead center and the crosshairs were tightening into a sharp focus.

  For this mission, Bolan was wearing a formfitting combat blacksuit under his trench coat. His younger brother had once joked it looked like something that a superhero would wear, and Bolan had reluctantly agreed. However, it was purely functional and standard issue to both Army Rangers and Navy SEALs, some of the most grimly serious people in the world.

  Overtop of the blacksuit, Bolan wore Threat Level Four body armor with trauma pads underneath. Body armor would stop most small rounds, but the impact of the bullet could seriously bruise internal organs, leaving the wearer in terrible pain the next day and often with internal bleeding. Trauma pads could take care of that, although they did slightly hinder his movement.

  To make up for that, along with his usual Beretta and Desert Eagle, Bolan was also carrying a Neostead combat shotgun. Invented by the military police of South Africa, the oddball weapon had two magazines, each carrying four 12-gauge cartridges. The trick was that the operator could switch back and forth between the magazines with the flick of a switch. Bolan had one magazine loaded with stainless-steel fléchettes that could blow a gorilla into hamburger at sixty feet. The other carried non-lethal stun bags, just in case he encountered somebody he wanted to keep alive for questioning. Unlikely but possible.

  In addition, Bolan was carrying a backpack full of ordnance and assorted supplies. Just for a moment, he had a flashback to Basic Training, and running twenty miles through the obstacle course while carrying a full kit weighing eighty pounds. Ah, youth.

  Patiently sitting in the shadows, Bolan waited until the darkening purple of twilight became the deep black of night, and then he moved. Removing the ignition chip from the motorcycle, the soldier hid it inside a rusty coffee can on the ground, then started off through the dirty back alleys and weedy fields, slowly circling several blocks around the Belvedere building until coming back in from the opposite direction, far away from the guard kiosk.

  Sweeping the ground ahead with an EM scanner, Bolan easily avoided several proximity sensors and what appeared to be a couple of staggeringly illegal land mines. Ghosting closer to the brick wall, Bolan easily climbed over. Dropping to the other side, he landed in low crouch with the silenced Beretta ready. But there was, again, nobody in sight; he saw only parked cars.

  Easing forward, Bolan crept through a maze of flowering bushes and started around a small lake, only to stop and reverse his course to not disturb a sleeping mother goose and her brood of goslings. Incredible as it sounded, he knew for a fact that back in the Middle Ages geese, not dogs, had often been used as alarm systems for the rich nobles of England. They were easily startled and their squawks would all but wake the dead.

  Easing through a hedge maze surrounding a splashing fountain, Bolan went motionless as a couple of guards strolled into view. The uniformed men were relaxed, carrying M14 assault rifles in the crooks of their arms.

  “Ammonia, Jack?” one of the guards asked, arching an eyebrow.

  Jack nodded. “Ammonia.”

  “That’s how the Feds caught Harry?”

  “Hey, people sweat ammonia,” Jack stated. “Which is why the boss has our lab inside a fertilizer factory.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Look, Stretch. When you cook meth, a by-product is ammonia. And when you cook fertilizer...” He waited.

  “More ammonia?” Stretch asked.

  “Correct-a-mundo.”

  “Damn, that’s smart,” Stretch said in admiration.

  His companion shrugged. “That is why we work for him, and not the other way ’round.”

  As the guards disappeared around a turn in the maze, Bolan adjusted his goggles until their footprints in the soft ground were dimly visible. Following them backward, he soon reached the opening of the maze.

  Straight ahead was the main factory. Every floor was brightly illuminated with electric lights. Swarms of men and women wearing company jumpsuits were busy working forklifts, loading and unloading trucks of pallets of sealed plastic drums and pallets stacked with bags of fertilizer and weed killer. The atmosphere hummed with activity. A foreman walked by, checking a computerized clipboard, a janitor was mopping up a spilled coffee and several workers were tightly clustered inside a designated smoking room, the atmosphere an impenetrable fog.

  Moving behind a decorative bush, Bolan reached underneath his body armor, pulled out some loose cash and tucked it into his gun belt. Then, assuming a firing stance, he carefully aimed the Beretta, held his breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The silenced machine pistol fired, the discharge barely louder than a hard cough.

  Far inside the loading dock, a fire alarm shattered and there instantly came a clanging alarm. Pausing at their tasks, the workers glanced around in confusion, then quickly headed out of the factory.

  While the mob began spreading outward, Bolan chose a large man and tossed a fifty-dollar bill into the air. When it fluttered past, the big man jerked in surprise at the sight, then grabbed the bill and stuffed it inside his shirt. As he eagerly looked around, Bolan released a couple more bills.

  Trying to appear casual, the man strolled quickly toward the money, and as he stepped into the maze, Bolan jabbed him in the neck with a stun gun. Hissing in shock, the big man doubled over unconscious and Bolan dragged the fellow behind a turn to quickly strip off his jumpsuit. It was a tight fit over the blacksuit and body armor, even with all of his weapons stuffed into the backpack, and there was absolutely no room for the shotgun. But there was no time to try to find somebody more suitable, so Bolan stuffed the Neostead shotgun into a bush and boldly strolled out of the maze.

  Mixing into the muttering crowd of workers, Bolan kept his face turned away and edged closer to the factory. Reaching a side door, he stepped inside and locked the door behind him. As soon as somebody discovered the smashed fire alarm, security would start looking for him, so speed was his best defense now.

  Rearming himself, Bolan moved fast down the corridor until reaching a stairwell. Taking out the security camera with the Beretta, the soldier then primed a thermite grenade and rolled it back down the corridor toward the exit. The military canister almost reached the fire door when it burst apart, spewing its blazing white contents.

  As the allotropic blaze steadily increased in size until it filled the corridor, another fire alarm sounded and Bolan started up the stairs. With luck, that would buy him a few minutes. But anybody who had ever served in the military would recognize it as a thermite fire and not natural combustion. Now seconds counted.

  Reaching the top level, Bolan saw that the lock on the door was one of the best non-electronic versions in existence. It used a key shaped like the letter H, with hundreds of ridges and holes. It
was flat-out impossible to pick, and an explosion would only reveal his presence. If they didn’t already know that somebody was there.

  Feeling the pressure of time, Bolan slid off the backpack and pulled out an insulted bottle. Careful of his hands, he squirted the thick contents onto the lock, then kicked it. Crystallized by the stream of liquid nitrogen, the lock loudly shattered and tumbled away. The door swung open.

  Still carrying the empty bottle, Bolan proceeded through the frost-covered door and onto the roof. Tossing the useless bottle aside, the soldier closed the door and slapped a block of C-4 high explosive on the cold jamb to keep it in place.

  Just then a grunt from behind made Bolan spin with the Beretta leveled.

  “Stop right there, buddy!” a guard growled, still in the act of pulling a pistol from his belt holster.

  Firing twice, Bolan blew the weapon out of the other man’s grip. With a cry, the guard stumbled backward, holding on to his broken hand. Moving in close, Bolan jabbed him with the stun gun, then hid the body behind an air-conditioning duct. Normally, Bolan would have simply shot the man between the eyes, but there was no way of knowing which of these people knew they were working at the largest meth lab in the world and which thought it actually was a simple fertilizer factory. That made this a lot harder than a usual probe, but Bolan had long ago sworn to die himself rather than take an innocent life.

  Proceeding across the roof, Bolan saw a subtle movement in the darkness below a water tower and paused. Suddenly a bright cone of light appeared as a guard stepped into view. Trusting his instincts, Bolan fired and the guard cursed as the flashlight exploded in his grip. Then the guard unexpectedly swung away to move behind one of the wooden support legs of the tower.

  Aiming carefully, Bolan fired and a chunk of the wooden beam exploded into splinters near the guard’s leg. With an anguished cry, he stumbled back into sight, a hand clutching the prickly wound.

  “Please don’t kill me!” the guard begged, his other hand out of sight behind his back.