by David Perry
“This way,” Chrissie whispered.
She led him to a cluster of barrels stacked haphazardly in the corner near the locked door. Putting her hands on Michael’s shoulders, she pushed him behind the stack.
“Get down and stay down,” she whispered. “Find the key that unlocks that door.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to buy you some time.” Christine put an index finger to her lips.
Boyd nodded, dabbing a line of sweat on his forehead.
“What’s wrong, Quinton. Are you getting sick?”
“Maybe,” he lied. “Not feeling well.”
“Well why didn’t you stay home?” Santos demanded.
“Probably should have. But I’ll be okay.”
Boyd was not ill. He was nervous. Nervous about the ongoing clandestine operation at the New Jersey plant. An operation about which only he knew all the details. Angelo Sheppard was a pawn who had been strong-armed into helping build and secure the Vault. The three other men who were going to dispose of the driver of the truck were mercenaries being paid well for a one-time job.
No one knew the full extent of the operation. No one except Boyd. He had been in on the plan from the beginning, recruited and paid by Delilah Hussein’s organization to make sure the deadly contents currently en route were used according to her plan.
Boyd was the most unlikely jihadist on the planet. He did not look or act the part. An older Caucasian male with a lineage going back centuries, he was sympathetic to the cause of the Arab people and the discrimination and suffering they had endured for centuries.
Boyd cleared his throat. “We can produce a million doses for that one day. Not a problem. My only concern is that we won’t have enough remaining. If we sell a million doses on that one day, it could create a shortage for the rest of the season and we won’t have enough to make it through November.”
“How many doses will we need to manufacture for the entire season, then?” Santos asked.
“Counting the million for that one day,” Boyd replied, blowing out a long breath, “twice as many as last year. About six million. If we run the plant three shifts until August 1, we can make it.”
“And the cost, Anson?”
Wellington shifted in his seat. The chair creaked. “We anticipate a seven-percent increase in ingredient costs over last year. It will require an investment of one hundred and eighty mill. But will we be able to obtain enough in the appropriate ingredient volumes to meet production needs?”
“I’ve checked with our suppliers. They have the eggs and other ingredients in the pipeline already. I’ve placed a hold on it. They can ship as long as we provide a financial commitment within two weeks.”
“How much of a commitment?”
“Half.”
Santos whistled. “Ninety million?”
“We can do it,” Wellington stated. “We have $60 million in cash reserves. We can tap into our lines of credit for the remainder. But this had better work, Juan. If it doesn’t, we will be headed down a treacherous slope when it comes to the balance sheet.”
“I know the risks, Anson,” Santos replied. He looked at DeNiro. “Andy, can we get the product stocked in the pharmacies.”
“Most definitely, sir. Getting them into the drugstores will be easy. I have reached out to the CEOs of all the major chains. We’re offering them a thirty percent discount if they pre-book by June 30. They’ll bite on that offer.”
“What about our partnership for the one-day push?”
“I spoke with John Gibson, the CEO at Drug-Rite. They want to be the leader in administrations the day of the promotion. We have slotted them for one million doses. They can leverage down payment, a deposit of five million for the shipment before we begin their production run.”
“Good. What about advertising?”
“Our marketing department is developing a television and radio campaign now. We expect to have a plan on your desk by the end of next week. A print media campaign will hit the major magazines as well.”
“Cost?”
DeNiro was ready “Three million, tops.”
Santos nodded his approval. “Excellent. So what’s the bottom line on this program?”
“If we sell seventy percent of the doses,” Wellington chimed in, “we will see a net of $20 million. Breakeven is fifty-five percent of doses.”
“This is a bold plan, Juan,” Boyd observed. “It will be a major coup. If it works, Dawson will become the first name in this market segment. The Mercks, the Glaxos, and Pfizers will be wringing their hands.”
“You’re right, Quint. It is a bold plan. Andy, I want you to wait as long as possible before we launch the ad campaign. Then flood the market. I don’t want our competitors to have a chance to respond with their own versions of this event. And no discussions with anyone outside the executive team about the increase in production.” Santos drummed the menu lying on the table with his fingers.
“What’s wrong?” DeNiro asked.
“If it fails, the board will want my head on a platter. Can we sell it to them?”
Boyd responded, “I’ve already reached out to several members. They can be convinced. If we get Jones, Mitchem, and Newman on board, the rest will fall into place.”
“Okay,” Santos replied, “the board meets in two weeks. I want a presentation ready by Wednesday so we can go over it.”
For several long minutes, Christine stood in the doorless entryway connecting the filthy back room with the wine-cellar-cum-prison cell, summoning courage. Oliver’s attention was focused on the body and blood. He stood in profile under the harsh light of the naked bulb. Then he turned away from her.
Christine shuffled into view.
Oliver whipped around and faced her, his eyes wide with surprise at her appearance and battered face. Their intensity morphed into angry orbs. He stepped to within three feet of her.
Christine wanted to cower, but steeled herself.
“Where is the boy?”
Christine managed a shrug and an even weaker reply. “He’s gone.”
Oliver turned as if to look at the carnage. He uncoiled at the waist, slinging his long right arm in a tight, powerful arc. The back of his closed fist cracked on her cheek.
Christine’s head snapped to the side. A streak of white stars flashed in her vision. She stumbled and fell into the wall beside the entryway. A fresh dose of warm blood filled her mouth. She spit it onto the floor.
“Where is the boy?”
“I told you. He’s gone,” she replied without looking up.
“Bullshit!” Oliver walked to the body and kicked it. “How did you manage to kill Charles with your hands in chains? He was stabbed. Someone else did that.”
“I’m a very talented woman.”
Oliver moved toward her again, towering over her. She prepared for another blow.
He kicked her in the gut, expelling the air from her lungs. She gasped a silent scream. Finally managing to take a breath, a sharp, stabbing pain flowered in her rib cage.
Chrissie heard footsteps approach. Pierre stood near the base of the stair, his head wrapped in a dirty cloth angled over the damaged eye. Christine smiled as the horror of his dead comrade spread across his face.
Oliver gave him an order in French. Pierre hesitated.
“Maintenant!” Now!
Pierre sidled past Oliver and Christine, giving his commander a wide berth and entered the dark back room in which Michael was hiding. She heard him moving about. Barrels were tossed here and there as he searched. Christine lay on her back now. She could see a small portion of the back room and what Pierre was doing. It would only be a matter of minutes before Michael was discovered.
Soon they would both once more be chained on the walls. Under heavier guard, no doubt. Their escape attempt had failed. But they had inflicted serious damage. One was dead. The other seriously injured. More importantly, she knew with certainty that Oliver and Delilah Hussein were behind their abduc
tions.
How had she survived? Or was Oliver running the show now?
Christine moved her head to the side, looking after Pierre. Her eyes searched the stack of barrels, trying to make eye contact with Michael. She could not see him.
Pierre shuffled back into view. She expected to see Michael being dragged by the hair. Pierre’s eyes, filled with frustration and terror, portended a dark encounter with Oliver.
Christine smiled. He was alone.
Oliver listened as Pierre delivered the message in soft, hesitant French, trying to minimize the impact of the news.
Imbécile!” Oliver spat. “Stay here!” He stepped over Christine and moved into the back room.
Oliver scanned the filthy back room of the wine cellar himself, swinging the large mag-light back and forth. Idiots, he thought. He had personally vouched for Charlie. Now he was dead. After this was over, there would be hell to pay. Heads would roll. Literally! He hoped his wasn’t one of them.
Discarded wine barrels lay scattered about. Black mold dotted the walls, creating map-like continents along the painted white cinder blocks. He trekked around the perimeter checking behind every barrel. He kicked over every cask, spilling vinegary remnants along the dusty floor.
Five barrels stood near one corner of the room in a triangular formation. Oliver opened two of them, flashing the light inside. The third drum was heavy, sloshing with liquid. He tried to lift the lid off, but it was fastened tight.
Oliver placed his heavy boot against the top, knocking it on its side. The barrel oscillated back and forth along its convex exterior. A dark liquid oozed from small cracks between the slats, several gulps splashed onto his boots and pant legs.
Oliver knelt to examine it and was accosted by the unbearable stench of excrement and urine.
Merde!
This is where prisoners, past and present, had been allowed to relieve themselves.
Three minutes later, Oliver concluded his search. The boy, in fact, was gone.
Pierre and Oliver dragged Christine back to the wall. Oliver berated his injured sentinelle with each step. They chained her in a sitting position with her back to the wall, Charlie’s carcass only inches from her feet.
Oliver issued a final directive.
“She is not to be released or unchained for any reason. She can piss and shit herself where she sits. Charles nearly compromised this mission because he wanted some pussy. The boy was smarter than you. You better hope we find him.”
Pierre cowered. “What about the body?”
“Leave it where it is.” He turned to a third soldat standing nearby. “Get two more sentinelles to stand guard. Alert everyone. Find the boy!” He pointed to Pierre. “You… come with me.”
Christine suppressed another smile as she leaned against the wall with her arms splayed against the bricks like Christ on the cross. Tears welled in her eyes.
Amazing! Somehow he’d found a way to escape.
Chapter 42
At the same time, in western Virginia inside the Red Onion State Penitentiary, breakfast was two hours late. It normally arrived by 7:30 a.m. It was now twenty minutes after nine.
Five trays wheeled on a stainless-steel cart, each covered with a clear plastic cover and labeled one through five with a handwritten numeral on a white label affixed to the cover, were pushed through the security checkpoint by the female corrections officer.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said
Griffin leered at the same woman who’d escorted him to Deputy Warden Travis’s office twenty-four hours ago.
“Fuck off, asshole,” she whispered, smiling back.
He ogled her as she disappeared beyond the security checkpoint.
“Don’t go there, man,” one of the other guards guffawed. “She’s a man-eater.”
“We’ll see,” Griffin retorted. He paused, then said, “Why don’t you serve up breakfast.”
“No problem, man,” one of his new co-workers replied. The unit manager showed Griffin how to open the wicket in the steel door of empty cell number one. “Start with two and work your way around. The wickets are covered shelves. Open the cover, like this, insert the tray, then close and lock the lid so the inmate can retrieve it.”
“Thanks man, I got it from here.”
The six-celled unit held only five inmates. Cell number one, currently vacant, was awaiting the next violent high-value target. Griffin delivered breakfast to inmate two, a six-foot-seven black man with a torso that looked like the trunk of a redwood. Griffin closed up the opening and moved back to the cart, wheeling it to cell three. He removed Cyclops’ tray, placed it on the top of the cart, and pretended to inspect it by running his hand over it.
Griffin placed his hand in his pocket and removed something. Griffin rapped three times on the steel door. He then unlocked the wicket, opened the cover, placed the tray on the shelf, and reclosed the cover.
“You’re new. Where’s Baker?”
“That’s none of your business. And I’m not new. I’m thirty-nine years old. Now shut up and eat!”
Before Cyclops turned to take the tray to his bunk, Griffin tapped on the glass of the door then placed his palm flat on the glass.
He watched Cyclops’ eyes go wide at the sight of the marking on his hand.
Curled up and cramped in the dark, wet space, Michael had waited for what seemed like hours. Any move he made sloshed the liquid, making noise. He had remained motionless the whole time. But now his muscles were cramping, and he was becoming restless.
The stale air suffocated him. The pungent liquid soaking his feet and legs stank with the acrid sting of vinegar and the sickening odor of urine and feces. The old wine barrel had been used as a toilet. Michael had puffed his cheeks, trying to keep from vomiting in his first minutes inside by using slow, short breaths.
Michael had heard the first man enter. He’d tossed barrels about. When he got to Michael’s barrel, he tried to move it. Discouraged by its weight, he moved on. Then the second man approached and knocked the barrel on its side. It took every ounce of Michael’s strength to keep a seal on the lid and keep from rolling through the top. He pulled down tight against the rim. He closed his mouth and eyes and held his breath as the semi-solid mixture waved back and forth over him, covering him in filth.
Now he feared if he released the lid and showed himself, one of the goons would be standing there waiting for him. It was impossible to tell if he was alone. All he could hear now was the sound of his own breathing, the soft rustle of his flesh and clothing and the gentle lapping of the fetid liquid.
After Miss Christine had disappeared into the front room, Michael had left his position behind the barrels and moved to the door. His curiosity more powerful than fear, he had listened as the large man questioned Miss Christine.
Peeking through a gap in the wood, he’d watched in horror as he hit and kicked her. Christine did not give him the answer he wanted, namely where Michael was hiding. He cringed with each blow, fearing that she would rat him out. When she didn’t, he was oddly relieved.
She had protected him!
He had thought about jumping from the shadows and coming to her defense. But he was more valuable to both of them free. If they were both captured, they would not escape again.
He needed to find a better hiding spot. While the large man shouted at Pierre, Michael searched, desperately looking. As he looked around, he placed his hand on the top of one of the barrels. The lid moved. He pulled it open and his nose was met by the vulgar mixture.
Seeing no other choice, he climbed in.
The circular top had a rope handle in it. Once inside, he inverted it and pulled it over the opening. Holding his breath, he pulled down on the rope with all his might, creating the impression the barrel was sealed.
His arms were weak and tired from the constant tension of pulling on the rope. He shook them out one at a time, trying not suck in too much disgusting air. Unable to stand it any longer, Michael decided it was time to go.
Releasing the tension on the rope handle, Michael gently lowered the lid to keep it from crashing onto the floor. The boy peered through the round opening, studying the dark surroundings, looking for any movement and listening for any sound. Satisfied there was no one in the immediate area, he belly-crawled over the lid and onto the dirty floor. Crouching behind one of the still-upright barrels, he peered toward the soft, yellow cast of rectangular light created by the doorway to the anteroom.
Thankful for the relative freshness of the cellar air, Michael allowed himself several long, deep breaths. Still, he saw no movement and heard no sound.
Staying low and shaking out his arms, he duck walked toward the entrance of the anteroom. He stopped at the rough frame and peeked around the doorway.
Chapter 43
Like his cell, the exercise space was miniscule. They COs referred to them as yards. But, they were more like cages, the kind one would see at a zoo housing a medium-sized an animal. The pair of COs escorted Cyclops to the open cage. He knelt, facing into the cage. The leg irons were removed. The cage was closed. Cyclops, keeping his back to the COs, placed his hands through the fold-down wicket in the chain-link gate, allowing the burly CO to remove his wrist shackles. Once unchained, the prisoner rubbed his wrists and shuffled into the small outdoor rectangular prism. His own private cage.
Relegated to a minute portion of the facility, Cyclops had never seen the entire prison complex. From what was visible, the facility was huge. An angled and angry conglomeration of white brick, concertina wire, and tall chain-link, spreading out over hundreds of acres. His guess was predicated on the fact that a vast swath had been cleared in the mountainous terrain. Ironically, though the facility was enormous, the spaces he inhabited were tiny, cramped, and isolated. The walls inched in on him every day in the secret, detached pod of the prison.
This maximum security prison, deep in the countryside far from populated areas, kept its inmates locked down twenty-three hours a day except for the solitary hour in which they were allowed to make small laps inside these inhumane chain-link boxes.