Breakout

by Paul Herron

  Two of Kincaid’s men enter the cell and lean against the walls, on either side of him. “This is Veitch and Cassidy,” he says in a friendly tone of voice.

  Two more come in and grab me by the arms. They shove me back onto the concrete slab that serves as a bed.

  Kincaid nods to the left. “That’s Adler.” Then to the right. “That’s Sullivan.”

  One guy waits outside the cell, taking up position to keep an eye open for interruptions. Kincaid gestures vaguely behind him. “That’s West.”

  The cell is seriously cramped now and I realize I’m in deep shit. Evans is probably asleep, and no one else is going to do anything. Where the hell is Felix? I’m not sure he’d step in, but it might make Kincaid think twice.

  “Is this about me punching you? Because—”

  “Don’t be stupid. You know it’s not about that.”

  Shit and fuck. “So you know?”

  “That you framed me? Yeah, I know.”

  “How?”

  “Wasn’t difficult. I had my people look into it. Spoke to someone at the alarm company. He had an interesting story to tell. Didn’t take me long to figure out who wanted me put away so bad they’d break the law.”

  Fucking Simon. What a prick.

  Kincaid strolls toward me. “I always wondered if I’d get a crack at you,” he says.

  “Must be your lucky day.”

  “Must be,” he agrees thoughtfully. “You know, life has been gray lately, Jack. I don’t mind admitting that. The doc gave me pills—antidepressants. I don’t think that shit works, but seeing you has really given me a boost.” He takes a deep breath. “Fact is, I feel better right now than I have in years.”

  “Happy to help out.”

  He stares at me for a long moment. “You look at me, what do you see?”

  “A killer,” I say without hesitation. “A drug dealer. Someone who would do anything to get what he wanted.”

  He nods as if I’ve just confirmed his suspicions. “You know what I see when I look at you?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “A coward. A corrupt cop who couldn’t do his job properly, so had to break the law. A man who couldn’t protect his own wife and child.”

  I try to lunge forward, but Adler and Sullivan keep a strong grip on me. “Don’t you fucking dare talk about them.”

  Kincaid smiles. “Found a little chink in the armor there, have we? See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. Perception is not reality. I don’t look at myself as a criminal. Same way you don’t look at yourself as a corrupt cop. Or a coward. You know why? Because in your own head, you did your best. You did what you thought was right.”

  I stare at him, waiting for the punch line. It doesn’t come. “So… what? You’re saying we’re the same?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Everything I did, I did for the right reasons. For my family.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You don’t know me, boy. You might think you do, but you don’t. I grew up poor. In the slums. My old man died, my ma, God rest her soul, made sure I stayed in school. All she wanted was for me to graduate and make an honest living. She died when I was fourteen. And I sat there with her body in that… shack I grew up in and I thought: Why? What has staying honest got me? What did it get my mother? She died because we couldn’t afford medicine. Because she used all her money to feed me. To keep me in school. So I thought, fuck that. And I started to take what I wanted. I dropped out of school and I figured out how to make my life livable, because I was not going to end up like my ma.”

  “Shh,” I say. “Listen.”

  Kincaid cocks his head to one side. “What?”

  “Nah, it’s okay. Thought I heard a violin playing.”

  He chuckles. “You’re a funny guy. Ain’t he funny?” He looks around at his goons. They all nod and grin.

  Kincaid turns back to face me. “But the thing is, while I was living in that squalor, I met someone. A girl. We were both seventeen by then. And she gave me a reason to take more care. See, before her, I didn’t give a shit what I was doing, who I was stealing from. But when I met her, I changed. Everything changed. I started doing it all for her. Everything I stole, every plan I made, was to raise that woman out of the ghetto, to make me worthy of her. And you know what? I did it. I got us out. I got us a home, I built my empire, we had two kids. And those two kids… man… You a parent? Oh, shit. No. Course you’re not.”

  I surge to my feet, this time managing to pull away from Adler and Sullivan. Kincaid steps back just as they grab me again. I struggle, lash out, hit Sullivan in the face. Adler balls a fist and punches me hard between the ribs, right in the lungs. I fold over, wheezing for breath as they shove me back onto the bed. I try to regain my breath, while Kincaid carries on talking as if nothing had happened.

  “I’m telling you, when those kids appear in your life, there isn’t a single thing you wouldn’t do to protect them. To protect your family. It becomes… like a primeval need. An instinct. They’re your tribe and you’d do anything for them. Anything. You know that already, though. Your kid wasn’t even born yet, but you did what you had to for revenge.” He pauses for a moment. “You loved your wife, right?”

  I don’t answer.

  “’Course you did. See, I’m gonna give you some credit. I don’t think you’re some big bad cop, someone who shoots first and asks questions later. I actually think you had the same thing with your wife that I had with mine. When you find the one… I mean, I’m not talking about all that ‘you complete me’ bullshit, you know? But when you find the one, she sure as shit makes life worth living.”

  He leans forward, his passive face turning dark. “You took that from me. You separated me from my family. My wife. My kids.” He stares hard at me for a long moment, jaw clenching. Then he turns away, walks to the door of the cell, turns back again. When he speaks, his voice is shaking. “That’s not even the worst of it. I’d been with my wife thirty years. I’ve been in here four.” He pauses, takes a deep breath. “She died three years ago, Constantine. Cancer. And I didn’t get to see her. I didn’t get to say good-bye. I wasn’t with her. All. Because. Of you.”

  Oh fuck…

  Kincaid gestures. The goon waiting outside the cell—West, I think—takes something out of his orange jumpsuit pocket and hands it to Kincaid. It’s a shank. Razor blades melted into a toothbrush.

  Kincaid nods at Adler and Sullivan. Before I can do anything, they grip me tight, pushing me down, making sure I can’t move.

  I still struggle, trying to pull away. I’m not going down without a fight. Adler punches me in the face. I grunt in pain. Bursts of light flash across my vision. I blink, shake my head. Look up to see Kincaid standing in front of me.

  “Hold him tight.”

  The fingers tighten on my shoulders and arms. Kincaid smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you right away. This is just for starters.” He taps the shank against my chin. “You know those fans with the red ribbons tied to the front? When they’re switched off and the ribbons just sort of… hang there? That’s what your face is going to look like five minutes from now.” He leans closer so his mouth is only an inch from my ear. “After that,” he says softly, “I’m gonna do something else, and it’ll hurt so bad you’ll be begging me to slit your throat.”

  “Boss!” West, at the door, quickly steps in and holds his hand out. Kincaid passes the shank to him and everyone straightens up just as Evans appears, peering at them all through the cell bars.

  “The fuck is going on in here?”

  “Prayer session,” says Kincaid. “We’re discussing our Lord the Savior and how he can save our friend Jack’s life. Isn’t that right, Jack?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter. “Hallelujah.” Because no matter what happens in prison, you don’t snitch.

  “Pray on your own time, dickwads. We’re done here. Line up downstairs.”

  No one moves. They all glance at Kincaid, and only when
he gives a small nod do they all file out of the cell.

  As he leaves, he looks at me. “We’ll pick this up later.”

  It’s around one o’clock by the time we all gather at ground level. I make sure to stay as far away from Kincaid and his guys as I can.

  “Are we coming back?” asks Nunes.

  “No,” says Evans. “We’re done. The evacuees are on their way.”

  “Thank Christ for that,” says Perez.

  Evans leads us back along the corridors and into reception. But instead of taking us through the back hallways and the laundry, he opens a door into a new corridor, this one much cleaner than the ones we used to get to the Rotunda.

  As we walk, I can’t help thinking about Kincaid’s words. Can’t help wondering if I did the wrong thing. I took away a husband and wife’s last moments together. Kincaid has every right to be pissed at me.

  But… come on. No. Not my problem. Kincaid is a piece of shit. He’s a murderer. Why the hell am I even feeling sorry for him?

  Because you know what it feels like to lose someone you love without getting a chance to say good-bye.

  I push the thought away. I’m not wasting my sympathy on him.

  The storm is much louder now. The wind shrieks and howls around the old building, whistling through gaps in the brickwork. I glance out the windows as we pass, but I can’t see anything. The rain batters and streams across the glass in twisting rivulets.

  “What category is she?” someone calls out.

  Evans doesn’t answer.

  “Have they named her?” asks Felix.

  “Josephine,” says Evans eventually. He hesitates. “Category Four.”

  Questions are instantly thrown at him, voices raised in fear and panic.

  “Four?” shouts Murphy. “Are you fucking serious? Shouldn’t people be evacuated?”

  “The whole of Florida’s already been evacuated.”

  “What about us?” asks Felix.

  “State figures Ravenhill has a solid chance of making it through the hurricane. This place was built to last. Plus, it’s high enough above sea level to avoid the flooding.”

  Nobody seems convinced. I don’t blame them. Category 4 is high up on the Saffir–Simpson scale. It means winds of up to 156 miles an hour. A Cat 5 is anything above 157. You get to know these things if you live in Florida.

  “What was Hurricane Irma?” I ask Felix, who’s walking beside me.

  “Category Five. Hundred and eighty miles an hour. Katrina was one seventy-five.”

  A few of the inmates overhear and exchange worried looks.

  Evans senses the mood changing and quickens his step. He pushes through a set of swing doors, leading us into a large tiled room. It looks like it was the Glasshouse’s receiving and release area. It isn’t like the new R&R over at Ravenhill. There’s no sheltered depot here. Just a door opening into an outside area that might have once been fenced off. I peer through the windows. There are a couple of buses out there, but I barely notice them. My gaze is fixed on the sky. The clouds have become so dark and heavy that it looks like the middle of the night.

  The outside door suddenly bursts open, slamming hard against the wall. The wind surges in, knocking Perez and Deacon off their feet. They push themselves up as a dark figure sprints and slips over the threshold, followed by a line of drenched inmates in orange jumpsuits, all chained together.

  “Shut the door!” screams Evans.

  But they can’t. More inmates are coming in, ten, then twenty, then thirty, then even more, all of them barging into R&R until everyone is standing shoulder to shoulder.

  This is a CO’s worst nightmare. Prisoners in close proximity to each other usually means trouble. It’s the perfect time to settle scores.

  I look nervously around for Kincaid as more officers rush in, pushing the inmates forward so they can close the door behind them.

  There’s chaos everywhere. Inmates and officers are swearing, snapping at each other as they try to shake the rain off. Evans is still shouting, ordering the prisoners to line up around the walls and give the guards room to move.

  And that’s when I see them.

  Two faces.

  Two faces that haunt my dreams. Every. Single. Night.

  Marcus Tully and Luther Wright.

  Two of the three men who murdered my wife.

  I can’t believe it. A hurricane is smashing through the Eastern Seaboard. People are losing their homes, their lives. Cities and towns are being evacuated. The hurricane is taking from everyone it touches. But it’s giving me something it’s not giving anyone else.

  A second chance. A single moment in time when I can get justice.

  They’re fifteen feet away. Too far for me to reach. I feel my pulse thudding in my throat. Blood surges in my ears as I stare at those faces, the last thing my wife ever saw. A hatred deep and pure fans to life inside my soul. The same anger that got me through the weeks after Amy’s death.

  The COs are screaming for quiet. Some have their day sticks out and are shoving a few of the louder inmates into orderly lines so they can be taken to the cells.

  My attention is wholly focused on Tully and Wright. Three years in prison has aged them. Tully is thinner, his wrinkles more pronounced, a road map of his time behind bars. Wright has picked up a lot of weight.

  I have to be careful. I’ll never get another chance like this. All I need to do is be patient. Wait for them to walk by. Evans is keeping me and the others to the side while the evacuees move through the room. I’m standing by the door. They’ll walk right past me.

  I’ll have to take them both at the same time. I can’t let either one get away. Not again.

  “Okay, move it!” shouts one of the new COs. “Single file. Keep it slow!”

  The inmates start to file past me as they head into the Glasshouse. Tully and Wright are ten feet away now. Felix is talking to me, muttering about inhumane conditions. I ignore him and he gives me a shove in the back.

  “Hey. You hearin’ me?”

  I don’t answer. Tully is first. I stare at his scrawny neck. Like a bird’s. I can snap it quick, then turn on Wright.

  Six feet…

  Tully looks in my direction. I quickly bow my head, but I know it’s too late. I look up again. His eyes are wide, his mouth open as if to say something.

  I lunge forward, barging past the other inmates. Cries and shouts of protest ring out. I ignore them. I grab Tully’s wrist. He tries to pull away. I can feel him slipping through my grasp. I knee him in the stomach and he doubles over, coming within reach of my cuffed hands. I grab his collar, trying to get hold of his throat. There’s shouting all around me. I shove him off his feet. He hits the ground and I drop onto his chest, hands around his neck. He’s shouting something at me, but I can’t hear above the roaring in my ears.

  Someone grabs my shoulder, pulls me back. I lash out with my elbow, hear a howl of rage. I recognize the voice. Evans. I wrap my hands around Tully’s throat again.

  Then everything inside me shuts down as fifty thousand volts surge through my body. I arch back, every muscle in my body stiffening in shock. Pain explodes across my entire being, slicing through me like splinters of glass cutting through my veins.

  My vision goes completely black, then slowly fades back into color.

  Another surge of agony as Evans shoves his stun gun into my neck.

  The floor flies up to meet me.

  Then nothing.

  ADVISORY BULLETIN

  Hurricanes Hannah and Josephine Advisory Number 1

  NWS National Hurricane Center Miami FL

  12 A.M. EDT SAT AUG 28 2021

  DISCUSSION AND OUTLOOK

  Tropical hurricanes Hannah and Josephine have changed paths and are due to intercept each other by 6 a.m. this morning. It is anticipated that these Category 5 hurricanes will form together, undergoing a Fujiwhara phenomenon, wherein vortices will join to form a rare and dangerous superstorm.

  Maximum sustained winds for th
is forecast period are near 200 mph (321 km/h) with higher winds possible.

  HAZARDS AFFECTING LAND

  The combined hurricanes are anticipated to bring unprecedented damage to the Eastern Seaboard, as well as into Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Texas.

  WARNINGS

  All must evacuate.

  $$

  Forecaster Mills

  Six

  Friday, August 27

  3:30 p.m.

  Sheriff Montoya picks up the phone for the third time in ten minutes.

  Still dead.

  He’s been out of contact with the outside world for two hours now. He was talking to Jefferson over at State, checking what was happening with the hurricane.

  No—hurricanes.

  Because one isn’t enough. Oh no. They have to get two hurricanes, Hannah and Josephine, forming into one monster storm—something called the Fujiwhara effect—that’s going to hit with full force sometime in the next few hours. And obviously it’s Cat 5. Because that is the kind of luck Montoya is cursed with.

  Miami has been evacuated. Place is a ghost town, no one left behind. Same with most of Florida, Alabama, and Georgia. Buildings are being ripped apart. There’s major flooding, fires. One hundred and eighty-seven people have already died.

  The last thing Jefferson said before the line went dead was that the plans had changed. The Glasshouse was supposed to be a safe haven for evacuated prisoners, but with the hurricane being what it is, they were going to have to move everyone. There was even talk of storm surges coming in off the ocean, forming mini tsunamis. Jefferson said he’d be sending the National Guard to help them evacuate. That they’d be there by two.

  Montoya checks his watch. Half past three. He is slowly starting to realize that the National Guard might not be coming at all.

  He can’t even find out what’s going on out there. They’re completely cut off. No TV signal. No cell reception, no landlines, nothing. The only information he has are the printouts on his desk that Jefferson forwarded from the National Hurricane Center tracking the paths of the hurricanes. When they’ll arrive, when the eye of the storm will pass over them, when the winds should die down, that kind of thing.