Now down flat on my belly, I fired precisely in the direction of the enemy lasers. I knew that Blood, too, had the good sense to position himself in the same way. I emptied one mag, replaced it with a second, emptied that one, and replaced it with a third. By then, the enemy tracers were no longer coming at us, the laser sites no longer bearing down on our chests and heads.
The enemy gunfire had stopped altogether.
The darkness was suddenly replaced not with the bright overhead light, but instead, the eerie red glow of the wall-mounted emergency lighting. The elevator doors closed once more, but this time, there were two men left standing inside the Crypt corridor.
They were Rodney Pappas and his boss, Warden Peter Clark.
The two of them were bathed in the red light. The whites of their eyes reflected the light, as if they weren’t human at all, but robotic imitations of the human flesh and blood they once were.
“You seein’ what I’m seein’?” Blood said.
“Seeing is believing,” I said. “Unless we’re as dead as Sweet is, and we’re in hell.”
The abrupt sound of a metal door burst open came from directly behind us. It was followed by jackboots slapping the floor, automatic weapons locked and loaded.
“Shit,” I said. “I should have secured that door from the inside when I had the chance.”
“We was gonna use it for our getaway, remember?” Blood said out the corner of his mouth. “It not your fault.”
I stole a quick glance over my shoulder, made out the same two beefy bodyguards who had entered my office unannounced just a couple of days ago. Governor Valente’s Secret Service bodyguards. Tall, black, hair-trigger-temper goon, Stanley, and shorter goon, Brent. Must be they were sent here to represent their boss: The Honorable Governor Leon Valente. They had their rifles aimed for our backs. Pointblank.
Redirecting my gaze towards the elevators, I eyed the two men making their way along the corridor towards us and I exhaled a sad sigh.
Freedom…how did the old song go? So close but yet, so far away.
“You can drop your weapons any time now,” came the booming, nervous voice of Warden Clark. “These men might be able to deadlift a locomotive apiece, but they have sensitive hair triggers.”
“We gotta listen to him?” Blood whispered over his shoulder.
“He’s the warden,” I said. “Everyone listens to the warden. Take it from me.”
Blood dropped his M16. I dropped mine.
“Hands up, asshole,” uttered a deep voice from behind me.
“Who was that?” I said. “Stanley? That you, honey?”
I felt the sharp, painful jab of a gun barrel in the small of my back.
“Stanley!” Clark shouted. “That’s quite enough for now. You’ll have your shot at these two in a few moments.”
Clark stopped in his tracks. Maybe thirty feet separated him from us. Meanwhile, Rodney, armed with a prison-issue M16, stood his ground only a few feet behind him. Laid out on the painted concrete floor only a few feet away in a pool of his own crimson blood was Derrick Sweet.
“You fucked up,” Clark said. “You were supposed to deliver Derrick Sweet and Reginald Moss to Valente personally down in Albany. Deliver them to him alive and unharmed. You had a private contract.” He cocked his shoulder, then smirked. “Okay, maybe our esteemed governor would have accepted them a little beat up or even wounded. But the point is, you not only failed to keep them alive, you poked your respective noses into something that is most definitely none of your business. Since when did you go from private dick to vested law enforcement professional, Mr. Marconi?” He spread out his arms, as if to draw our attention to the destroyed Crypt. “Now this.”
The strange thing was how he smiled after he said it. It was the kind of smile you expressed after a job well done. A satisfied smile, a proud smile. The smile of the gambler when he was on a winning streak. It hit me then, that yes, I did indeed fuck up by not delivering Moss and Sweet alive. Because by not doing so, I played right into Clark’s, Rodney’s, and the governor’s grimy hands.
I recalled what Moss had said to me down inside the burning shelter.
“He sent you, didn’t he? The governor? He sent you personally. Bet he wants me alive just so he can make sure without a doubt that I’m dead. Dead and so very fucking silent.”
“You know something, Clark,” I said, “I think you’re happy Sweet and Moss are dead. I think that was your intention all along. Like most politicians, Valente said one thing, but meant something else entirely, which is just another way of lying. You and he knew full well that if the FBI, or the state troopers, or the sheriff, or the fucking Mod Squad located and captured the two cons, they stood the chance of being reincarcerated unharmed. Relatively speaking anyway. And unharmed cons have big mouths. Unharmed cons who break out and face life imprisonment after being caught chirp like birds. But by hiring me to go after them, you knew they’d put up a fight, and that chances were, they wouldn’t live through it. And even if they did, you would have figured out a way to make them dead before the cops got to them. You’d simply blame their unfortunate deaths on me. Me and my partner, Blood.”
“Mod Squad?” Blood mumbled.
“Hey,” I whispered over my shoulder, “I’m on a roll here.”
The smile on Clark’s face grew even wider, prouder, more satisfied.
“You’re smarter than I give you credit for, Mr. Marconi,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Bravo. Bravo indeed.”
“You’re not going to get away with it,” I said. “Dead or alive, those two cons are still going to sing like a tweety bird. You should know that the FBI and Sheriff Hylton are already on their way. You’re as good as busted. Valente can hide his head in the sand down in Albany. But he’s as good as busted. And did I mention we have pictures of you and Rodney attacking Maude inside her pantry? She was a simple, gentle artist. Wouldn’t hurt a flea. And she was also Sheriff Hylton’s godmother, which makes her family. The sheriff won’t rest until you clowns fall. So why not just put down your weapons and we can all walk out of here alive.”
“No one else has to die,” Blood added.
Clark smiled, shot a glance over his shoulder at Rodney. Both men smiled back. Rodney gripped his rifle, flexed his muscles, the blue veins in his forearms popping out like live eels caught inside paper thin skin.
“Can I just blow them two away now?” he said.
Clark pulled a pack of smokes from his jacket pocket, lit one up.
“Yes, indeed,” he said, exhaling a stream of blue smoke. “I see no reason in the world not to dispose of these two troublemakers immediately, then get on with the business of cleaning this place up and getting our operation back up and running. I’m already fielding calls from Florence ADX SuperMax in Colorado, and Pelican Bay SuperMax in California wondering why communications have ceased.”
“So tell me, Clark,” I said. “I know why you’d sell your soul. And I know why musclebound Pappas here would sell whatever soul he’s got. But why, in your less than humble opinion, would Valente do it? What makes a man in a vaulted position like him abandon every moral fiber in his body to do something so rock bottom as force kids into the sex slave trade? Running meth wasn’t good enough for him?”
“We’re all slaves in one way or another, Marconi,” he said. “And you might say Valente was doing these children a favor. We are all doing them a favor. You see, we pulled them off the street. Gave them food and shelter. A warm bed at night. In return for our kindness we required they make a movie or two. Or perhaps entertain certain customers of our choosing.”
“Stop it, warden,” Blood said. “You making my head hurt with your spin. You a piece of garbage for what you did to those kids. They carry that shit with them the rest of their days. Lots more days than you got left. Question is, why? You jerks got everything in the world. Money, prestige, and power. Why go to the dark side?”
“Excellent Star Wars reference, Blood,” I said. Then, over my sho
ulder, “Wasn’t it Stanley?”
Another poke of the gun barrel into my ribs. It stung like hell. Enough to bring tears to my eyes. But I tried my best to maintain a smile and a positive outlook.
Clark smoked his cigarette and assumed the calm, cool expression of a professional state delegate about to address a televised press conference.
“These are all valid questions, Blood,” he said. “But sometimes prestige is not enough. And sometimes, there’s not enough money. Not as much as people think anyway. And as far as political power goes, I can assure you, Valente is not nearly as powerful as Johnny Q. Public might assume. In fact, the President of the United States of America is not nearly as all powerful and omniscient as the world seems to perceive him. There are other, far more powerful figures at play. The people who pull the strings. You see, Mr. Blood, me and other’s like me, we’re just puppets. Which is why some men in Governor Valente’s position might aspire to the presidency, but he chooses instead to utilize the office of the Governor of the Empire State of New York for far different purposes. And that’s to become one of the select few who truly make the decisions, and who truly run this country. And that takes not millions of dollars, but billions.” Raising his right arm, index finger extended in the direction of the vault. “That money inside that big metal safe, that’s nothing. That’s pocket change. What we have going on in America right now, right under the noses of the average working class hero, is a network of Crypt-like operations that are making billions per year. And the beauty of our model isn’t trickle-down economics, but instead, trickle up. When my time as warden is done, and Valente’s term as governor is done, we’ll join a fraternity of a few good men who will set the course of this great nation for now and the future.”
“Wow,” I said, “I think that brought a tear to my eye. I would clap if I wasn’t holding my hands over my head.” Then, under my breath, “Blood, what we have here is one twisted and entirely delusional son of bitch.”
“You got that right,” Blood mumbled.
“We need to hurry,” Rodney said, his muscles growing tighter and more tense so that they bulged to the point of bursting under his too tight work shirt. “We need to clean this place out, dispose of the bodies, and dispose of these two assholes now. Can we do that please, Warden Clark?”
“Agreed, Rodney,” Clark said as he puffed what remained of his cigarette. “I don’t like being down here with those creepy orange children inside that room. I wish we could just dispose of them as well. Be done with them already. Eradicate their memory. Their existence.”
“He an evil man,” Blood said under his breath. “All three of them evil…as evil as evil on earth gets.”
“This is your show now, Rodney,” Clark said, tossing the cigarette butt onto the floor, “This is your prison after all, and I must respect that, even if you did fuck up with Moss and Sweet by allowing them to escape in the first place. Can you imagine if the two of them had ratted out our operation to the press? Now that would have been the end of everything. Lucky for us all, Mr. Blood and Mr. Marconi also fucked up and those two morons ended up very dead before they could open their respective traps.” He peered at the two goons behind us. “Stanley, you and your pal, Brent, please carry on with the execution.”
One goon came around Blood’s left shoulder and the second one came around my right shoulder.
“Back’s up against the wall,” Stanley insisted, his automatic rifle barrel aimed for my chest. He was grinning, sneering, tasting my blood even before it was spilled.
Slowly, Blood and I back-stepped until we felt the cold, hard, bullet-pocked wall pressed up against our spines. Just then, my eye caught something. Stepping out of the kitchen area, a boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen, dressed only in his loose orange jumper, his body barely illuminated in the red glow. And then a boy behind him and a girl behind him. I couldn’t be certain of what it was that they were holding in their hands, but they looked like kitchen knives and forks.
“Blood,” I whispered over my shoulder, “you remember Bruce Lee? How bad ass he was? You recall that final fight scene in Enter the Dragon? Or was it Fists of Fury? You know, where those two huge goons have him backed up against a wall and it looks like curtains for the hero.”
“You thinking Game of Death,” Blood said. “Bruce and Karreem Abdul Jabar go at it. Proof that size don’t matter. That skill mean everything.”
“Why don’t you two shut the fuck up,” Stanley said, his index finger sliding onto the trigger. Goon number two mimicked his movements precisely.
“Ready!” Clark shouted, acting the role of the executioner.
Over their shoulder, I made out no less than a dozen knife-and fork-wielding kids sneaking up on Rodney and Clark. I once heard a man say he’d rather fight a Navy Seal than five angry kindergartners. Right now, a dozen furious teenagers armed with kitchen implements were about take out two grown men. All I needed was to stall the two goons for another second.
“Aim,” barked Clark.
The two goons tightened their grips on their weapons and improved their stance by spreading their feet shoulder-width apart, legs slightly bent at the knees, index fingers already depressing the triggers. At this range, they’d blow our brains out.
“Okay, Blood,” I said under my breath. “When I give the signal, we go all Game of Death on these two. You go high, I go low.”
“Fire!” Clark ordered.
But Clark didn’t get the word out before the kids plunged their knives and forks into his and Rodney’s backs. The two men screamed, fell to their knees, the blood spurting out of their wounds. It was enough to distract our firing squad for a very necessary and welcome beat.
“Now, Blood!” I insisted while dropping onto my hands, swinging my legs around like a whip, taking Stanley out at the ankles so that he fell hard onto his side, the rounds spraying out of his M16 and connecting only with the block wall and the ceiling.
Blood thrust himself forward, slapped the automatic rifle out of Brent’s hands with such force, it slammed against the far wall. He then wrapped his left arm around the goon’s head and, quickly thrusting it upwards and sideways, snapped his neck in two as if it were a pretzel stick. Blood dropped the now dead Brent onto the concrete, just as I disarmed Stanley, thrusting the stock down onto his cranial cap, crushing it like an egg.
By the time I raised up my head, I saw that Rodney and Clark were down on their bellies, their bodies as still as corpses, no less than a half dozen knives and forks sticking out of their backs.
Once more I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled. Having grabbed hold of their attention, the kids stopped and stood stone stiff. Beneath them, bleeding out on the concrete floor, were two out of the three men who were responsible for their incarceration, their slavery, their abuse.
“It’s over,” I said, “the killing is over.”
Realizing what they’d just accomplished, and the grisly results of it, a few of the kids began to cry. I let them cry it out for a time, while Blood and I caught our breath. I thanked God we were alive to see another day. I thanked God we lived long enough to free the kids.
Moments later, the kids had once more composed themselves. Having asked them to grab up their cash-filled shopping bags including the one Sweet had filled for himself, Blood and I approached the metal door at the back of the office. This time I used a key I took off of Rodney to unlock the door. It was a ten-flight hike up the concrete and metal-pan stairs, but no one seemed to mind. By the time we arrived at the top, we were drenched in sweat, but at least we were alive to appreciate it.
I unlocked the exterior door with the same key, pushed it open. Then, telling everyone to maintain silence, I told them to follow me back around the corner of the laundry facility. We made it without a hitch to where my 4Runner was still parked beside the same laundry truck. Without having to say a word, Blood immediately proceeded to pile the kids and their cash bags into the back of the laundry truck. He then hopped out, pulled the bay
overhead door down, and secured the metal latch.
“Let’s just hope the keys still in it,” he said.
“What if they’re not?”
“Take me a second or two to hot wire. No sweat.”
He hopped up into the truck, took his place behind the wheel.
“Keys” he said, smiling. Smiling was a rare event for Blood and it was a pleasure to see since it often meant we were about to get away with our lives. In this case, our lives and the lives of some innocent kids.
Snatching up Sweet’s cash bag from out of the laundry truck, I got in the 4Runner, fired it up, pulled out of the parking spot. Driving back towards the guard house at the top of the service entrance, I peered into the rearview mirror and was relieved to see that Blood was right on my tail. When I came to the guard house, I stopped. Lucas was still situated on the floor on his backside, bound by the gray duct tape.
I grabbed the extra money bag that belonged to Sweet, tied the handles tightly together, tossed it to him.
“Your cut, Lucas,” I said. “Plus interest.”
He mumbled something, but it was impossible to make out with that gag covering his mouth.
I hung a right out of the parking lot in the direction of the Clinton County Jail, just as an army of state trooper prowlers blew past us, converging on the prison entrance, the short, stocky, Vincent D’Amico plainly visible in my rear view mirror, leading the charge as he exited the lead vehicle. In the end, we made it out of the prison with the kids and their cash, with barely seconds to spare.
No less than a half dozen black Chevy Suburbans pull up to the front gates of the Governor’s Mansion on Eagle Street in downtown Albany. The four-wheel drive vehicles are alive with red, white, and blue LED flashers and ear-piercing sirens. The dark suited FBI agents pile out and, service weapons gripped in their hands, approach the bullet-glass enclosed guard house and demand entry. Without hesitation, the guard manning the booth opens the front gates. The FBI jump back into their vehicles and storm up the drive.
The Corruptions Page 18