Prison Code

by Don Pendleton

Chapter 20

  “I NEED YOUR CAR.” Bolan smiled at Officer Alison Ottewalt in a friendly fashion. The soldier had a very attractive smile, but he knew it was shining out from a barefoot man in prison garb caked from head to bare feet in dirt and nearly every substance a human body could excrete. He was also smiling from behind a rifle. Deputy Ottewalt was built like a feminine fire hydrant in khaki. Bolan almost felt bad. With radio communication down, Kurtzman had broken into the streams of emails and texts shooting back and forth between law enforcement down at the scene, and sent Ottewalt on wild-goose chase up to the old mine. She had barely put her cruiser in Park before she found Bolan and Buddy in her face.

  She gave Bolan a steely glare. “Convict, you will never make it out of this valley.”

  “Actually, I’ve never been convicted of anything.”

  Ottewalt openly scoffed. “Every con says he’s innocent.”

  “I never claimed to be innocent. I said I’ve never been convicted of anything.”

  “Then why are you in D-Town?”

  Bolan looked out toward the prison. “To stop this.”

  “Yeah? You did one hell of a job.”

  “Oh, that’s just one wall. The real plan was to turn the entire facility into a smoking hole in the ground.”

  The deputy grudgingly looked back toward Duivelstad. “I suppose your two friends have never been convicted of anything, either.”

  “Guilty as charged,” Rudy admitted.

  Patrick nodded. “And as the day is long!”

  Deputy Ottewalt shook her head. “You’ll never get out of this valley.”

  “We will if you drive,” Bolan countered.

  “I refuse. Do your worst.”

  Rudy whistled. “She’s got sand.”

  “You best commence shooting.” Ottewalt took her hands off the steering wheel. “I’m drawing my sidearm in three seconds.”

  “She said ‘commence shooting,’” Patrick said in admiration. “That was cool.”

  Bolan nodded. “Rudy, put Deputy Ottewalt in touch with Officer Renzo, video chat.”

  “Three seconds to drop your weapons,” Ottewalt warned. “One...”

  Rudy tapped some keys and handed the tablet to Bolan. Renzo popped up on her phone. “Cooper!”

  Ottewalt’s hand went to her holster and the Beretta holstered there. “Two...”

  Bolan gave Renzo the short version. “Listen, Linder, Schoenaur and Scott are in a van. They killed Link. They have the third weapon. They don’t know we are onto them and I have satellite tracking. I need a car, and I need you to convince Deputy Ottewalt to assist us.” Bolan held out the tablet to Ottewalt. “It’s for you.”

  Ottewalt stared at the tablet as if it were a snake.

  “You can draw if you want. Gentlemen, drop your weapons.”

  Bolan and the Rudolphos disarmed and took a giant step backward.

  Ottewalt took in the beleaguered looking corrections officer in the video chat window. “Officer...?”

  “Renzo! I’m in Duivelstad! Listen up!” Renzo read Ottewalt the riot act. Everyone in Pennsylvania law enforcement knew who the Force was. Most knew Schoenaur’s reputation, and every citizen in the state knew the Big U. Renzo played her phone’s video camera over the wounded Barnes and Kal, and the small ocean of bodies in A Block. She neatly summarized the entire situation, and Bolan particularly admired her closing remark, “Decide what side of history you want to be on, Deputy.”

  “I need your car, Deputy,” he reiterated. “And I need you.”

  Ottewalt stared incredulously. “I’m supposed to disobey orders, abandon my post and go chase a nuke with three convicts?”

  Bolan sighed. “I told you, I’ve never been convicted of anything.”

  “Those two have, and they’re armed.”

  “They were armed, and I kind of deputized them.”

  Ottewalt looked as if she was getting a migraine. “Oh, and do you have that authority?”

  “No.” Bolan grinned again. “But you do.”

  “I can’t believe this. And if I say no, you three are just going to surrender?”

  “No, those two will. I can’t.”

  “You won’t?”

  “I said I can’t, but I absolutely refuse to fight law enforcement. I will attempt to escape and evade and continue my mission.”

  Deputy Ottewalt’s head seemed seconds from exploding.

  “Deputy, we’re running out of time,” Bolan prodded.

  Renzo chimed in from the chat window. “Shit or get off the pot, Deputy!”

  Ottewalt rolled her eyes again, but this time it was with disbelief at herself and the apparent reality failure occurring all around her. “I don’t exactly know how to deputize anyone. We never covered it at the academy.”

  “Well, just say something.”

  “Oh, for the love of...” Ottewalt squeezed out an oath under pressure. “Do you swear to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies foreign and domestic?”

  Bolan nodded. “I do.”

  “Definitely,” Rudy agreed.

  Patrick was nearly beside himself. “Awesome!”

  Deputy Ottewalt watched the end of her law-enforcement career flash before her eyes. “Get in.”

  * * *

  PASSING THROUGH THE roadblocks proved to be no problem at all. Duivelstad was in full riot status, and the United States had just suffered the biggest jailbreak in its history. Rumors of a massive explosion were spreading like wildfire. Local, state and federal law enforcement and increasing numbers of National Guardsmen were everywhere and fanning out in all directions. A uniformed deputy in a cruiser flashing her lights was waved through checkpoints literally without slowing. Bolan, Rudy and Patrick stayed low. Bolan knew Linder was using the same trick. The soldier watched the Farm’s satellite feed on the tablet.

  Kurtzman spoke across the feed. “They’re on I-81 heading east. You need to get on the highway.”

  Ottewalt breezed through the checkpoint at the on-ramp to I-81 and used the opportunity her lights and sirens gave her to step on the gas. The Crown Victoria’s police modified V-8 engine roared like a beast.

  Bolan considered his limited ways and means for the mission. “What have you got, Deputy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were responding to a reported prison riot. You bring along any party favors?”

  “I have a tear-gas launcher in the trunk and a patrol rifle.”

  “How many gas masks?”

  “Just the one.”

  That narrowed the tactical applications, but it still put another arrow in a very lean looking quiver of options. “You have any spare .223-caliber ammo?”

  “I brought six boxes, and have six spare loaded magazines.”

  “Bring any extra 9 mm?”

  “Two boxes.”

  “I need to borrow a bit when we stop, so me and the boys can top off our magazines.”

  “Like I’m going to say no at this point,” Ottewalt muttered. The deputy stared off into the distance. “You know, I enjoyed being a cop. I’m going to miss it.”

  “You’re not going to lose your job, Deputy,” Bolan assured her.

  The deputy wasn’t buying it. “Oh? And just how am I supposed to explain this, again?”

  “You don’t. In fact, you probably won’t have to. My people are already working on your situation.”

  “And what does your people are working on my situation mean, exactly?”

  “Assuming we survive the next hour or two, you will most likely receive a glowing letter of commendation from the Justice Department, the Department of Homeland Security or both, for your valor and voluntary assistance in a matter of grave national security.
The details of which will be mostly redacted, but it will look awesome on your service record, or your résumé, if you want to aim for the big leagues in your career.”

  Bolan had received a lot of dumbstruck looks in his life. The Duivelstad mission was breaking all previous records. Ottewalt returned her attention to the road. “I have this feeling that you’ve actually done this before.”

  “Actually, this one has pretty much been a new one even for me,” Bolan admitted. He gazed out the window and saw the lines of hills fly by. Traffic was extremely light and nearly devoid of emergency vehicles. Outside the radio jamming zone citizens were being asked to keep off the roads and stay in their homes. “But this last part here? Yeah, that I have done. I always take care of my team.”

  “He’s going to get Kal a presidential pardon,” Patrick offered. “But Dad and I suck. We’re guilty, and have to pay for our crimes.”

  “So why did you two volunteer for a suicide mission, then?” Ottewalt asked.

  “Deputy, have you ever been in Duivelstad?” Rudy asked in return.

  Ottewalt smiled for the first time. “Something about fresh air, sunshine and a ride in the car?”

  “Something like that, and not getting blown up.”

  “Deputy?” Bolan asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve already done me a huge favor by getting me and my team out of the cordon around Duivelstad.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that the Aryan Circle has a nuke. They’re going to be willing to kill to keep it, and most likely light it off rather than lose it. If you can get us close to wherever they run to ground, you can drop us off and run, try to get a piece of Blue Mountain between you and the detonation.”

  “That is a mighty tempting offer.” Ottewalt locked her big brown eyes on Bolan’s blue ones. “But do you remember that oath I made you escapees take up at the mine?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, before I put on this badge, I took it, too.”

  “Officer Ottewalt in the house! Large and in charge!” Patrick pumped his fists. “Winning!”

  “I warned you...”

  “You warned me about ‘awesome!’ I said ‘winning!’”

  “No, I’m warning you about ‘large and in charge....’”

  “He’s a bit irrepressible,” Bolan stated.

  “I noticed.”

  Kurtzman spoke over the chat window. “Linder has left I-81. Breaking north.”

  “North?” Bolan gazed at the map on the tablet. North of the satellite tracking was the equivalent of a Pennsylvania little Big Empty.

  “North!” Ottewalt’s eyes flared with the lightning bolt of inspiration. They were already traveling at well over the speed limit. Bolan was pushed back in his seat as Ottewalt stomped on the gas. “Oh, that son of a bitch!”

  The Computer Room, Stony Man Farm, Virginia

  “NORTH?” TOKAIDO STARED quizzically. North of that stretch of I-81 there was very little in the way of roads or major towns, and few highways. “He’s pulling off, apparently into—”

  Kurtzman suddenly sat up straight in his wheelchair. “Frackville!”

  “Is that some kind of Battlestar Galactica reference?”

  “No...”

  “So what is the significance of the charming borough of Frackville, exactly?”

  Kurtzman had been crunching a great deal of data on Pennsylvania’s correctional facilities the past few days. He began touching points on his screen and lighting them up on his map and Tokaido’s.

  “Frackville is home to the Corrections Department and the maximum security State Correctional Institution. The United States Prison Bureau is just ten miles south, in Minersville. Schuylkill County Prison is about equidistant in Pottsville, and Columbia County Prison is about twenty miles north.

  “It’s like corrections central. Who knew?” Tokaido said.

  “Linder does. He’s been the warden of Duivelstad for more than two decades. He has spies and connections throughout both state and federal corrections. I bet a lot of people on both sides of the bars in all of them owe him favors, and I bet he knows where a hell of a lot of bodies are buried. I suspect he’ll have all the help he needs to lay low, get his retirement finances collected, and facilitate his safe transportation out of the state and out of the country.”

  “He’s taking Lehigh Avenue north, and he’s turning!” Tokaido zoomed the imager. “He’s pulling into a warehouse! He’s inside! We no longer have eyes on the target.”

  Kurtzman pulled up the address and hit his communications tab. “Striker, target has gone to ground in Frackville.”

  “I know,” Bolan replied. “Give me the address.”

  * * *

  SCOTT DROVE INTO the warehouse. He rolled past four guards with Uzi submachine guns. The men nodded at him respectfully and with awe. Scott nodded back. “Gentlemen.”

  He stopped the van and killed the engine as the warehouse door rattled down behind him. Two very dangerous men stepped out of the shadows. Warren Coburn’s head gleamed in the overhead lighting, but that was because he was bald rather than a skinhead. In cargo pants, a pink dress shirt and wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked like a middle-aged banker on casual Friday. He had long ago forgone the outward trappings of the supremacist movement and was one of the Aryan Circle’s most deadly undercover operatives. Assassination and arson were his specialties. He had earned his CPA certification, had a thriving small practice in Allentown and moved a lot of illegal Aryan money.

  William “Wild Bill” Monahan on the other hand was a mountain of a man with the long hair, grizzled beard and leather-and-denim regalia of an outlaw biker. The affable giant played Santa Claus during his club’s toys for sick children drive. The self-same Santa had once dismembered three men alive with an ax. He had commemorated the act with the tattoo of a bloody fire ax with the Roman numeral III beneath it. Wherever he alighted for any length of time he had an ax nearby. One lay on a crate close at hand in the warehouse. Coburn was practically a myth in Pennsylvania crime circles. Wild Bill was a genuine legend.

  Scott leaned his head out the window and grinned. “Greetings, brothers!”

  The three men all bore the same Aryan Circle branded over their hearts.

  Scott, Linder and Schoenaur piled out. Schoenaur’s hand stopped short of hovering for the fast draw. Aryans and former Corrections personnel stared at each other. Scott was positively jovial. “Brothers, may I introduce Ulysses Linder and Roger Schoenaur.”

  Monahan’s laugh boomed off the warehouse walls. “The Big U himself!” The big man shoved out his hand. “You know, I’ve spent a significant portion of my life hoping to never meet you. Pleased to make your acquaintance!”

  The tension broke and they shook hands.

  Monahan gave Schoenaur’s right paw a dubious look and his own hand hovered. “I don’t know...I’ve heard stories about this...”

  “Wild Bill’s a card!” Scott laughed.

  Schoenaur slapped his hand into Monahan’s and shook. “You’re on the right side of the bars, Bill, and I’m retired.”

  Coburn shook hands with both Corrections men, but his eyes were calculating. “You’re a man short.”

  “Link sort of failed to live up to expectations,” Linder growled.

  “Waste of good heroin if you ask me.” Schoenaur spit. “That shit was one hundred percent pure.”

  “Heroin was how the old fuck entered Duivelstad, and heroin was how he left,” Linder said. “I admire the irony of it.”

  “Goddamned poetic,” Monahan agreed.

  Coburn shot Scott a look. Business was business. The Aryan Circle played by certain rules.

  Scott nodded sadly. “I don’t like breaking a deal, either, Warren, but Link just didn’t live up to his end. He
was supposed to light that candle and eliminate all traces. Duivelstad is still mostly standing. Now, none of us here assembled would talk, but old Link, he was indeed a degenerate hophead. A couple days without a fix and it wouldn’t take much more than a stiff breeze to roll him over.”

  Coburn eyed Linder and Schoenaur. “Then we’re keeping Link’s share of the money, and his junk.”

  Scott shrugged casually. “Oh, let’s just split it four ways and part company as pals.”

  “You can keep the junk,” Linder offered. “We don’t have the time to worry about trying to move it.”

  “I’m amenable,” Monahan said. “Speaking of business, what do you say, Ulysses? You bring that big bad bitter pill we heard tell about?”

  Linder unslung the canvas bag from his shoulder and set it on a crate. He unzipped the bag and the five men contemplated the thermonuclear weapon.

  “Shee-it.” Monahan shook his head wonderingly. “You really fucking delivered, Force.”

  Scott nodded at Linder and Schoenaur benevolently. “Had a lot of help, Bill.”

  “Speaking of which,” Linder said. “You bring the money?”

  Coburn set three briefcases next to the bomb. “As agreed. The new IDs and documents are inside and we have two clean vehicles out back.” The killer opened one case and swiftly began sorting the banded stacks of Whitmore’s share into four equal piles.

  “You guys hungry?” Monahan asked. “We got a barbecue in the back. We can burn you a steak and open a jug of something.”

  Coburn snapped out his phone and stared at his incoming text. “Hoder says there’s two gnarly-looking clones outside with Thompson submachine guns.”

  “Who’s Hoder?” Linder asked.

  “Our guy on the roof,” Monahan answered. “Who are Tweedledum and Tweedledee going Untouchables outside my door?”

  “My guys outside,” Linder replied. “The Totts twins. They’re good people. Reliable. I’ve used them on jobs outside D-Town before. You want to let them in?”

  Scott regarded Linder drily. “A little extra insurance?”

  “Never hurts,” the ex-warden replied.

  Monahan shrugged. “Well, hell, I brought enough beer for everybody. There ain’t no reason to go outside tonight except maybe to get caught. Let’s party!”