Blackout

by Dawson, Mark

  The guards took their places again, one in front and the other behind. “Move,” the guard behind him said, jabbing him in the back with the point of his baton.

  They escorted him out of the visitors’ block and back toward the main building. He recognised the entrance to the isolation wing, but they passed by it.

  “Where are we going?”

  The guard jabbed him in the kidneys. “Quiet. Walk.”

  They made their way to Building No. 1 and went inside through the main door. They followed the corridor until they reached the stairs, then climbed up to the second floor.

  The door to Milton’s old cell was open.

  Two guards emerged from the cell. They were bearing a stretcher between them. There was a body on the stretcher. Milton looked down at it as the guards negotiated their way around him.

  Isko.

  The man’s eyes were closed and one arm hung limply over the edge of the stretcher.

  He was dead.

  The guard behind Milton put his hand on his shoulder and pushed.

  Milton took another step. He turned and looked into the cell.

  There was a man inside. He was big—much bigger than Milton—and wearing an evil grin.

  Tiny.

  * * *

  HICKS LOOKED at his watch.

  It was ten. Josie had been inside the building for an hour. He had a good view of the prison forecourt from their spot outside the gates. He could see the parking lot and the lawn and, finally, the ostentatious building with its vinyl banner and grand entrance. He had watched her disappear inside, but she had not yet come out.

  He turned and looked into the back of the car. “Well?”

  Ziggy had taken out a USB dongle and inserted it into the port of one of his laptops. He ran his finger down the screen, chewing on his bottom lip. “Here,” he said, finally. “TUUSAN 21. That’s the Bluetooth connection I saw from before.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Running a Linux script. Getting the unique ID of the keyboard.” He paused, dragged his finger across the laptop’s trackpad, and stabbed his finger on the return key. “There,” he said.

  “Done?”

  “I’ve spoofed it to this laptop and paired with the computer.”

  “You’re in?”

  “Nearly.”

  Ziggy’s fingers flashed across the keyboard.

  “How much longer?”

  “Nearly there.”

  “She can’t stay there.”

  “Shut up, Hicks. It’ll take longer if you keep distracting me.”

  He typed in commands and then sat back, leaning against the seat, his hands held up. He turned the laptop around so that Hicks could see the screen. There was a download bar slowly filling with green from left to right.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m connected to the FTP server that has the exploit I wrote last night. I’m uploading it to the computer in the security building.”

  The bar crawled. “It’s taking ages,” Hicks complained.

  “Download speed here is prehistoric,” Ziggy said with a shrug. “Not much I can do about that.”

  The bar was halfway full.

  * * *

  “INSIDE.”

  “Again?”

  “Inside.”

  He jangled the cuffs. “At least take these off. Give me a fighting chance.”

  “Move,” the guard said curtly, putting his hands on Milton’s shoulders and shoving him.

  Milton staggered into the cell. Isko’s bedroll had been shoved to one side; Milton could see splashes of blood on it. He held up his hands. “Come on,” he said. “You just killed an old man. You want to try with someone who can fight back?”

  Tiny dominated the space. His head was just an inch or two beneath the ceiling, and there was barely enough room to pass on either side of him. Milton was close to the door. The guard put his foot against his lower back and pushed, causing him to stumble another two steps inside.

  The door scraped across its runners and then clattered as it crashed into the other side of the doorway, the lock fastening with a loud click.

  Tiny was almost within touching distance.

  “Take these off,” Milton said.

  The big Filipino maintained his hungry grin.

  “You scared?” Milton said.

  “You die now,” Tiny said, his English awkward and halting. He raised his hand up and drew his finger across his throat. “Like your friend.”

  Milton heard excited voices behind him and, when he risked a quick turn of his head, he saw that the guards were still there. They had been joined by three others.

  Front-row seats. The guards were going to watch him take his beating.

  Milton laced his fingers together. He knew that he was outmatched. Tiny was bigger and stronger than he was, and, despite the rest that he had managed to get without being beaten every day, his body was still bruised and sore. In addition to all of that, his hands were cuffed.

  Tiny took a step forward.

  Milton swung both hands at him. It was impossible not to telegraph it, and Tiny leaned away from the clubbing blow, raising one arm and deflecting it with his wrist. Milton lost his balance and stumbled closer in. Tiny crashed his right fist into Milton’s face. It was a quick jab, without too much momentum behind it, but it was still stiff enough to jerk Milton’s head back against his shoulders. He staggered away until his back was up against the bars of the cell door.

  He heard laughter from the watching guards.

  He felt the taste of his own blood in his mouth and spat a gobbet on the floor.

  Tiny smirked.

  Milton laced his fingers together again.

  60

  JOSIE CAME through the security lodge and waited in line to collect her gun and the phone.

  “Josie?”

  She stopped.

  “Wait.”

  She turned. Bruno Mendoza was hurrying in her direction.

  “What are you doing here?” he said.

  Her breath was clenched deep in her gut. “I came to see Smith,” she managed.

  “Why?”

  “I had some questions for him.”

  “More questions?”

  “Loose ends.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mendoza said. “I told you this was finished. I said you were wasting your time. Why did you do what I told you not to do?”

  “I was being thorough. I had to speak to him again.”

  Mendoza reached out and grasped her firmly around the elbow.

  “What are you doing?” she protested.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  He led her into the lobby. She tried to jerk her elbow free, but he just tightened his grip and yanked her after him.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  Mendoza pulled her over to the left, toward the doors that led into the administrative wing of the building. There was a guard sitting at a desk next to the door.

  “Open it,” Mendoza said.

  The man was looking down at his computer. He pressed the return key half a dozen times, each one harder than the last.

  “I’m sorry, sir. My computer is down.”

  Mendoza looked from the guard and then back to Josie. She flinched; there was no way that he could possibly have guessed what Ziggy was trying to do, yet she felt as if he was able to look past the lies and obfuscations and see the truth.

  “Open the door,” Mendoza said.

  The man got up from the desk and opened the door.

  Mendoza yanked on Josie’s elbow, and she followed him inside.

  * * *

  MILTON THUDDED against the wall and then crashed down against the floor.

  Tiny had grabbed him beneath the arms and flung him across the cell. He had managed to twist in mid-air so that he might take the jolt against his back rather than crash into it headlong, but now he was winded. The back of his head had bounced off the stone and, when he looked up, he had to blink away the darkness th
at was leeching around the edges of his vision.

  The big Filipino flexed his shoulders, his muscles bulging.

  Milton scrabbled to his feet.

  Tiny lunged for him.

  Milton was able to duck beneath his grasping hands, crouching low enough so that he could swivel and slide through the narrow gap the big man had left between himself and the wall.

  He stumbled back until he was up against the bars once again.

  He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with as much air as he could.

  He felt a sudden prod against his back. One of the guards had taken out his billy club and was jabbing him with it.

  Milton knew it was hopeless. He was just buying time, but he wouldn’t be able to do that forever.

  * * *

  ZIGGY’S FINGERS flashed across the keys.

  He had downloaded the exploit to the computer. Now he needed to push it into the jail’s wider network. The security was as lax as he had hoped it would be. The network was flat, with no obvious firewalls or air gaps. He could see that he would have control of everything.

  “Where is she?” Hicks said.

  Ziggy ignored him.

  “This shouldn’t have taken so long.”

  The upload bar seemed to hang, the last portion stubbornly refusing to fill up.

  “Ziggy—come on.”

  “The network is slow.”

  “Make it go faster.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  The computer bleeped its satisfaction.

  Ziggy looked down: the download bar was solid blue. “I’m in. Stand by.”

  He knew that he would have to move fast. He typed commands, his fingers a blur.

  He hit return.

  “Here we go,” he said.

  Nothing.

  He looked down at the laptop.

  “Well?” Hicks said.

  The cursor blinked at him.

  “I don’t—”

  He heard the sound of sirens.

  “Is that you?”

  “I told the system that there’s a fire,” Ziggy said. “The doors are programmed to open if that happens.”

  “The cell doors?”

  “All the doors.”

  61

  A LOUD siren blared out.

  Tiny stopped.

  The lights faded out.

  There came a series of clicks and thunks as the locks on all of the doors along the corridor were released.

  The lights flicked back on again.

  The doors juddered and rattled, all of them sliding back.

  One of the guards outside the cell cursed.

  Milton spun around.

  Two of the guards were close. He leapt at the nearest one. The man had his baton in his hand, holding it loosely with his fingers outside the leather strap. Milton lowered his shoulder and tackled him backwards, all the way across the walkway to the metal balustrade that guarded against the drop to the floor below. The guard was lighter than Milton and he was at a disadvantage. Milton reached for the baton, his left hand closing around the wooden shaft. The balustrade served as a fulcrum, the guard’s body arching over it before he overbalanced, the weight of his torso dragging him over the side. He slipped over the edge, crashing down against the concrete floor of the concourse below.

  One down.

  Milton spun around. The guard to his right had managed to take his Taser out of its holster. He was raising his arm to aim it as Milton backhanded him with the baton. The end of the shaft struck him on the side of the head. It was a stunning blow, and the guard dropped to his knees.

  Two down.

  The guard dropped the Taser.

  Milton dropped to one knee and took it.

  He sensed movement from the cell. He swivelled his hips, aimed blindly and fired.

  Tiny was too big to miss. The prongs deployed, one striking the big man in the fat of his belly and the other in his chest. The Taser discharged, fifty thousand volts unloading along the cable for a full five seconds. Tiny started to reach for the darts, but he was overwhelmed by the sudden and uncontrollable contraction of his muscles. His spine straightened before he toppled back like a felled tree, his legs and arms twitching spastically.

  Three down.

  Milton swivelled back. He pushed back up to a standing position and brought the Taser around in a forehand uppercut that cracked into the chin of one of the three remaining guards.

  The man went down, unconscious before his head bounced off the metal walkway.

  Orange-shirted inmates started to emerge from the cells.

  Milton ejected the spent cartridge from the Taser.

  The two guards who were still standing knew that they were in trouble.

  One of them had managed to fumble his baton out of its retaining strap. He swung it at Milton’s head, but the wild swipe was simple enough to duck beneath. Milton swept the man’s legs and, as he landed against the walkway with a heavy thud, he pressed the Taser into the man’s chest and pulled the trigger to stun him.

  More inmates appeared.

  The last guard started to panic.

  He turned away from Milton, but froze. The way ahead was blocked by a clutch of prisoners.

  The man was caught between them and Milton.

  There came an angry shout.

  Milton looked up.

  He saw the elevated booth above them on the other side of the building. It was manned by a guard whose job it was to open the cell doors remotely. The booth was encased in glass, like a bubble, with the glass reinforced by security bars. It offered excellent visibility all along the walkway. The guard had opened the window and was pointing a 12-gauge shotgun through the bars and down at them.

  Milton flung himself into the cell.

  The shotgun boomed.

  Tiny pellets chimed as they rang off the metal. It was birdshot, the same ammunition that sport shooters used to blow up clay pigeons and hunters used to kill birds and rabbits.

  The noise in the walkway changed from jubilation to anger.

  Tiny was still on the floor. The contractions had eased, and his fingers were crawling across his stomach like bloated spiders as he felt for the two darts. Milton looked down at him. Tiny found the darts and plucked them out. He pushed himself into a sitting position.

  Milton thought of the beatings that Tiny had meted out. He didn’t care so much about himself. He thought about the other men whom de Lacey must have thrown to his house thug.

  He thought about Isko.

  Milton slipped behind the big man and looped his cuffed hands over his neck. He clasped both hands together and then pulled until the chain that connected the cuffs was tight against Tiny’s throat.

  The big man knew that he was in trouble.

  He started to struggle, but Milton had the advantage now. He pulled back as hard as he could.

  Tiny was strong. He jerked forward. He managed to get his right foot on the ground and pushed up, hoisting Milton with him.

  Milton’s toes brushed the floor of the cell as Tiny reversed, driving Milton back into the wall.

  The impact was powerful, driving the air from his lungs, but he was tenacious. He held on.

  Tiny tried again.

  Milton tightened his grip and held on.

  He looped his legs around the big man’s waist and leaned back, pulling with everything he had.

  The choke was depressing the carotid artery, starving the brain of oxygen. Most people would have lost consciousness within ten seconds, but Milton knew that the thick muscle in Tiny’s neck would buy him a little extra time.

  Didn’t matter.

  Milton yanked again, his biceps bulging, and, finally, Tiny overbalanced.

  They both hit the ground. Milton gasped from the impact, pinned beneath Tiny’s weight, but he maintained the hold.

  He locked his legs tighter.

  He pulled back harder still.

  Four seconds.

  Eight seconds.

  Tiny’s body went limp.
<
br />   Milton pulled.

  Fifteen seconds.

  He leaned forward, raised his arms and removed the chain from Tiny’s neck. He slid out from beneath the big man’s body.

  There was no time to check, but it wouldn’t have been necessary.

  He was dead.

  62

  “GET OFF ME.”

  Mendoza tugged her deeper into the building.

  “You want to tell me how you knew I was here?” she said.

  “Shut up, Josie.”

  “I’m serious. How did you know? I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “I got a phone call about an officer nosing around in business that didn’t concern her. I tried to tell you.”

  “How deep are you into all this?”

  “All this?”

  “The conspiracy against Milton.”

  “Who?”

  “Smith,” she corrected herself. “Who’s paying you?”

  He ignored her. “I warned you to let it go, but you didn’t listen. You kept pressing and pressing and pressing and now look.”

  “Oh shit,” Josie said, as she made a connection. “Santos said he was going to call the station. Did he call you?”

  Mendoza dragged her onward. He yanked her to the left, through an open doorway and then down a flight of stairs.

  Josie tried to free herself, but he was too strong. “He called you, didn’t he? He left me a message and said that he would. What did he tell you? He told me they had a backup of the security video and that I needed to see it. Were you on the video?”

  “No,” Mendoza said. They reached the bottom of the stairs. They were in the basement. There was no one else there with them.

  “But you went there, didn’t you? You saw the tape. Did you kill them because of it?”

  He stopped short and wheeled around to face her.

  “Admit it, Bruno.”

  His lip curled into a snarl. “I didn’t want to do this, but you haven’t given me a choice.”

  “You didn’t want to do…”

  The sentence trailed off.

  His hand twitched in the direction of his holstered gun.