by Ethan Cross
Jerry Dunn stepped forward and said, “I get the point, boss.”
Maggie made a mental note of that word. Boss. His use of that word held all kinds of implications. Not only that Demon was in charge, but that it was also in the capacity of employer to employee.
Demon said, “I’m not sure that you do. Given that this is a pattern of behavior, and not just an isolated incident. You need to get on with your mission. Pretend that I’m not here. Can you do that? Or do I need to slit her throat to take away the distraction?”
Ackerman said, “I won’t allow that to happen.”
Demon said, “You’ve been quiet … and surprising. I understand Jerry fooling her. But he fooled you as well?”
Ackerman laughed and said, “No, I’ve been aware of Officer Dunn being a traitor for some time now.”
Maggie turned her glare from Jerry to Ackerman. She said, “Bullshit. If you knew he was playing us then why didn’t you stop him?”
Ackerman said, “Because you just ordered all of us to surrender. If you were trying to signal me to attack somehow, then I missed it. We definitely need to work on our communication skills, regardless.”
“I meant before that. Before that thing came out of the hole.”
Ackerman looked at her with confusion in his eyes. He said, “Was that meant to be some kind of double entendre or innuendo, because, if so, then I totally didn’t get it. This is what I’m saying with the communication skills.”
“Why didn’t you do your thing on Jerry at any point if you knew that he was a traitor?”
“Because I thought you were working an angle on him.”
“I don’t buy it. You may have been suspicious, but you had no real way of knowing.”
Ackerman said, “As soon as I saw the control room and the way security is lined out, I knew that it was him. Once you reach this room, you can lock down the elevators and isolate yourself. It looks like an old system. Something built into the original elevator designs. It wouldn’t be connected to the security system. Not dependent on their technology. If that is engaged, then only someone already in here could give someone outside access; hence the necessity of a traitor in our midst to give access to the prisoners. Specifically, access for Lash and his men.”
Demon added, “But Jerry abandoned his post.”
Jerry said, “Let’s talk about this in private, please. And I obviously still left it unlocked. Our friends here need to get bracelets and anklets, we need to get the security system back up, and we need to make sure that Lash’s men have secured the manufacturing facility.”
Demon looked at Ackerman for a few long seconds and then said, “Don’t make me kill all of you. The plan requires hostages, so it’s actually not something that would help my end goals.”
As they walked off, Maggie whispered, “You didn’t know for sure that Jerry was the traitor.”
Ackerman said, “I asked one of our correctional friends, and he informed me that there are always two men on guard up here. There’s a log and a calendar by the door. I checked them. Jerry was scheduled to work security here in the control center during this shift.”
“Well, aren’t you the detective.”
“No, little sister, that’s your job, but I do like to play. And I like to win. Remember this for me, please. When the time comes, you need to stall your admirer using his devotion and his insecurity. I’ll come for you. Don’t worry.”
Maggie said, “What? You criticize my communication skills and now you’re talking in riddles?”
Lash kicked Ackerman in the stomach. It was a solid effort from the ULF leader. Lash had lowered his toe and buried his shoe in Ackerman’s gut. A firm, painful blow that left Ackerman doubled over.
“Leave him alone,” she screamed.
Lash kicked her too and said, “You two are lucky that you’re federal agents and we need some VIP hostages. Mr. Demon convinced me to spare you. But you’re convicts now. You’re in my world. I make the rules, and I say that convicts don’t speak. If I hear either of your voices again, I will kill you both, hostages or not.”
Maggie kept her mouth shut. She waited for Ackerman to make some smartass comment, but he said nothing. That surprised her a bit, but then she thought of what Ackerman had told her earlier: fearless didn’t mean stupid.
*
With staggering speed and efficiency, the inmates had locked down Foxbury and isolated it from the world. Marcus considered the time and money spent planning and coordinating something like this. The first of the sheriff’s men through the tunnel had been ambushed by armed men and pushed back. Then they had tried to approach over land, but they encountered fire from a high-powered rifle in that direction. A part of him knew that they were already too late to stop the uprising, but his family was in there, and Marcus needed to do something.
To Andrew and Sheriff Hall, he said, “Maybe we can toss smoke grenades down the tunnel and take it by force.”
Hall said, “I have no doubt we could take the tunnel and reach the door, but what if it’s locked or we find a trap or heavy resistance on the other side. We don’t know enough about what we’re walking into.”
Andrew said, “He’s right. We’re blind here, and who knows what they’re planning. They’re obviously more organized than we thought.”
Marcus said, “We’re like an hour into this revolt, and they have armed men guarding the perimeter. I’d say they’re about as organized as it gets. And we’re still just playing their game. We have to get in front of this.”
The sound of footsteps echoed from around the corner, followed by the leader of the tactical team. The man was blond with blue eyes, short, and stocky. He carried himself in a way that spoke of experience and confidence. He said, “We think they’re using some kind of jamming devices for cell phones and radios. I have one of my guys trying to figure out a way to break through the jamming or at least figure out a way for our team to stay in communication.”
Andrew said, “What about the computer system? Were your men able to get anything done with that?”
“So far, they’re completely locked out.”
Marcus pulled a device out of his pocket that appeared to be a thumb drive. But it was actually much more than that. He handed the small device to Sheriff Hall and said, “Have your men plug that into the USB port of any workstation. It connects to the Internet through its own cellular signal and will allow our IT expert to access the system here remotely.”
Andrew shook his head and said, “He can plug it in, Marcus, but it won’t do any good. At least not until we figure out the jamming. If the cellular signals are being blocked, then Stan won’t be able to connect. And I’m betting its military-grade jamming equipment.”
Sheriff Hall added, “Of course it is. Nothing but the best for these assholes.”
Marcus considered their options. They could take some men and try to approach the prison from its far side. But that way was nothing but scorched earth and wide-open spaces. A sniper would spot them easily and could finish them at his leisure. Then again, if they acted quickly, they would still have the cover of darkness.
Marcus said, “Sheriff, you’re pretty intimately acquainted with Foxbury’s security, correct?”
“Yes, sir. That was part of the agreement for allowing this place into my county.”
“I imagine your county got a pretty sweet deal out of it.”
Hall said, “It seemed so at the time.”
Marcus asked, “Do you know if they have access to night vision or thermal—”
One of the SWAT officers interrupted Marcus, yelling, “We have someone coming down the tunnel!”
*
Marcus pulled his Sig Sauer pistol, dropped into a crouch beside a machine that reminded him of a giant version of a toy he had watched Dylan use to squish Playdough, and shined his flashlight in the direction of the tunnel. The big machine smelled strongly of rubber and grease. It wasn’t new, which didn’t surprise Marcus. Powell had probably purchased all of this ind
ustrial equipment in bulk for ten cents on the dollar.
The others performed similar maneuvers and took up positions beside various pieces of equipment around the mouth of the tunnel’s access point. The exit reminded Marcus of the tunnel to the bullpen at Yankee Stadium. If that had been the case and he was nine years old again watching Andy Hawkins pitch to Wade Boggs, then the tactical team would have had the reliever—who would have been Dave Righetti in that memory—covered from every angle.
The man who stepped from the tunnel wasn’t Dave Righetti. But Marcus did recognize him, and he was a minor celebrity.
The man’s name was Oren Kimble, and Marcus had seen his case on the news. Kimble had slaughtered twenty-seven people and injured thirty-two others at a shopping mall outside of Akron, Ohio. Kimble had walked in with an assault rifle and a bag full of pipe bombs and extra mags. He was probably the second most famous prisoner at Foxbury.
Kimble had his hands up and said, “Don’t shoot. He told me to deliver a message.”
Marcus said, “Everyone hold position.”
Andrew instantly moved behind Kimble and checked him visually for any weapons, explosives, or traps. He and Andrew had practiced and performed this dance several times. There was almost always more than meets the eye, and they had to remain ever vigilant considering the type of criminal they hunted.
Andrew gave Marcus a nod and then took up a position behind the inmate. Marcus kept his Sig to his eye but stepped out to meet Kimble.
He said, “Who sent the message?”
“Officer Jerry Dunn.”
Up close, Oren Kimble didn’t seem scary at all. Nothing like the way the media portrayed him. Kimble seemed like a scared kid, one who had once upon a time found himself at a mall with an assault rifle while off his medication.
“What’s the message?”
“He told me to give you this and come back.” Kimble reached for his wrist.
Marcus saw Andrew tense, and he said, “Slowly, Mr. Kimble.”
Kimble stopped altogether and glanced over his shoulder, apparently just now noticing Andrew’s presence behind him. Not great instincts from the kid. Marcus supposed that was why Kimble was in Foxbury, considering that he had been taken down from behind by a security guard and a soccer mom, instead of getting to have his big moment of suicide-by-cop glory.
In Marcus’s experience back in Brooklyn, the offenders who committed suicide by cop were just stupid kids who felt unloved and unwanted and felt the need to go out in a blaze of glory. Those offenders never truly considered how their actions affected others, including the cops who finally ended them. Clean shooting or not, justified or not, killing always screwed with a cop’s head.
Kimble pulled up his left sleeve to reveal the bracelet that all the inmates at Foxbury wore. The difference here was that Kimble had two shock bracelets, one latched to his wrist, and one hanging there unconnected. Kimble removed the extra bracelet and held it out to Marcus.
Marcus hesitated for a second as he weighed the dangers, but then he accepted the device.
The instant that his skin made contact and Kimble’s grip released, the speaker on its side came to life. There was at first a vibration in the bracelet. His first instinct was to drop it, but then he realized it was just signaling an incoming announcement.
“Agent Williams. Good to see you again,” said the voice coming from the shock bracelet’s speaker. Marcus recognized the voice as belonging to the shy young man he had met earlier in the day.
Jerry Dunn said, ‘“The device works like a speaker phone. You can respond.”
“Are you watching us on the camera system of the prison, or does the bracelet have a built-in camera too?”
“If you’re asking whether or not I am in complete control of Foxbury Correctional Treatment Facility, including the building you’re standing in, then the answer is yes. I am in complete control.”
To emphasize the point, all of the lights in the building returned to normal. The red emergency glow transitioned to white, and the sprinkler system activated.
*
It rained on them for maybe ten seconds. Just long enough to make sure they were good and wet. To Marcus, the cool water felt kind of refreshing.
He said, “Cute.”
He heard Jerry laughing on the other end. Marcus listened a moment, not to Jerry’s laughter but to the background noise of the control room. Then he said, “Your speech impediment seems to have cleared up.”
“Do you have a problem with people with speech impediments?”
“No, I have a problem with people who don’t have the balls to be themselves.”
“Sticks and stones, Agent Williams. That little demonstration I just gave you was merely a taste of the mythological level of power I now wield. I’m like the god of lightning here. And Thor has a message for you. Actually, it’s less of a message and more of a declaration. Foxbury is mine now. I will politely ask you to vacate the premises. Pull your men back to the outer perimeter and wait for my demands.”
“Demands imply hostages. How do we know that you’re really in control over there?”
“In control?”
“We have to know that we’re talking to the right guy.”
“Get out now. It’s the last time I’ll ask nicely.”
Marcus said, “And if we refuse to abandon the manufacturing facility?”
The small speaker sat silent for only a few seconds, and then Jerry said, “You ever play that game ‘Imagine If.’ Great for road trips. Let me just demonstrate. Imagine if I had captured all of the guards and staff and had attached these bracelets and anklets to their hands and feet. And then imagine if, at any point, I had the power to do this to any or all of them.”
Marcus said, “Sheriff? How powerful are the shocks these restraints can administer?”
“Umm, something’s happening with my …”
Oren Kimble started by dancing around and trying to remove his wireless restraints. And then he started screaming. Then convulsing. And then Kimble’s eyes rolled back into his head.
They tried to help. They stepped on his hands and feet and then his chest to keep Kimble from harming himself during a convulsion. They tried to pry the bracelets off him.
But then he started smoking.
Marcus said, “How much electricity can those things possibly hold?”
The sheriff was trying to keep down Kimble’s left foot. He said, “They get their juice wirelessly somehow.”
“How do we turn that off? Can we cut power going to them?”
“I don’t know how it works. Seemed like magic to me.”
“Maybe we could—”
The electrical output and Kimble’s seizure stopped more abruptly than it had begun. His convulsing ceased altogether. All at once. One second, Kimble was spasming, and the next, he was still.
Everyone stepped back and looked at Kimble’s smoldering, lifeless body. Andrew moved forward and cautiously checked him for a pulse. He shook his head. Kimble was gone. Probably died at the same instant the shaking stopped. Or, rather, the electrical output ceased when the system no longer registered a heartbeat. Saint Nick was always watching. He knew if you were alive or dead.
Over the speaker of the bracelet, which Marcus had discarded to help Kimble, Jerry Dunn said, “You have thirty seconds to leave my domain, or I will send someone else down the tunnel for you to watch fry. And this time, it won’t be a mass murderer. It will be a guard or technician. Maybe Warden Powell. Maybe Ms. Spinelli. Maybe your undercover consultant, Mr. Alexei. Or perhaps Agent Carlisle. I could send any of them down the tunnel. They are all in my custody. They are all my prisoners. My subjects. Do I need to send one of them on the long walk in order for you to understand?”
Marcus gritted his teeth. They had failed. He had failed.
He said, “Wheels up, everyone. We’re pulling back.”
*
The guard shack at Foxbury’s outer perimeter had a small break room, maybe fifteen feet wide an
d twenty feet deep. It was equipped with everything from vending machines and microwaves to a kitchen table and refrigerator. A large whiteboard dominated one end and was filled with announcements from the shift commander. Marcus supposed it was as good a place as any to be their siege headquarters.
Once they pulled back, the sheriff had taken charge of his men and went to work establishing an airtight perimeter. They had reinforcements coming in from every surrounding branch of law enforcement. But it took time to mobilize people and resources, especially in the middle of the night. Still, the perimeter had its own security system independent of the main prison, so it was highly unlikely that anyone could escape the outer perimeter undetected, even without extra boots on the ground.
The correctional officer’s break room smelled like burnt coffee, and it made Marcus crave a cup. He found the pot in the corner, a big old commercial unit, the kind found in restaurants the world over. As Marcus reached the machine, he saw that someone had left just enough coffee in the bottom of the carafe to create a mess. The remnants were still heating and bubbling, staining the glass carafe with a burnt black tar that would have to be scraped out.
Marcus took one look at it, snatched it from its cradle, and threw it like a fastball. It exploded against the white block wall a few feet away.
He heard everyone else inside the guard shack go quiet, but no one said a word. He didn’t turn around. He just stood there feeling like an idiot, like a child throwing a tantrum. After a moment, the volume slowly faded back up as everyone went back to what they were doing.
From behind him, Andrew said, “I understand how you’re feeling, but did you have to take it out on the coffee pot?”
“It had it coming.”
“The Director asked if you would have a problem with Valdas taking over from here in regard to negotiations and rescue operations.”
Marcus said, “That’s why he’s here. And there’s nothing that I can do to help Maggie and my brother at this point. Unless we can get ahead of our friend Judas.”
“What do you mean?”
Marcus walked over to the large whiteboard. A small tray hung from the board’s right corner and held an eraser and some markers. First, Marcus used the rectangular eraser pad to clean the officers’ assignments and announcements. Then he picked up a red marker from the tray and wrote, “Jerry Dunn.”