Chaser

by J. A. Konrath

  Fabler smiled. “Why the hell not?” He spoke into his cell. “Jamal, have this McGlade guy call me. Thanks for passing this along.”

  “I’ll tell him, Fabler.”

  Fabler hung up and grinned.

  I think this is going to turn out well, he thought.

  HUGO

  One more shit day.

  The Man With the Seven Tears breathes in the outside air like he’s getting high off it.

  In a way, he is.

  He’s alone, except for his two bull escorts standing a few meters behind him.

  Outdoor privileges in a supermax prison last an hour, weather permitting, whim of the guards permitting, clean record permitting.

  A year ago, Hugo had been caught sexually assaulting a Muslim terrorist jackass who had twice as many life sentences as he did even though he hadn’t killed half as many people. As a result, Hugo spent seven months in solitary.

  A long time. I almost forgot what clouds looked like.

  After being let out of the hole, he’d gotten an upgrade; a shared cell and restored yard privileges, albeit not in general pop, but rather a fenced-off exercise area the size of a dog run.

  It’s only a matter of time until the bulls catch him raping again, or the new bitch squeals.

  So he enjoys the sunbeams like they’re prime Peruvian flake, sucks in the cool morning air like it’s Thailand hash, stretches out his arms as far as his jewelry—the belly chain wrist and ankles shackles—allow. He stares off into the plains, which are only one chain link fence, one barbed wire fence, one electric fence, and four rifle towers away from him, barely out of reach.

  Razor wire coiled between the perimeter fences, of course.

  And armed guards patrolling the perimeter.

  And ten square miles of nothing but fallow cornfields and marshes in every direction.

  Not one successful escape in Cofferdale’s twenty-two year history.

  I don’t hold out much hope for Ilse Koch.

  But seeing her had lifted Hugo’s spirits higher than they’d been in years.

  Before she came, the best I could hope for was a chance to kill my lawyer at my next parole hearing.

  But now I’m daring to dream of a future beyond these concrete walls.

  Maybe… just maybe… I’ll get out of here someday.

  Maybe I’ll even have a chance to track my little brother down.

  Maybe I’ll be able to take out eleven years of locked-up frustration out on his boney little body.

  Hugo bends down, touches his toes, wonders if he pulled on the leg cuff with all of his strength which would break first; the steel or his bone.

  Then he hears it.

  Something rumbling.

  Something mechanical.

  Something big.

  Farming equipment?

  Nothing to harvest, too late to plant.

  He can’t see the road leading up to the facility; that’s on the other side of the building. But it doesn’t sound like the supply truck, or the bus bringing in fresh meat.

  This sounds…

  Tougher.

  Hugo holds his breath, trying to pinpoint the growing noise, scanning the featureless, flat horizon.

  There, in the distance…

  What the hell is that?

  When Hugo had been recruited by the Order, he spent hundreds of hours memorizing military minutiae. Uniforms and medals and weapons and vehicles, specifically from Germany and the US.

  This thing, he doesn’t recognize.

  But he knows what it is.

  Cutting through the cornfield, coming at about thirty miles per hour, is something boxy and greenish-grey, rolling on heavy tank treads.

  An armored personnel carrier.

  Hugo stays still, waiting for the bulls to notice it. The guard to prisoner ratio at Cofferdale is unusually high; about 2:3. A curse if you are a prisoner trying to break any of the hundreds of strict rules. But also a blessing, because a false sense of security plus a lot of bored guys leads to a lapse in discipline. Hugo had no idea how quickly they’d notice an approaching tank, or if they had contingencies for dealing with a tank, or if they even had firepower strong enough to fight it.

  This will be interesting.

  Hugo began to stretch, doing a hip twist to see his two bull escorts.

  Neither had noticed the armored vehicle rapidly approaching.

  How will this go down?

  Guard towers will see it first. Sound the alarm.

  Then lockdown. The two guards assigned to Hugo would immediately bring him inside.

  Or at least try to.

  Firearms aren’t allowed in the main prison building. Only in the towers. Too great a risk of an inmate taking one.

  Which meant these two are only armed with batons, pepper spray, tasers.

  There are two towers that have eyes on him, snipers with rifles.

  But those odds beat being taken back inside. The doors are thick steel, walls reinforced concrete, correctional officers armed with teargas cannisters and flashbang grenades and beanbag shotguns in case of a riot.

  I need to stay frosty until the towers notice the tank. Then I need to make my move.

  Hugo steadied his breathing, tensing and relaxing his muscles to get them pumped up with blood.

  Wait for the siren.

  Wait for it.

  Wait for it.

  Wait for it.

  The shrill screech is pure music.

  Hugo Troutt, pumped up to over three hundred pounds thanks to a decade of nonstop exercise, finally gets to test the strength of the chains binding him as he grunts and tugs his hands upward in an explosive, jerking move.

  His right hand manages to snap free, and he turns on the bulls as they both reach for their utility belts.

  Mace. Batons. Tasers.

  Doesn’t matter what they grab.

  To me, they’re all toys.

  He rushes them, limited by his ankle cuffs, barely aware of the rifles booming behind him, intuitively knowing they’re shooting at the tank, grabbing one guard by the neck, squeezing and feeling his trachea split like an apple core, feeling a stab in the side as the other guard shoots the taser.

  It hurts.

  But I’ve been hurt a lot worse.

  Hugo’s muscles contract just as he falls sideways, and as he goes down he flails out an arm, dislodging one of the metal electrode wires, and then he reaches out and grabs the guard’s belt.

  The bull presses the taser into Hugo—it can also stun by touch—but Hugo is already tugging on his arm, yanking it out of the shoulder socket, twisting bone and muscle and sinew until the man passes out.

  He chances a look at the tank, and it is almost at the first perimeter fence, not slowing down, smashing into it with a brilliant flash of electric ZAP!, tearing through the razor wire, and punching through the second fence, heading for the yard.

  Still jacked up on adrenaline, Hugo reaches down for his ankle chain, wraps it around his massive wrist, and yanks, snapping it in half. Bullets are pinging off the asphalt in front of him, and he pulls both guards on top of him, assuming they won’t shoot one of their own, and waits to see what happens next.

  What happens next is beautiful.

  The tank barrels through the yard and comes to a sparking, screeching halt, flattening the exercise enclosure fence, peppered by bullets that do no greater damage than scratching the paint. Then the huge machinegun, mounted on a turret above the hatch, points at the nearest gun tower and unleashes fifty caliber hell.

  Hugo takes that as his signal. Holding up an unconscious guard one-handed, wielding him like a shield, he moves in a quick crouch toward the back of the armored vehicle, squatting there as the tailgate opens, seeing Ilse standing inside, clad in full body armor, wielding dual revolvers.

  He snaps the guard’s neck—never leave an injured man behind—and flops sideways into the carrier before the door fully opens. Hugo recognizes the interior from old books; it’s a mobile command center circa
1975; ugly and low tech with corrugated steel flooring, peeling Army-green paint on the walls and shelves, two lengthwise bus benches with their leather cushions long ago shredded, and round, black analog dials surrounding the cockpit where a second woman sits, one hand on the W-shaped steering wheel, the other spitting lead with the M2.

  As the rear hatch closes, Hugo turns his attention back to the woman in the black leather double-fisting iron. Single shot revolvers.

  Cowboy guns.

  “What should I call you?” he asks.

  “The Cowboy.”

  “I’ve heard of you. White slavery. Heroin. You’re good with those.”

  The Cowboy doesn’t answer. Hugo guesses she would be able to put two bullets in his head before he reached her throat.

  “Who’s the merc?”

  “Her name is Hammett.”

  Hugo hasn’t heard of her, but the woman is showing herself to be ridiculously competent.

  “Need anything?” the Cowboy calls to her partner.

  “I’m good. Fuck him once for me.”

  These are my kind of ladies.

  I should remember my manners.

  “I don’t thank many people, but I appreciate you getting me out of there.”

  “It was expensive.”

  “I bet. You want to know how to find my brother.”

  The Cowboy nods.

  “If we actually get away, I’ll take you there myself.”

  “We’ll get away. We’re in the sticks, and they can’t follow through the corn field. Nearest police chopper takes twenty-eight minutes to get here. By then we’ll be across the lake and parked inside a semi-trailer.”

  “The lake? This tank is amphibious?”

  The Cowboy nods.

  They thought of everything.

  “I asked for some stuff,” Hugo says.

  “There’s a Desert Eagle and a straight razor in the backpack on the shelf behind you, along with some clothes and shoes that should fit. There are also shackle keys in the zippered pocket… assuming you didn’t break the mechanisms.”

  Hugo takes the pack, finds the keys, takes off his cuffs. Then he begins to strip, liking the Cowboy’s eyes on him.

  Never seen a man like me before.

  Never been a man like me before.

  “Keeping a tally?” the Cowboy asks.

  Her eyes drop to his shin.

  Forty-nine lines.

  A scar for each person I’ve killed.

  “I just got two more. The guards. Do you mind?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The Man With Seven Tears finds the straight razor in the backpack, and slowly swivels the blade from the handle.

  It’s not as nice as my old razor.

  But it’s shiny and sharp.

  I bet it could part skin softer than a whisper.

  He places it against his leg and carves two lines.

  Even with the rumble of the tank, and the noise of the bumpy terrain, Hugo can hear as the Cowboy begins to breathe a little heavier.

  He takes off his underwear without hesitating.

  “How about that blowjob?” he asks.

  “Seems like you’re the one who owes me.”

  Hugo grins. “Then peel off those leather pants and let me show you how grateful I am.”

  I bet she won’t do it.

  And then she does. Keeping one gun at the ready. Keeping her eyes on his the whole time.

  She’s just as excited as I am.

  So strange to be with someone who isn’t cringing in fear.

  Or pain.

  But this woman knows pain.

  Look at her legs.

  Her legs are incredible.

  “So many scars,” Hugo says. “I like scars.”

  He drops to his knees, and the Cowboy presses the barrel of her gun against his forehead.

  “I like that, too,” Hugo says.

  He buries his huge face between her thighs just as the tank hits the lake and begins to bob and rock.

  Turns out this wasn’t a shit day after all.

  Got two kill two people, got freedom, got pussy.

  And now I get another chance to see my little brother.

  Ready or not, Phineas. Here I come.

  PHIN

  I clenched my fists. “You bribed her, McGlade.”

  McGlade, sitting behind a mound of blueberry pancakes at the breakfast bar, spread out his hands. “We had a meeting of the minds, and made a mutually beneficial deal.”

  “Your mutually beneficial deal is hurting her. And hurting our whole family.”

  “Erinyes visited Tom’s house last night.”

  Ah, hell. “Are they okay?”

  “They’re fine. Just shaken up. I invited them to stay here, where it’s safe. They declined.”

  “This is exactly the reason we’re leaving today.”

  “According to who? You? Or Jack?”

  I took a step toward him, and Harry cowered behind his pancake mound. “Violence isn’t the answer, Phin.”

  “This time it will be.”

  “You’re scaring me. And turning me on.”

  I considered smashing his face into the pile of pancakes, but figured that would add to his arousal.

  “Are you going to hit me?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Do you think I look old? Some meanie on my webcast last night said I look old. Do you see wrinkles?”

  I crossed my arms across my chest. “I’m leaving, Harry. With my family.”

  “Look, Phin, brother, it’s only five days. What’s the worst that could happen in five days?”

  “Morning, Uncle Harry! I’m looking for Big Dick?”

  I turned to see Sam running up, smiling like only six-year-olds can smile.

  “Big Dick and Waddlebutt are in their bedroom, still asleep. Did you want some pancakes?”

  “Sure!”

  I took McGlade’s plate, gave it to my daughter, and said, “See if the animals are hungry.”

  “Okay!”

  She toddled off, dropping pancakes, just as Jack came up to us, without leg braces, huffing on her crutches.

  “Your husband is being mean to me,” Harry said.

  “This isn’t open for discussion,” I told them both. “We’re leaving.”

  I expected Jack to protest, but she looked at me with such a tender expression.

  “Okay, Phin. You’re right. I slept like shit, and felt like shit when I told you. Leaving is the smartest thing to do.”

  “Jackie? We had a deal. We shook on it.”

  “We didn’t shake on it, McGlade. You showed me porn.”

  “It’s practically the same thing.”

  “We’re leaving.”

  “I already paid for your exosuit.”

  Jack met my eyes. “Get a refund, Harry. We’re leaving.”

  “Tom was attacked last night.”

  I spun on McGlade. “You said Erinyes went to his house. Not that he was attacked.”

  “If we’re parsing words, it was really more of a property violation than an actual attack. Plus an assault.”

  “An assault?” Jack asked.

  “Sort of a psychological assault. No one was hurt. But he tied a note to their dog.”

  “We’re definitely out of here,” Jack said.

  Okay, then. A united front.

  We needed to leave before anything else happened.

  “Back to Florida?” I asked.

  “We could. Or…”

  “Or?”

  She reached out, held my hand. “Where do you want to live, Phin?”

  I’d never been asked that before. I’d never even considered it. “We really can go anywhere, can’t we?”

  Jack nodded.

  A world of possibilities.

  Somewhere remote? Montana? Wyoming? Idaho?

  Canada? Europe?

  “Harry, can you get us passports?”

  We’d lost McGlade to his phone. I snatched it from him. “Harry. Pay attentio
n. Passports. In different names. Can you get them?”

  Harry lost color.

  “McGlade?”

  “I can get you passports. Of course. The problem is it’ll take a few days, and you need to go now.”

  This was an abrupt turnaround. Not what I expected from Harry at all.

  “Phin… I get Google alerts for certain keywords. You need to see what I was reading.”

  I stared down at Harry’s phone.

  —Daring Cofferdale Prison Escape Leaves Two Dead.

  Cofferdale? Oh… no.

  I scanned the article for the name, and it didn’t take long.

  Hugo Troutt.

  I handed the phone to Jack.

  “Does he know how to find you, Phin?” Harry asked.

  No.

  Unless…

  “Pasha,” Jack said.

  Oh, shit. Pasha.

  Jack took her hand back and said, “Call her.”

  I fished out my cell phone and dialed my ex-girlfriend’s number. I got her voicemail and didn’t leave a message because I couldn’t.

  Jack and I were supposed to be dead. We couldn’t have anyone connected to us.

  But Hugo knew Pasha. Knew we were connected.

  His first stop, after breaking out, would be to go after her.

  “I’ll call Flutesburg PD,” Harry said, taking his phone back. “Get cars out to her office and her apartment.”

  I called her work while McGlade walked across his expansive kitchen, dialing the cops.

  “Good morning, Hearst clinic.”

  “Is Dr. Kapoor in?”

  “She’s not at the moment. Can I take a message?”

  “Is she expected in?”

  “Yes. Can I take a message?”

  “Can you have her call Earl back when she has a chance? Tell her it’s about the reunion.”

  Pasha would know what that meant.

  Assuming she had a chance to call back.

  Jack stared at me, pained. “We could leave Sam here, go to Chicago.”

  “Jesus, Jack. We’re getting out of LA to avoid psychos. I’m not bringing you anywhere near my crazy-ass brother.”

  “So you can help me but I can’t help you?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are you going to her?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. Or like how Jack phrased it.

  “You have to warn her, Phin. And I should be there with you.”