Breakout Read online

  “Now, I cannot give Striker a direct order,” the President said slowly. “But the stakes are too high for me to wait much longer. He has two days to find Castle, and then I’ll have Homeland Security assume control of the federal prisons.”

  “But you don’t have the authority to do that, sir...unless you declare martial law.”

  “Yes, I know,” the President said wearily, reaching for the stack of folders and opening another sealed pack of top-secret documents....

  Worthington, Ohio

  IN RAGGED STAGES, Bolan awoke to the feeling of flying.

  Automatically his hands shot up to grab for support and they abruptly jerked to a stop from something on his wrists. Groggily, he glanced around and saw that his arms were lashed into place on steel rails with cushioned Velcro straps.

  His body armor had been removed, along with most of his clothing, there was tubing attached to a needle in his left arm and he was covered with white bandages and a few shiny plastic spots. That had to be that weird plastic stuff doctors were using more and more often these days instead of stitching a small wound closed, he thought.

  There were also three other beds that he could see, each of them containing a plastic body bag, also tightly strapped into place.

  As the small room bounced, Bolan suddenly realized that he was inside a speeding ambulance. Somebody had to have heard the gunfight and called for the police, and they’d found him unconscious on the street. The driver of the ambulance was in terrible danger if Johnson and his people came back for the corpses.

  Just then, a folded partition at the front of the compartment slide aside and a young woman walked closer, her hands never leaving the ceiling straps. She was pretty, not wearing any makeup, her hair tightly pulled back in a bun. The nurse was wearing standard light green scrubs and white sneakers. Her name tag read Johnson, Columbus General Hospital.

  That jarred Bolan for a second, and then he accepted that it had to just be a coincidence. If this was the wife or sister of the giant from Castle, he never would have woken up in the first place.

  “Well, I see you’re awake,” Johnson said soothingly. “Please don’t move around and ruin my handiwork.”

  “Nurse Johnson, listen to me very carefully,” Bolan said, putting as much power into his voice as possible. “I’m an undercover DEA agent, and you are in terrible danger as long as I and those bodies are on board.”

  “Sure, of course.” She smiled gently. “Now, we’re only a few minutes away from the E.R....”

  “Get us out of this vehicle now!”

  She paused in concern. “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. The people I’m dealing with will kill anybody who gets in their way. Nurses, nuns, small children...anybody. Please, stop the ambulance, and dump us on the street, then get out of here!”

  She started to smile, but it turned into a frown. “Got any identification?”

  “Not when I’m undercover, damn it,” Bolan snapped, the muscles in his arms bunching as he strained against the straps. “No, wait... Yes, I do! Is there a police officer on board? Maybe the driver?”

  “No,” Johnson said, “but my fiancé is a cop...as well as my brother, my father and one of my uncles.”

  “Excellent!” Bolan sighed in relief. “Check the bullets in my gun. It must still be on board.”

  “I...ah, do what now?”

  “Please, time is pressing,” he said as the ambulance took a corner. “Either I’m full of it or I’m a cop. Choose fast.”

  Scowling darkly, Johnson looked hard at the man for a long minute, then turned and opened a wall cabinet. Inside was a clear plastic bag filled with his muddy and bloody belongings.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this...” she muttered, opening the seal and rummaging around inside to withdraw the Beretta.

  Dropping the magazine, she thumbed out a live round and held it up to the ceiling light. “And what exactly am I looking for?”

  “Check the base,” Bolan stated. “If you actually come from a family of cops, you’ll know it when you see it. Oh, damn. Wait a minute. Those have serial numbers. Mine are unmarked. I had to get a refill from one of these guys.”

  “I know that every round has a manufacturer number for identification,” Johnson stated. “Unless...”

  Feeling the mounting pressure of time, Bolan said nothing, letting the nurse get to the conclusion on her own.

  “...unless it’s government issue,” Johnson said. “The only people with blank bullets are in the Alphabet Soup.”

  “FBI, CIA, NSA, DEA, lots of us swimming around,” Bolan agreed.

  The nurse remained silent, a battle warring within her.

  “Look,” Bolan said, “we’re running out of time.”

  “Any chance you got a badge hidden in the heel of your shoe?” Johnson asked in a tight voice.

  As the ambulance smoothly rolled over railroad tracks, Bolan kept his face neutral. “We call it a shield, ma’am, not a badge.”

  Exhaling in relief. “Okay, I’ll take a chance,” she stated, leaning forward to release the straps. “How deep is the shit?”

  “Over my head and still piling.”

  “What’s the call?”

  “Kill the lights and siren, get off the main road and call for help. Fire department, everybody and anybody,” Bolan said as his arm came free. “Surround yourself with people!” He started to work on the second strap. “Then get me armed and off this wagon...along with the bodies.”

  “Just dump you on the street?”

  “And run like hell,” Bolan said, sitting upright. He eased the needle from his arm, then jabbed it into the pillow to keep the sharp end from flailing around.

  Johnson passed him the bag of his belongings, then disappeared into the front of the ambulance.

  As Bolan donned the filthy garments, the siren cut off and the vehicle slowed to sharply turn a corner.

  “We’re downtown,” Johnson said, returning. “But Vlad knows an abandoned parking garage. No security cameras, no civilians.”

  “Sounds perfect,” Bolan said, tying his laces. “By the way... Vlad?”

  “The driver. He’s from Georgia. Not magnolias and moonlight, the one in Europe.”

  “Fair enough.” Swaying to the motion of the ambulance, Bolan opened one of the body bags and extracted a filthy Uzi machine gun. Rummaging through the pockets, he found three empty magazines and one loaded with rubber bullets.

  “Want to clean that?” Johnson asked. “We have plenty of astringent lotion.”

  “No need, an Uzi would fire if you poured maple syrup into the breech,” Bolan stated, slinging the weapon over a shoulder. “Any chance of some coffee?”

  With a knowing smile, Johnson produced a thermos. “Thought you might want some,” she said, removing the cap. “Never knew a cop who didn’t live on black, two sugars.”

  “Like blood to a vampire,” Bolan agreed, accepting a steaming cup.

  He drained the cup, the hot brew flowing inside like a healing balm. Then, suddenly, the ambulance violently slammed to the side as the left wall bent inward. Every loose item went flying, and Johnson hit the wall hard.

  From the front of the vehicle, the driver shouted curses in a foreign language as the tires loudly screeched and the ambulance fishtailed madly, then swung around and came to a rocking halt.

  Reaching down, Bolan pulled the nurse back onto her feet, then pressed the Uzi into her hands. “Know how to use this?” he demanded.

  Bleeding from a small cut on her face, Johnson gave a nod. “Short bursts, safety is built into the grip. Clench a fist and fire.”

  “It’s loaded with rubber bullets, nonlethal,” Bolan said, drawing the Beretta. “So feel free to shoot anybody you see. Just stay inside and aim for their stomach.”

&n
bsp; “Because the barrel will ride up from the muzzle blast,” she said, expertly cradling the weapon. “What about you?”

  But the man was already in motion.

  Kicking open the rear doors, Bolan jumped out with the Beretta, sweeping for targets. He was inside a dark parking garage, loose papers and crumbling birds’ nests proclaiming its lack of recent use. There were no other vehicles in sight. Then a pair of bright halogen headlights rose into view on an access ramp.

  It was the Volvo.

  Snapping off two fast shots, Bolan took out the headlights, then sprinted across the wide-open space. He barely got behind a concrete pillar before the Volvo slammed into the support column. Metal crunched and the windshield shattered, then doors jerked open and eight men stepped into view. Fresh troops! Everybody was holding an automatic weapon. None of them were giants.

  As two of them started for the ambulance, the others opened fire with automatic pistols into the shadows. Targeting them by the muzzle flashes, Bolan removed two of the men, their lives splattering across the rough ceiling.

  “Spread out and find that bastard!” a man bellowed, pulling out a boxy MAC-10 and working the arming bolt.

  Rolling to a new position, Bolan fired a single round and blood erupted from the shoulder of the leader. He bitterly cursed as the MAC-10 opened fire, wildly spraying 9 mm rounds. Ricochets went everywhere, and a flock of pigeons burst into flight, the sound of flapping wings seeming to fill the whole garage.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Bolan moved to another pillar and then scooted under a steel safety barrier. His windbreaker caught on a rusty bolt, and when Bolan jerked it free he felt some of the stitches on his chest snap. Fresh blood welled on his already filthy shirt.

  Suddenly, light flooded the garage as the rear doors of the ambulance were opened to reveal two men in windbreakers carrying MAC-10 machine guns. As they swung up the weapons, from inside the ambulance there came the telltale sound of a chattering Uzi, and the two men staggered backward from the pounding barrage of rubber bullets.

  The instant they cleared the ambulance, Bolan put single copper-jacketed 9 mm Parabellum round into the head of each man, then turned around fast just as a flashlight sent a out a bright blue-white beam across the garage.

  Ducking, Bolan counted the footsteps of four men, then dropped to his belly and fired. As their ankles exploded, the men screamed and fell.

  Sprinting across the garage, Bolan grabbed a MAC-10 from a warm twitching hand, then turned and emptied the entire magazine at the crashed Volvo. The windows shattered, a tire blew and a man screamed, the sound ending abruptly.

  “He got Fred!” somebody snarled.

  “You’re a dead man, Giancova!” another man yelled over a chattering MAC-10, the arch of spent brass falling on the dirty concrete with a musical tinkling. “A fucking dead man!”

  Holding the limp corpse as a shield, Bolan felt it get hit twice by incoming rounds before he could recover the other MAC-10. Unfortunately, there were no spare magazines, but the second dead man did have a .357 Magnum Smith & Wesson revolver tucked into a holster at the small of his back. Perfect.

  “Come get me, Johnson!” Bolan shouted, triggering short bursts to conserve ammunition.

  Unexpectedly, the siren of the ambulance wailed into operation, the keen magnified in volume inside the parking garage until it was beyond deafening.

  Dropping the corpse, Bolan used both hands to cover his ears from the stentorian assault. Then the siren faded away and a loudspeaker on top of the ambulance cracked into operation.

  “The city police are on the way!” a man said in a thick foreign accent. “ETA, two minutes.” He paused. “Ninety seconds!”

  “Some other time, Giancova!” called the man from behind the ruined Volvo, and there came the sound of running feet.

  Not trusting them in the least, Bolan stayed to guard the ambulance until he heard the wail of police cars coming up the zigzagging ramps of the garage. Leaving the MAC-10 on the floor, Bolan climbed over the safety railing and lowered himself as far as possible before letting go and falling to the next level. His ankles expertly crossed, Bolan rolled with the impact and came to a stop unharmed. But as he stood, a warm feeling spread across his chest and he knew yet another stitch had burst.

  Their light bars flashing, sirens wailing, a stream of police cars raced past the man, closely followed by an ambulance and then a fire truck.

  Well done, Vlad! Bolan thought.

  Satisfied the civilians were protected, Bolan took off for the elevator in the far corner. It was dead, of course, the power having been turned off a long time ago. But that was not important.

  Prying open the doors, Bolan grabbed hold of the emergency ladder bolted to the inside of the shaft and started descending. The shaft was pitch dark and reeked of dust, grease and bird droppings. A few minutes later he reached the main floor and strolled out of an exit onto the busy city street.

  Staying alert for any police or giants, Bolan flagged down a cab.

  “Where to, buddy?” the driver asked, slapping down the flag on the meter. “Holy Jesus, you okay?”

  “Huh? Oh, that’s just ketchup.” Bolan laughed, fingering the blood on his shirt.

  “Really? Well, don’t get any on the seat, or there’ll be a cleaning charge.”

  “Not a problem. There’s an old airfield outside town, south-by-southwest,” Bolan said, getting into the rear seat. “Just off Route 151, heading toward Smithfield. Know it?”

  “Sure. Jefferson Airfield, used to be a drag strip back a couple of years ago?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’ll cost you,” the driver said, looking in the rearview mirror. “Smithfield has got to be almost eighty miles away, and then I have to come back empty...”

  Checking his wallet, Bolan stuffed a fistful of soggy hundreds through the tip slot in the window. “Wake me when we get there.”

  Chapter 15

  Tarrytown, New York

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  “Come in!”

  The knob turned and Torval Johnson entered the bedroom, bowing his head slightly to get through the standard-size doorway.

  Standing in the corridor outside were several members of Castle with body armor strapped over of their street clothes. The men and women were carrying assault rifles, and electric-shock batons were holstered at their hips just in case their special visitor was unruly or uncooperative.

  “Comfortable?” Johnson asked, closing the door.

  Off to the side of the room, the door to the bathroom was open, the air still steamy from the shower, the floor covered with crumpled towels.

  The person called Seville was sitting on a ruffled divan in front of a table equipped with a lighted mirror. The table was covered with open jars and bottles of cosmetics, and the eunuch was delicately applying mascara to his eyelashes.

  “Oh, yes,” Seville said, turning away from the dressing table. “It’s wonderful to be in real clothing again.”

  The slim eunuch was wearing a light blue summer dress, the blue material almost perfectly matching his eyes. A long auburn wig covered his prison crew cut, the curled ends just brushing his shoulders. Jeweled rings shone on every finger and amber bracelets neatly covered the scars on his wrists from being shackled for so many years. His slim legs were freshly shaved and the dark hose masked the naturally pale skin tone incurred from so many years inside mental institutions and federal prisons.

  To be honest, Johnson was both impressed and slightly disgusted. If he had not known the true state of the poor bastard, he would have believed that this was a perfectly ordinary woman. There was no overt sign of the monster hidden inside Seville.

  Outside a curtained window was a postcard view of the Pocono Mountains, pine trees extending to the
distant horizon. A waterfall rushed majestically off a nearby cliff and birds could be heard twittering in the nearby bushes.

  “So...who are you and why am I not dead?” Seville asked, turning on the divan. Bending, he wiggled his toes and slipped his small feet into high-heeled shoes.

  “Insurance,” Johnson said, feeling a surge of revulsion deep inside his stomach.

  “Now, that is a confusing answer,” Seville replied.

  As their eyes locked, Johnston caught a brief glimpse of the nightmare hidden inside and started to reach for his Glock, but stayed his hand just in time.

  “Confusing?” Johnson asked politely.

  If Seville had caught the move toward the gun, he gave no reaction. “While I always liked the idea of your services, I am not a client,” Seville said, sitting primly upright. “I come from a middle-class background and I never had the necessary funds to pay your incredibly exorbitant fee.”

  Johnson said nothing, waiting for the madman to finish.

  “On top of which, I had already been incarcerated for years, so the twenty-four-hour rule was moot, in my case.” Spreading his fingers, Seville inspected the shiny red fingernails. “So I ask again, and for the last time.... Why am I here?”

  “Insurance,” Johnson repeated. “My insurance.”

  Seville laughed. “Then it wasn’t just for advertising? To demonstrate how good your organization is?” He smiled, flashing dimples. “I do not object. Far from it! Freedom is worth any price.”

  “I was extremely careful to make sure that nobody could possibly recognize your disappearance as having been accomplished by Castle,” Johnson said. “It cost me a lot, but my people planted dozens of false clues that you did not escape, but were actually executed by the Victims Association.”

  “Such sad people,” Seville said with a sigh. “I really should just kill them all.... But that seems...well...rude.”

  “Rude?”

  “They have all lost family members, a shattering experience,” Seville said, looking far away at something deep inside his mind. “How can I harm them further? I know they want me dead, but I harbor no ill will to these poor people. I wish them peace. I, too, have lost family members and suffered the agony of separation.”