Breakout Read online

  Suddenly there was a guard by his side, shaking his arm and flapping his mouth as if shouting. But Styers only heard the sound of the distant ocean. Smiling widely, Styers rammed a finger into the left eye of the guard and started to laugh as the man staggered away, leaving the sticky orb behind.

  Dipping it in the gravy, Styers took a bite of the floppy little sack, and then he was surrounded by more guards hitting him with their batons, and the world went warm and black....

  * * *

  STYERS AWOKE TO searing pain coursing through his entire body. With a scream, he sat bolt upright, fighting to breathe.

  “He’ll live,” an elderly man stated, placing aside the electric paddles for a defibrillator.

  “So I see, Doctor,” said a short man with a beard. “Well done. Brutal, but decisive.”

  “That’s what you paid for,” the doctor muttered, turning off the humming machine. “Now, where is my money?”

  The short man passed over a fat envelope. Without opening it, the doctor tucked the envelope inside his shirt and promptly left the room.

  Rubbing his aching chest, Styers concentrated on breathing for a while until the tingling aftereffects of being electrocuted began to fade away.

  “Glad to have you back among the living, Mr. Styers,” said the small man, pulling a chair closer and sitting.

  The stranger was wearing a dark blue suit that almost looked like a military uniform. There was a fresh rose tucked in his lapel and a tiny diamond sparkled from his left earlobe. His black shoes were bright with polish and the checkered grip of a pistol in a shoulder holster peeked out from within his jacket.

  “How...” was all that Styers could get out before his throat closed and he spent the next few minutes raggedly coughing.

  As the spasm subsided, somebody handed him a plastic bottle of water. Greedily, he started drinking. It was clear and tasted like oranges, but was obviously more than just flavored water as new strength flowed into his body. In short order, his mind cleared and all of the pain went away. It was like drinking liquid life.

  “Feeling better?” the small man asked with a quizzical smile.

  “Yes, much,” Styers managed to reply. “Who are you?”

  “First things first... Bishop to queen four.”

  Styers blinked in confusion for a moment, then weakly smiled. “Knight takes rook, check.”

  At the countersign, the other man visibly relaxed. “Call me Dooley.”

  “Okay, Mr. Dooley—”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Lieutenant Dooley, what happened to me?”

  “We poisoned your food, of course,” Dooley replied. “When you were sent to the prison hospital, we switched bodies, then switched ambulances, faked a crash, switched bodies again and here you are! Free and presumed dead.”

  “As easy as that?”

  “Oh, it was anything but easy, I assure you.”

  “Yes, of course,” Styers returned, taking another sip from the magical bottle. “Then nobody is even looking for me?”

  Dooley grinned. “The entire world thinks you’re dead. Dead and buried.”

  “So I’m free...” The words filled him with a bright light. Looking around, Styers realized that he was in a morgue, or rather a former morgue, as he appeared to be the only customer present. Alive or dead.

  Swinging his legs off the steel table, Styers drained the last of whatever it was from the bottle and reverently placed it on a small steel table. “Okay, what’s next?”

  “There is a washroom around the corner if you need a moment,” Dooley said. “And in the corner is a suitcase containing clean clothes, fake identity papers, some food, medical supplies, a new passport, the keys to a Volvo in the parking lot and a map to a safe house in Nebraska. Good luck!”

  “That’s it?” Styers asked, a surge of anger flashing briefly.

  “That is everything you arranged for, sir,” Dooley said tolerantly. “We got you out of a maximum-security prison in under twenty-four hours. Our business is completed. What happens next is entirely your decision.”

  “There are other things that I need,” Styers persisted, flexing his fingers. “Knives, guns, body armor...”

  “Indeed? None of that was in our contract.”

  “But I need them!” Styers started to explain about the vital necessity of killing more policemen until nobody ever made cat noises at him again. But it was too complex to explain properly, and he could only repeat how much he needed the things.

  “I see,” Dooley said, rising from the chair and unbuttoning the front of his jacket. “We can, of course, arrange for such items...if you have the ability to pay for them.”

  “Good lord, no! Your premiums used up the last of my cash.”

  “A pity. Well, good luck!”

  “Wait!” Styers called out. “Perhaps I can help you.”

  Halfway out the door, Dooley paused to turn around. “Meaning...what exactly?” he asked politely.

  “In this line of work, you must occasionally have the need of a man with...unique skills,” Styers said, his heart beating rapidly. “Think about it! Can you truly trust the doctor who just left, or is he a liability that needs removal?”

  Just then, there came the distant sound of a gunshot.

  “He’s already been dealt with,” Dooley said, walking back into the morgue. “But I concede your point. Let me think about this for a moment.”

  Impatiently, Styers stayed on the table, wiggling his toes and relishing the feel of the cold steel slowly warming to his body heat.

  “We...accept your offer,” Dooley said, touching a small cellular bud clipped to his ear.

  “Excellent!”

  Reaching into a pocket, the lieutenant withdrew a cheap cell phone. “This is a burner, totally untraceable. Keep this with you at all times. We’ll call when we need you.”

  “At all times!” Styers said eagerly, folding the device. “So what does this get me right now, in the way of additional assistance?”

  “There will be fifty thousand dollars in small bills in the trunk of the Volvo, along with some of the...tools of your trade,” Dooley said, then his face darkened. “Just don’t use them unless we call. Understand? You work for Castle now. No freelance assignments!”

  “Not a problem.” Styers smiled widely, offering a hand.

  Pausing for only a moment, Dooley accepted and they shook. Then he turned on a heel and left.

  Styers cleaned up in the washroom as best as possible under the circumstances, then got dressed and headed outside. The sky was full of ominous black clouds, warning of an impending storm. Lightning flashed on the horizon, but there was no accompanying rumble of thunder. Styers chuckled. The storm was far away from here. At least, for the moment.

  In the distance a Black Hawk attack helicopter rose high into the sky and vanished among the storm clouds.

  There were several lampposts edging the parking lot, but none of them was working. Pressing the fob on the key ring, Styers saw a flash of headlights off to the right and made his way carefully past an array of potholes until he reached the Volvo.

  Immediately checking the trunk, he found a folded blanket on the mat. Inside was a rather impressive collection of medical supplies, knives, hatchets, dental equipment, a shovel and even a bag of quicklime to help hide a body.

  “They were expecting me to join,” Styers muttered, a momentary rush of blind rage filling the man to nearly overwhelming levels. Slowly it faded, and he closed the trunk, got behind the wheel and drove away.

  The GPS on the dashboard claimed that he was in Oklahoma, of all places, and it took him only a few minutes to find the interstate highway.

  Stopping at the first diner he saw, Styers bought several hamburgers and a six-pack of beer to go, eating while he started his jo
urney toward whatever lay ahead. He eventually acquired a hitchhiker, a pretty young woman from Florida on her way to Hollywood to become a movie star. She never left the car alive.

  Washington, D.C.

  THE CHURCH BELLS were still chiming midnight when Hal Brognola parked his car in a commercial lot and started walking through the city.

  As befitted the capital of the most powerful nation in the world, downtown Washington was comprised of the marble and granite of the countless government buildings, with gleaming glass walkways and constant military and police patrols. But out here near the beltway, the buildings were in far worse condition with graffiti everywhere. There were countless homeless people sleeping under bridges and in cardboard boxes. The sight broke Brognola’s heart, and he gave small amounts to anybody who asked.

  “Thanks, but ya really shouldn’t be out at this hour,” an old man said in a raspy voice, swiftly tucking away the bills. “Not safe for a downtowner like you.”

  “I’ll stay sharp,” Brognola replied politely.

  “Better watch your six,” the old man warned, shuffling back into a dark alley.

  The words saddened Brognola. He was a soldier? Suddenly Brognola was sorry he hadn’t given the man a lot more, but then he wasn’t rich enough to help everybody on the streets. He would if he could, but in a perfect world...

  Continuing onward, a somber Brognola found a small park that had actually been built by some of the locals. Formerly a vacant lot overgrown with weeds and used as a trash dump, it was now a garden full of flowering trees, gravel footpaths and even a small fountain. Washington was a good city, full of decent people. Sure it had problems. What town did not? But it was slowly fixing them, one at a time.

  Spotting an empty wooden bench under a streetlight, Brognola headed that way and was cut off by a teenage girl wearing a low-cut T-shirt and nylon windbreaker bearing the name of a rap group.

  “Hey, sweetie, got the time?” she asked, flashing gold filigree covering her teeth.

  Instantly turning sideways, Brognola pulled two short-barrel S&W revolvers from inside his overcoat. One he pointed directly at the startled girl and the other back toward a hulking boy just rising from behind a laurel bush.

  “Drop ’em,” Brognola commanded, clicking back both of the hammers.

  Caught off guard, the two teenagers paused in confusion and then slowly opened their hands. Short lead pipes wrapped in duct tape fell to loose gravel with heavy thumps.

  “Now start walking or die,” Brognola said in a monotone, gesturing with the guns. “Your choice.”

  In exaggerated slowness, the teenagers backed away from the man, their hands raised in surrender, until the shadows swallowed them whole.

  “I’m glad to see that you took the advice of that old Marine,” said Mack Bolan, stepping out from behind an oak tree. “This is a dangerous part of town.”

  “More dangerous with you here,” Brognola growled, tucking away the S&W Police Special .38 revolvers. “Have you been following me since the parking lot?”

  “Since you left the Department of Justice. I had to make sure that you weren’t being followed.”

  “Why?” Brognola asked, sitting on the park bench.

  “Not sure who I can trust on this,” Bolan answered bluntly, also taking a seat.

  Without a word, Brognola reached into a pocket and set a small plastic device on the wooden bench between them. Softly, it started to hum a low monotone.

  “This is a new model Humbug. Everything within a hundred is jammed,” Brognola said.

  Just then, a small flock of pigeons arrived to walk and strut around, looking for any dropped crumbs.

  “Rats with wings,” Brognola commented, pulling a brown paper bag from his coat pocket.

  Unrolling the top, he reached inside, pulled out a handful of popcorn and sprinkled the morsels across the gravel. The birds scattered at the motion of his hand, then immediately flocked back for the food.

  “Rats, huh?” Bolan said with a knowing smile.

  “They make good cover for two men sitting in a park at night,” Brognola countered, offering the bag. “We’re either feeding the birds or doing something that the Extreme Right would not approve.”

  “Reading books?” Bolan asked, taking a handful.

  “Funny. Don’t quit your day job.”

  “Never,” Bolan said, tossing out the kernels.

  “So what’s this about insurance?”

  “A couple of years ago a group of masked men busted Ziggy Nine out of a Florida work farm...essentially a chain gang. They then offered to do so again, anywhere, at any time. For a small monthly fee, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “The price was reasonable, and the group had already proved that it could deliver, so Ziggy agreed. Then he got arrested a few months ago, and on the day he was sent to prison...they busted him out again within twenty-four hours.”

  His brow furrowed in thought, Brognola was silent for a long time. “If this is true—”

  “It is.”

  “It would indicate a very large and extremely well-coordinated organization. Any chance of a name?”

  “Castle.”

  “Is that the person in charge or the name of the group?”

  “That I don’t know...yet.”

  “Castle, a fortified stronghold,” Brognola stated, tossing out more popcorn. “Odd name for an escape agency...unless it refers to the chess move where a rook and king swap places.”

  “The rook protects and the king goes free. Makes sense.”

  “Insurance against going to jail...” Brognola said. “Any chance of a description?”

  “The man in charge is short, with slicked-down hair and a pointed beard, possibly a goatee.”

  “Doesn’t sound like anybody I know. Did you get his business card?”

  “Actually, I did,” Bolan said, passing one over.

  Frowning deeply, Brognola took the white card and turned it over several times. It was blank on both sides. “Cute, very clever.”

  Bolan waited expectantly.

  “A plain white card,” Brognola said. “What better business card for such an organization? It’s a carte blanche.”

  “I see. Like in the Middle Ages, unlimited authorization from the king to do anything you wished. In this case, quite literally a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

  “Only not so free. What are the monthly premiums?”

  “A hundred grand a year at first, now a cool quarter million.”

  “A year?”

  “After being busted out of Preston, Ziggy was more than happy to agree to any price they asked.”

  “I’ll bet,” Brognola said, leaning back in the bench. “Son of a bitch, selling insurance against going to jail.... How come I haven’t heard anything about this? The DOJ keeps close contact with the Bureau of Prisons.”

  Suddenly the pigeons took off in a fluttering rush. A few seconds later a large man walked into view leading a miniature poodle on a leash. The dog was groomed to a continental clip and there was a tiny bow on its collar.

  “Evening,” the man said, nodding as they walked by in tandem.

  Nodding in reply, Bolan and Brognola watched until the dog finished his nightly business and the man walked him out of the park.

  “A bow.” Brognola laughed, releasing the S&W revolver tucked under his coat. “Did you know poodles are hunting dogs? They use them to retrieve ducks and other waterfowl.”

  “I didn’t know. Looks to me like Pinky there would be too froufrou to go for a swim, never mind pick up a duck,” Bolan said with a half smile.

  “Sad but true.”

  “On the other hand, things are not always what they seem,” Bolan said. “I do believe there’s a reason for that traditional clip.”
>
  “Also true.”

  “Now, I’m not sure the Board of Prisons knows anything to tell the Department of Justice,” Bolan said. “The escapes are carefully disguised as failures, merely attempted escapes where everybody involved dies.”

  “Damn, that’s smart. Too smart, if you ask me. Shorty knows his business.”

  “Agreed. This has to be stopped fast, and hard.”

  Cooing softly, a lone pigeon returned, closely followed by the rest of the flock.

  “So how does a client contact Castle?”

  “They don’t. Part of the deal is that Castle watches for you on the news. If you’re big enough to afford the premiums, then they’ll hear about your conviction on cable television or the internet.”

  “No direct communication,” Brognola said, crushing a handful of popcorn into bits and sprinkling the food around generously. “How are the payments handled?”

  “Once a year, a wire transfer to a numbered account, and a different bank every time.”

  “Yeah, thought it might be something like that,” Brognola said. “Whoever is behind this is no fool, Striker. This is about as far away from strong-arm tactics as we can get.”

  “Brains, balls and a total disregard for the law,” Bolan said with a scowl. “If this spreads, civilization is in serious trouble. Without the fear of going to prison, every crime boss, mobster and drug lord in the world will run amok.”

  “The entire balance of crime and punishment will collapse, and soon there’ll be chaos in the streets with armed troops guarding cities like they did back at the turn of the century.”

  “That’s how I read it.”

  “Think Shorty might be working with a terrorist organization—al Qaeda, Red Star or Shining Path?”

  “No, this is too subtle for them.”

  “I guess,” Brognola said. “Okay, how do we proceed? I could have you arrested and... No, damn it. Castle contacts you before going to jail.” He looked up. “This means that you will have to go undercover and earn yourself a street rep. Fast.”