by Tom Barber
work
laundry
know
names
‘Do you know who Nicky Reyes is?’
The pen rested on the paper, then it started to move again.
no
‘Could you find the news for me?’ she asked one of the doctors, nodding at the TV. The man pulled the screen around until it faced the driver and turned it on. After switching to Channel 11, they watched the main features, which were the prison escape at Gatlin yesterday, the violence that had followed across West Virginia during the night and the robbery-shootout in downtown Cleveland this morning. As footage was shown from the searches currently being carried out in the Ohio city and surrounding area of Cuyahoga County, the line of mugshots of the wanted men appeared on screen as Marquez knew they would at some point. The Gatlin Four.
‘Him, on the far right,’ Marquez told the driver, pointing to the face on the TV then turning to make sure he was watching. ‘Was he in the truck too?’
yes
‘Did he call 911 for you?’
He tapped the same word weakly.
yes
‘And was he the one who padded up your neck?’ Marquez asked, her last question.
The driver tapped the word again.
So it was Nicky Reyes who’d saved the man’s life.
Fortunately for that Gatlin fugitive at that particular moment, the police and State troopers manning the roadblock on I-90 hadn’t paid any special attention to one of the bikes with a sidecar riding in the middle of the large group. In it, there was a bag tucked low by the passenger’s feet and also a small smear of blood visible on the left side of the bike, missed when Kat O’Mara was being eased into the seat before being strapped in, a helmet and sunglasses hiding her identity.
But the motorcycle procession was soon out of sight and heading into Pennsylvania as Ohio law-enforcement continued their searches of the lines of vehicles still jamming up the highway. Unknown to them, two of the fugitives they were hunting had just slipped through their roadblocks.
But the three much more dangerous men were still inside the city.
TWENTY SIX
After he parted ways with Prez on the morning of the riot, clutching tightly-wound straps of bedsheet in his hands, Nicky ran through C Block in the direction of the laundry but peeled off just before he got there to cut into the kitchens.
He headed straight for the stores at the back, the prison’s sirens over the noise of shouting acting like a wailing heartbeat and ticking clock; he had about fifteen to twenty seconds to locate what he was looking for. He quickly found it on the shelves, a plastic container of vinegar, but it was a three gallon jug; he snatched a smaller plastic bottle of ketchup off a higher shelf and shook the contents into a sink. He rinsed out the remainder as fast as he could under the tap, then opened the vinegar and started pouring it into the bottle, sloshing some into the basin in his haste as he checked around in case anyone was sneaking in ready to jump him. The laundry truck was going to be driving off any second with or without him, but even then, he knew the guards might stop it leaving. So many things that could still go wrong.
When the bottle was almost full, he screwed the lid back on and sprinted for the laundry. He stopped dead when he got there, finding Hoff and Kattar’s bodies lying on the floor where they’d been dumped beside a pile of dirty laundry and surrounded by pools of blood. I’m too late, he thought in despair, but then saw through the loading bay that the truck was still there.
He dropped down and crouched behind a table used to unpack and fold the laundry. The rear gate of the delivery/collection point was open, same as the back of the truck, a space of about a foot between the vehicle and the loading bay; with no sign of the brothers, and with Hoff and Kattar’s bodies dumped beside him, he knew Brooks and Billy had to already be inside.
Staying low, Nicky ran to the back of the vehicle quietly, hearing a CO yelling at the driver telling him to leave immediately. He quickly slid under the truck then looped the lengths of sheet he’d brought with him over the axle before cinching up his legs.
It was as close as he could have cut it. A second later he saw the driver’s feet appear and hooking one arm around the axle, Nicky picked up the ketchup bottle just as the man ran to the back of the truck. He heard the rear sliding door come down and the sound of it being locked, then watched as the driver’s feet disappeared. Seconds later, the engine roared into life; the vehicle pulled out of the loading bay and rumbled past a first inner gate before heading towards the front exit as Nicky clung on, concrete speeding by just below him.
He felt the binds on the sheet straps stretch as they took the strain, then as they slowed at the gate, the leg tie came loose. He swore in panic, seeing the length of sheet trailing back on the ground like a tassel, stained with axle grease. He looped one foot around it and managed to pull the fabric back up just as he saw the shadow of one of the guards approaching, followed a few seconds later by the sight of his boots.
Nicky hooked his sneakers around the axle, the tassel out of sight again, and held his breath.
‘-let us in!’ he heard someone shout.
‘-people out,’ someone shouted back, their answer broken up by the siren.‘-now!’
Nicky kept his eyes closed, praying the CO wouldn’t drop down to check underneath the truck. He felt it sag slightly as the guard opened the back and stepped on board to take a look, praying the man didn’t find the Loughlins. It was the first time he’d ever wanted them to succeed in anything beyond spending more time in the SHU, and a wish he’d end up spending a lot of time reflecting on later.
But his guardian angel must have been on duty, and the boots and uniform reappeared just before the rear door was pulled back into place. There was a double thump on the back of the vehicle and seconds later, it proceeded over a speedbump which scraped Nicky’s back painfully before heading out onto the road where the truck picked up speed.
And for the first time in eleven years, three hundred and sixty days, he was outside the walls of USP Gatlin.
After the Loughlins had driven away from the laundry truck in the car they’d taken off the elderly woman, the stretch of highway eleven miles from the prison went quiet again.
Wind rustled through the trees and fields, as a few birds chirped quietly from somewhere nearby.
Then a figure in an orange prison jumpsuit lowered himself down to the dirt track under the truck. His limbs were saturated with lactic acid, his arms sore from clinging to the underside of the vehicle, but the hurriedly-made straps from the bedsheet had held this time. Nicky carefully removed them before cautiously peering out from under the truck, but there was no sign of Brooks and Billy. They were gone.
He crawled out from under the vehicle, his overalls stained with axle grease, his back throbbing and bleeding from being scraped over the speedbump; he pushed himself to his feet then tried to get his bearings. The truck had stopped on a dirt track hidden from a highway by fields of corn and he could just make out a sign back on the road: Route 58.
He was free, a moment that he’d dreamed of and one that he could have experienced legally in less than a week, and it took a few seconds to adjust as he gazed around him. The sheer vastness of the landscape and amount of space was overwhelming. But a new, unrelenting invisible clock was now ticking. He hadn’t escaped to admire the view and he’d just gone from due to be released, his term served in full, to a fugitive who’d already be a wanted man if the riot had been shut down and Prez hadn’t managed to get Janks into their cell.
This new-found freedom was going to be short-lived if he didn’t get moving, fast.
Nicky went into the back of truck, snatched a pair of jumpsuit pants from a basket, and after soaking them in some of the vinegar, dropped down and rubbed them on the axle under the truck where he’d been clinging, killing any scent of him there for sniffer dogs to pick up.
But it was as he was replacing the lid on the bottle that he heard something from the front of th
e vehicle. Nicky froze, then crawled back out from the truck and listened. Then he heard it again. He crept up towards the cab and as he peered through the open door, it occurred to him that during planning this escape, he hadn’t spared a thought for what the Loughlins might do to the driver.
The man was slumped in his seat, blood soaking his shirt and dripping onto the floor; his pants were missing, presumably stolen by the brothers, blood all over his boxer shorts and bare thighs. The driver suddenly stirred slightly, making another quiet choking gurgle, and Nicky realized that was what he’d heard a moment ago; somehow the guy was still alive. Nicky immediately pulled off his prison jumps top, leaving the BOP-issue white t shirt underneath, turned it inside out and wadded the fabric against the man’s throat. He then ran to the back of the truck and retrieved some of the cleaner overalls; he ripped shreds from another set of prison pants and going back, wrapped them around the guy’s neck to keep the padding in place.
Most of the driver’s shirt was soaked with blood and he was trying to say something, the fear evident in his eyes. ‘Hang in there, man, you’re gonna be OK,’ Nicky told him. The guy blinked, as Nicky dug into the man’s pockets. He found a wallet in one but ignored it and reached into the other to find a cell phone.
He held it for a moment and looked at the injured driver, before glancing at the cornfields around them again.
Right now, if Janks wasn’t discovered at count after the riot was squashed, Nicky knew he potentially had a clear two days’ head start. It could be the difference between getting out of Virginia or getting cornered by dogs, choppers and troopers; between getting to Kat and stopping her. The difference between staying free or being sent back to prison for at least another twelve years. Maybe even for the rest of his life, if he was a considered a co-conspirator with Brooks and Billy.
The driver’s wallet had fallen open where Nicky had dropped it and glancing down, he saw a folded picture of two infants in a photo window, a boy and girl. He looked to see the man’s eyes were staring at the photo before shifting up to him, full of desperation and panic.
That settled it; Nicky dialed 911.
‘Operator. What’s your emergency?’
‘I’m on a track off Route 58,’ he answered. ‘There’s a laundry truck here. The driver’s been stabbed. He needs medical attention immediately. Get here fast.’ Leaving the phone call open, he wiped the cell down carefully, followed by the wallet, and left both near the driver. ‘They’re coming, man. Just hang on.’
As the driver remained slumped in his seat, the escaped convict dropped out of the truck and back to the ground.
And after sprinkling more of the vinegar around where he’d been standing, then on the soles of his shoes, he took off into the cornfield and started running for his life.
Looking at the wider landscape and having seen the signpost which told him he was beside Route 58, Nicky took a guess at where he was as he sprinted through the corn, recalling the maps of the local area that he’d spent the previous night studying on Prez’s phone. When he reached the other side of the field, he saw a sign showing he was relatively close, but was still three miles out from where he needed to be.
White t-shirt, sneakers and bright orange prison jumpsuit pants weren’t exactly ideal camouflage, so although it slowed his progress Nicky kept to the thick cover and protection of the cornfields, dropping to the ground whenever he heard a vehicle passing nearby. He was about half a mile away from his destination when he saw blue and red lights in the distance, and waited until the patrol car zipped past on the road beside him just outside the cornfield, rightfully guessing they couldn’t have been onto him so fast; but then he heard the car’s brakes screech as it passed a turn to the left. He risked peering through the crops and realized the cruiser had reversed to take the road leading to where the laundry truck was parked off Route 58. The fields were too big to allow Nicky’s footprints to be easily found, but now the truck with the injured driver had been located, this entire area was going to be a giant get-together for county law-enforcement very soon. A man wearing bright orange would be seen pretty quick out here, especially from a chopper.
He looked at the road signs and catching his breath, started running through the crops again, heading in what he hoped was the right direction. Twice more he had to drop down as police cars raced past on the highway, then the last thing he wanted to hear, a helicopter somewhere nearby. He prayed whoever was inside wouldn’t spot him.
Finally, he came across what he’d been looking for, parked beside an old barn. The Oreo cake hadn’t been Prez’s only leaving gift for his younger friend; he’d also arranged for a car to be left here for him by members of his motorcycle club. Nicky hadn’t known exactly where he was going to be able to free himself from under the laundry truck, but knew it would almost definitely follow Route 58 and that the Loughlins wouldn’t wait for it to reach the depot. He and Prez had taken a guess, and they hadn’t been too far out.
After checking to make sure the road was clear, Nicky ran out of the field towards the blue Chrysler. He found the keys hidden under a rock near the right wheel as agreed, and seconds later was inside, his chest heaving as he recovered his breath. Hidden under the passenger seat, he found a change of clothes, clippers and an Ohio driving license with a different name, date of birth and address. He and Rainey had taken a headshot on the smartphone and sent it to Prez’s chapter outside Atlanta last night; not everything his MC chapter did day-to-day to earn money was entirely legal.
Nicky got out of the car and changed fast, stripping off the BOP clothing and pulling on a t-shirt, jeans and new sneakers, but he didn’t use the clippers, wanting to save an appearance change for later; he was gambling that Gatlin wouldn’t know he was gone yet, so his photo wouldn’t be in circulation for a while. Every instinct screamed at him to get as far away from here as possible right away, but instead he gathered up his prison clothes and ran back into the corn. If he was going to stay ahead, he needed to think clearly and follow the plan.
It took him almost five minutes to dig a deep enough hole in the dry ground with his hands, the summer having been a hot one, and he dumped his BOP pants, old sneakers, t-shirt and bedsheet straps in it before pouring in more vinegar. Good riddance. He scooped and smoothed the soil back over the hole then stamped it down before brushing over and covering the earth with a couple of rocks. He tipped the last of the vinegar over where he’d been working, then examined the ground. It was a good job and would take some finding if sniffer dogs managed to track him through the fields. Even if they found his shoeprints, hopefully the trail would go cold right here when he left in the car.
Getting back into the Chrysler, Nicky took another look at his fake license. Stephen Rydell was the name, July 4th the birthday chosen by him and Prez to make it easy to remember, the year of birth the same as Nicky’s. He checked the road, seeing it was still empty, and then found a disposable cell phone and an envelope containing five hundred dollars tucked inside the center console.
He pocketed the phone and cash, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards his celly. Without the chapter’s help, the success of his escape would have been in serious doubt.
Give them everything you got, kid.
He keyed the engine, the sound of it starting like music to his ears, and pulled onto the road before heading west towards Kentucky. From there, he could then redirect north towards Ohio, but he had to get out of Virginia first before they put up blocks and checkpoints, which very soon were going to be clotting up every road out of the area with the Loughlins loose. The cops were probably already looking for them, but with any luck not him for a while. Even so, he didn’t want to risk undergoing any unnecessary scrutiny.
As he drove, he saw the time was 12:06pm, which gave him just under twenty three hours until Kat was going to help pull the high-risk heist on the truck in Cleveland.
All the time he had left to get there, find her and stop her.
But twenty minutes later, he
was just thinking about how he was going to locate her in the city when he hit his first big problem.
A roadblock was in place ahead.
It was on a straight stretch of highway close to the Kentucky border, but even though the block was in the distance when he spotted it, Nicky knew he couldn’t pull a U turn without risking drawing attention. As he drew closer, still grappling with the instinct to spin the wheel and try to find another way out, he forced a slow, deep breath and focused on staying calm. A thought occurred to him that one of the troopers or officers here could have worked as a CO at Gatlin at some point and might recognize him, but he was committed already and moments later rolled to a stop at the roadblock, the only car on this stretch of road aside from the two Virginia State Police vehicles impeding his path.
As he waited for a trooper to approach, he realized he had dirt on his hands from digging the hole to bury his Gatlin clothing and footwear; he rubbed them under his legs quickly before lowering his window as a lawman approached it.
‘License, registration.’
‘Registration’s at home, sir,’ Nicky told him, passing over the license.
‘Where’s home?’
‘Ohio,’ he said, having asked Prez to get his guys to put an address in Dayton on the driving license, hoping it would make his passage into the state easier. The trooper took off his sunglasses, bent down and held the ID near Nicky’s face.
‘Why you in this area?’
‘Had to drop my kid back off at my ex-wife’s place,’ he said. ‘She moved down here last year. Thought I’d pass through Kentucky on the way home and pick up some good bourbon.’
‘You got Georgia plates on your car.’
‘Used to live outside Atlanta.’
The trooper sized him up for a few more moments, then handed back the license. ‘Don’t stop to pick up any hitchhikers, sir. Some inmates have escaped from the federal prison near Jonesville.’
