Bedlam
Page 27
Marcus followed my gaze. “Not going to happen,” he reassured me before jogging up the stairs. Justin and Georgia followed close behind. I waited at the bottom, listening for any indication of trouble. “Where do we set up?” Marcus called out. Somebody answered, then Marcus laughed and leaned over the stairwell. “Stop gawking at the trapdoor and get your ass up here.”
The all clear. Brody was nowhere in sight.
“Yes, sir,” I called. I took the steps two at a time, emerging onto a wide landing. Dear God, this place was bleak. Once upon a time, the cement floor had been painted red, but over the decades, the paint had worn away. Now the red color clung only to the very edges of the floor, places where few people had trod. Scuffed, dirty white paint covered the walls. Gray metal doors were propped open, leading to what placards identified as the Witness Room and Death Row.
I glanced through the open door into death row. Four dismal cells occupied the center of the room. A guard sat in a folding chair facing the cells. Finn had to be there, but I couldn’t see him from the open doorway.
“In here.” Marcus jerked his head toward the witness room, a simple, square room with a large picture window installed in the end wall. I knew what lay on the opposite side of that window. The execution chamber. A trapdoor over which the condemned man stood while a noose was attached to his neck. A lever in the floor, that the executioner pulled, would release the trapdoor. I’d gaped at the sight while on a school field trip. I had absolutely no desire to see it again.
On the wall across from the window, two banquet tables covered with linen tablecloths had been set up. Steel chafing dishes, silver serving platters, and crystal glassware covered one table. A woman stood with her back to me, arranging a platter of appetizers. She turned around, spied me, and her eyes widened.
Hildy. So she hadn’t been busted on the night the Allsops arrested Finn. I flashed a smile, then titled my head toward death row. She bobbed her head once, understanding glittering in her eyes. Good. With advanced warning maybe she’d have a chance to duck out of the way if bullets started flying.
Three armed Allsop guards lounged against the wall. If they were expecting trouble, nothing in their demeanor conveyed that. So, four guards were stationed in Cell House 5, three at the entrance to the prison. Not an insurmountable number. Not with the element of surprise on our side.
Hildy glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Mr. Brody should be here in fifteen minutes, and he’ll expect everything to be ready when he and his men arrive. If you boys help me set up, I’ll fix you each a nice plate. Our little secret.” She winked at the guards, then looked at me. “You and your friends need to make yourselves useful, too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, exchanging a glance with Marcus. She gave us a timeline for Brody’s arrival, but what did she mean by make ourselves useful?
“I promised Jimmy in the next room an eclair,” Hildy said. She took the pastry from a box and placed it in the middle of a silver tray. “I’ll be back in just a minute.” She pointed at the guard standing closest to the table. “Could you put the bacon-wrapped water chestnuts into the largest chafing dish? They’re in the rectangular container in the bottom of that insulated tote.” She pointed at the second guard. “And could you plate the mini quiches? Put them on the three-tiered tray.” As two of the three Allsop men busied themselves removing containers from the totes, she glanced at me again, frowning. “I mean it. You boys need to step up.” She rolled her eyes in the direction of the guards.
Georgia placed the chafing dish holding her gun on the floor and squatted down next to it, her hand resting on the lid. Marcus and Justin ambled over to the tables. My team was ready to rumble.
Silver tray in hand, Hildy bustled out the door. Following her into death row, I glanced into a cell. A figure lay on a bunk, curled on his side, motionless as a corpse.
THIRTY-THREE
Sunny
Before my friends rounded a corner and disappeared from sight, Kyle turned around and walked backward for a few steps, his gaze locked on my face, as if committing my features to memory. Shifting the box to one arm, he pressed his fingers to his lips and blew me a kiss, then pivoted and trotted after the others.
He was being romantic, right? There was nothing ominous about the way he looked at me. As if he wasn’t sure we’d see other again. As if he wanted the image of him blowing me a kiss—reaching out to me with love—to be my last memory of him.
I had to get a grip and not let my fears get the better of me.
Marcus was right to leave me behind. I wouldn’t be a damned bit of use in a gunfight. Far better to send three trained soldiers and a man who’d already proven that he could handle himself in battle. I got it, but it stung to feel useless, especially after yesterday when my actions had made a difference.
On the last day of his life—hours before he went down in a hail of bullets—Ed had told me that it was past time for me to learn how to shoot. When this was over, when we made it to Valhalla, I’d ask Kyle or Ripper to teach me. I couldn’t afford to be a liability, somebody who had to be tucked safely out of the way when things got dangerous.
If all went well tonight—the absolute best-case scenario—my friends would incapacitate the guards, liberate Finn, and race back to the car without firing a single shot. We’d head out of town before the Allsops knew anything was amiss. With both Georgia and Finn in the back seat, it would be a tight squeeze. I’d have to wedge in next to Kyle or sit on his lap, but we could manage until we secured another vehicle. We could manage, but it would be a cramped and bouncy ride.
My back twinged at the prospect. A little preemptive stretching might be in order, and it might help to calm my nerves. Back before the pandemic, I used to practice yoga. Maybe it was time to start that up again, too, once we got to Valhalla. I stepped out of the car into the golden light of a balmy September evening. Lifting both arms over my head, I reached for the sky, then bent over and lay my palms flat on the asphalt.
Gunfire fractured the quiet evening. My spine snapped straight, and I whirled toward the direction of the prison.
Please, God, please, God, please, God...
Holding my breath, I listened for more sounds of battle, but a deceptive quiet crept across the neighborhood.
“Kyle,” I whispered. Without conscious thought, I stumbled toward the street, toward the route my friends would take in any mad dash back to the car. Within a minute, rational thought overruled impulse. I dropped to my knees behind a tree, within sight of the road.
Three black SUVs hurtled past the community center’s parking lot. I flattened my body against the ground. The SUVs screeched to a halt, and men poured out. Angry voices filled the night. Doors slammed. Feet pounded over the pavement. The tumult retreated and silence, a fleeting interlude of calm, reclaimed the evening.
I lifted my head, my mind racing. The guards had called in reinforcements. If—when—my friends fought their way past the Allsop soldiers, we’d pile into our car. We’d race out of the city. If any of our enemies survived the skirmish, they’d give chase in those black SUVs.
Unless I somehow managed to disable the vehicles.
How do you disable a car? Sugar in the gas tank? Yanking out some wires or a spark plug? I’d never looked under a hood and had no freaking clue how to stop a vehicle in its tracks. Its tracks. Its tires. Scrambling to my feet, I dashed back to the car and fumbled frantically in the glove compartment. There. My fingers closed around a leather sheath holding a fixed-blade knife, a weapon Justin had tossed in the glove compartment just in case.
Knife in hand, I sprinted to the cluster of SUVs parked next to the prison wall. I dropped to my knees next to the first one and slashed at the front driver’s-side tire. The blade barely sliced into the rubber. Almost sobbing with frustration, I pressed the tip into one of the shallow cuts and hammered the end of the hilt with my fist. The tip popped through the rubber, followed by a gratifying hiss of air. This SUV wasn’t going anyplace.
I rose to my feet on trembling legs, then turned toward the voice.
The front passenger door of the middle SUV stood open, Brody Allsop next to it. He stomped to the front of the vehicle. I shuffled backward, glanced down at the knife clutched in my hand, then at Brody. He slowly pulled a gun from his shoulder holster.
“You.” He pointed the gun in my direction. “It all went to shit once you showed up.” With each word, he shook the gun for emphasis.
Bending my elbow, I placed the tip of the blade against the driver’s door. I kept my eyes firmly on Brody while I surreptitiously scratched at the black paint. I couldn’t risk looking down at my handiwork, had no idea if Kyle would ever spot it. But I had to try.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He laughed, a bitter sound devoid of any humor. “Didn’t you hear my dad? ‘Stay in the car, Brody.’” He mimicked his father’s sonorous voice. “‘You’re a total fuckup, Brody.’” He threw back his head and shouted at the sky. “Fuck you, Dad.” He turned his gaze back to me, his eyes gleaming. “You know what? Dad’s right. He’s got this. He doesn’t need my help. Maybe you and I should head back to the house. Got everything set up for a party in the man cave. Fuck, let’s have us a party.”
Never take a knife to a gunfight. If I rushed Brody, could I stab him before he shot me? Probably not. It’d be a suicide charge, and I wasn’t ready to throw away my life. Not yet. Where there’s life, there’s hope. A Roman statesman said that. And then he got his head chopped off. Crap. I was full to the brim with useless sayings, wasn’t I?
Focus, damn it. I dragged the tip of the blade across the door panel again, then dropped the knife and kicked it under the SUV. I wasn’t giving up, not by a long shot, but I’d find a better opportunity than knife versus gun.
A muffled explosion, then gunfire erupted from the prison. Both Brody and I spun around to look, but the tall walls hid any muzzle flashes.
“Time’s a wasting,” Brody said cheerfully.
He tucked his gun back into the holster and strode toward me. Grabbing my upper arm, he hauled me to the open passenger door of the second SUV. He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a zip tie, and secured my wrists behind my back. He half lifted me into the seat and fastened the seat belt around my waist.
“Safety first,” he said with a wink. “Don’t want anything to happen to you before we get a chance to party.”
THIRTY-FOUR
Kyle
Hildy waved the silver tray at the guard. “See! I didn’t forget your eclair.”
Jimmy stood, smiling as Hildy approached. Without missing a beat, she swung the tray, clocking Jimmy on the side of the head. He staggered, his expression morphing from delight to confusion. Hildy brought the tray down again, and he dropped to his knees, fumbling for his gun.
From the witness room, the sounds of a scuffle.
“What the—” somebody shouted.
Gunfire rang out from the witness room.
Jimmy wobbled on his knees, his hands scrabbling for his gun. I lunged at the guard while Hildy stood by, posed to clobber him again with the tray. I knocked the stunned man face-down onto the floor then knelt on him while I snatched the handcuffs from his belt. Adding insult to injury, I restrained him with his own cuffs.
I spared a second to glance toward Finn, who hadn’t moved on his cot. My chest tightened. Shit. How badly was he hurt if all this commotion hadn’t roused him?
“Keep an eye on him.” I handed Jimmy’s gun to Hildy, then ran back to the witness room. “Anybody hit?” I asked, my gaze darting from person to person. Marcus, Justin, and Georgia were on their feet. All three Allsop men were down on the floor, like Jimmy, shackled with their own cuffs. No time to ask what went down. I whirled and raced back into death row.
Jimmy had crawled over to the wall and now leaned heavily against it, panting for air and blinking rapidly. I unclipped the keys from his belt and rushed to the cell holding Finn.
Slumped on his side, facing the wall, Finn lay motionless as a corpse. I reached out. My hand paused an inch from his shoulder, as if I was afraid to close the distance, afraid to discover that all our efforts to save him had come to nothing.
“C’mon man,” I said through gritted teeth, forcing my hand to touch his shoulder. He groaned—thank God—and rolled onto his back. “Shit,” I breathed. Allsop’s men had really gone to town on Finn. His right eye was swollen shut, the lid puffy and purple. Dried blood crusted the side of his face, and a gaping crack split his lower lip. “Finn.” No reaction. “Finn,” I tried again, this time with more force.
The lid over his left eye fluttered, then slid partially open. He squinted up at me through the slit.
Marcus Havoc appeared at my side. “We’re getting you out of here, brother,” he said, bending over Finn. “How bad are you hurt?”
“Ribs,” Finn croaked. Marcus carefully lifted Finn’s shirt. Mottled red and purple bruises covered the side of his torso.
“Broken?” Marcus asked.
“Dunno.” Finn choked out. He blinked, his bloodshot eye struggling to stay open. “Drugged… me.”
Marcus and I exchanged a glance. Clinging to consciousness, with injured ribs, would Finn be able to walk, or would we have to carry him? Whatever the case, we had to move. No doubt the guards at the entrance had heard the shots and had called for reinforcements.
Footsteps sounded behind us. The four Allsop soldiers shuffled past. Georgia and Hildy stood nearby, weapons trained on the men. Justin stuck his head into Finn’s cell and held out his hand toward me.
“Key.” I passed it to him. A clink and rattle followed as he locked the soldiers into a death row cell. Justin stepped up to Marcus. “We gotta book, boss.”
“Yeah,” Marcus agreed. Sliding an arm under Finn’s shoulders, he lifted him into a seated position. Finn groaned and swayed, his head lolling back against Marcus’s arm. He paled, the skin under the dried blood on his face turning pasty white. “Can you walk?” Marcus demanded.
“I’ll try.”
“One, two, three.” Marcus hauled Finn to his feet and slung the injured man’s arm across his shoulders. Marcus wrapped an arm around Finn’s waist, and the men lumbered out of the cell, the major’s body acting as a crutch to support Finn’s weight. They stumbled toward the stairs, Finn’s feet dragging cockeyed across the cement. “Fuck it. Sorry, brother,” Marcus said, bending over and throwing Finn across his shoulders.
Finn hissed and I winced. Within seconds, he passed out, going limp against the major’s back, a pure mercy if you asked me.
Justin and Georgia led the way down the stairs, guns drawn. Marcus followed, with Hildy and me bringing up the rear. We jogged toward the administrative building and the exit from the prison.
Every step brought us closer to an inevitable firefight. My pulse ratcheted up and dread curdled in my gut. I wasn’t a soldier—not like Marcus, Justin, and Georgia—but this wouldn’t be my first gunfight. Chaos and cacophony ruled when bullets flew. The best laid plans went haywire, and as far as I knew, our only plan was to blast our way out past the guards.
Marcus halted at the entrance to the old sally port. The opening in the wall offered a tantalizing view of the land outside the prison walls. Unfortunately, thick metal bars and a sliding gate blocked access to the outside world. We could blast or bash our way through the metal bars, but the clamor would bring the guards running. Marcus gently laid Finn on the ground, pulled two wrenches from his back pocket, and handed them to me.
“Justin, Georgia, and I will engage the guards inside the administration building,” he said in a low, urgent voice. “You and Hildy will get Finn out through the sally port. As soon as you hear gunfire, take the wrenches to the padlock on the gate. The thing’s almost a hundred years old. You should be able to bust it open. Head to the car. Give us a few minutes to follow. If we don’t show, or if you’re pursued, take off
for Pendleton.”
This made absolutely no sense. Marcus Havoc was the leader of the resistance, Justin one of his lieutenants, Georgia a soldier he trusted enough to send as a spy. None of them were dispensable. Shaking my head, I opened my mouth to protest.
Marcus gripped my shoulder and gave me a hard look. “You come on a mission with me, you follow orders.” Without waiting for me to reply, he wheeled around and led Justin and Georgia toward the administration building, where God-knows how many Allsop men waited for them.
“I’ll keep watch while you break the lock,” Hildy said, Jimmy’s gun still gripped in her hand.
I clutched the wrenches in sweaty palms. All the spit in my mouth dried up. Seconds ticked by, the wait interminable. Without warning, an explosion ripped through the air, followed by a barrage of bullets.
I hammered the wrench against the lock. It held. Frustrated, I inserted the heads of the two wrenches through the metal loop at the top of the padlock, then squeezed. The padlock popped apart. I threw my weight against the heavy metal gate. It shrieked and protested as I muscled it along its tracks. Without the cover of gunfire, no way could we have escaped covertly through this gate.
Hildy held the gun in both hands, swinging her head from side to side as she stood lookout.
More gunfire erupted from the admin building.
I glanced down at Finn, who was sprawled on the ground hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness. The cowboy stood an inch or two taller than me—when he could stand, that is—and years of hard work on the ranch had packed muscle onto his frame. Good thing the weight bench and I were old friends.