Breakout

by A P Bateman

  Three-hundred and fifty pounds reeled backwards, howling and holding both palms to his eye. The other men looked on, some losing the stomach for a fight, but there was always one. And he came in swinging. King kicked him in the groin and smashed the palm of his hand upwards into the man’s nose. He seldom punched – knuckles were easily broken, and some of these men looked like they’d been punched plenty of times before and were still here to tell the tale. The man stumbled, but in the close proximity of the crowd, he fell into onlookers and didn’t go down. King kicked downwards onto the man’s left kneecap and he folded in two, crashing down onto the ground as one of the guards fired two warning shots. It should have been the shotgun, but it wasn’t. The 5.56mm high-velocity bullets ricocheted off the cave walls and only stopped when the twisted and flattened rounds found two unsuspecting prisoners. Both men fell, screaming. One held his bleeding arm, the other looked like he wouldn’t be making it out of the cave for his shower. He started to fit, and his face became ashen. Most of the men in the cave had seen the scene before. Hardened ISIS fighters who had killed their enemy and lost their friends. Or done a hell of a lot worse to their prisoners. The men dispersed as well as they could inside the cave, and nobody tended to either wounded prisoner.

  An alarm sounded, a long buzz like a claxon, and each man got onto his knees. King hadn’t been briefed on this, but he was a quick learner and knew it could only be a bad thing to remain standing. The gorilla was whimpering, still holding his eye, but he managed to kneel and duck his head. His companion was resting on his side.

  “Prisoners on their knees!” the warning came and the man with the broken kneecap tried to move. “Prisoners on their knees!” Again, the man struggled but failed to get his leg anywhere near where it needed to be. King watched, saw the man’s face tear apart and heard the gunshot ring out. Two more gunshots rang out and the other two wounded men rested still. The alarm continued to sound and one of the doors opened. King risked a glance to the open window and saw Johnson looking directly back at him. The man seemed amused. He held his stare for a moment, then looked back at the three bodies on the floor. Headshots. No mercy given. King closed his eyes and thought about Caroline. He hoped he would see her again, but a nagging sensation in his gut told him he was in trouble. Rashid had done everything he could to persuade King not to accept the mission, and for the first time since the initial briefing, he wished he’d passed it by.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After the alarm had ended, they were ordered back to their cells. The men did not move, and King who had started to stand had paused and hovered on his haunches, his eyes on the other men, until they were ordered from the kneeling position to their feet. The men seemed to know the score, like some macabre game of Simon says. King would have thought the prisoners would have been shaken by the killings, but their expressions were neutral, their emotions in check. Despite what King had done in his life, and what he had seen, he was aware that he was probably the only person to be shaken at the swiftness in which the wounded men had been dispatched. The man he had disabled by breaking his knee had been shot dead. He wouldn’t have been able to kneel no matter how hard he tried. That was on King. But the two innocent bystanders caught up in events, injured by the guard’s warning shots, had been shot regardless. And the agent named Johnson had calmly watched events transpire. His threats of shooting King and sending him to a shallow grave seemed more than plausible now that King had seen what could happen here. King had been glib with him, but he now realised that the man’s authority was not to be doubted. King had even wondered whether it had been turned into an exhibition for him. In fact, he was certain of it. A stark warning if ever it were needed.

  King had passed the time on his bed, thinking about Vladimir Zukovsky. A man with whom he had history and had never expected to see again. Until the head of MI5, Director Amherst, had discovered Zukovsky’s involvement in a Russian project, started under the ruling of the USSR, he had not thought about the man who had so very nearly crippled his country. Having discovered the project on a recent mission to Finland, close to the Russian border where he was to retrieve a defector and investigate an MI6 officer’s murder, King now knew that to put the threat of a genetic-disrupting biological weapon to bed, he needed to find and interrogate the person involved with its conception. The British SAS had already infiltrated the facility and used explosives to make it look like geothermal and hydroelectric technology had failed due to flooding in the spring thaw and torn the power station apart – a cover for the secret laboratory operating underneath - but Zukovsky was mentioned in transcripts taken by the defector and he was the only link to a hideous and deadly virus designed to incapacitate entire nations.

  He did not know how many hours had passed, but as the alarm sounded once, King knew what it meant. He slid off the bed and stood by the door as it opened. It sounded again, and he glanced outside. He couldn’t see any other heads, but the message said loudly, “Those who have been chosen, head to the showers.”

  King didn’t know which way to walk, but by the process of elimination, he guessed it was to his right, as he had entered the prison from his left, and that was also the direction of Johnson’s office. At the end of the corridor downhill the door to the cavern opened and King hesitated, not yet seeing anybody else. He had a feeling that the guards in the open window may well be testing their aim again soon. Was that it? Like Jews marched to the showers in the Holocaust, would he simply meet his end there? He couldn’t see what else he could do. He had no weapon, no way of escaping. He could stay in the corridor, but not indefinitely. He was under CCTV surveillance and the guards were armed and had proven they had no qualms about killing prisoners. He felt trepidation as he cautiously entered, his legs leaden and his heart pounding. He looked up at the opening, but the single guard appeared uninterested, his pump-action shotgun held loosely over his forearm. King walked down the steps and headed for the furthest door. It was the only one open, and he had missed it on his earlier visit. So many people, and so much happening. The first door was a double sliding steel affair, more suited to an aircraft hangar. It led to the mess hall, and from there only to the kitchens and service area beyond. It had been open both times he had been down here. The open doorway ahead of him led to a short walk through a narrow, roughly hewn passageway and another rocky cavern opened-up but this time far smaller than the general population cave. He wondered how long it had taken to construct, whether it had been done clandestinely as the airstrip had been constructed, or whether it was left over from a gold mining project that had been bored out underground. He knew that the Black Hills was the birthplace of the American goldrush and because of the ego of General Custer who was told by President Ulysses S. Grant to keep news of the discovery of gold quiet – America being both in recession and under contract of agreement with Sitting Bull and the Sioux nation to stay out of the newly formed Black Hills Indian reservations – it had spelt the beginning of the end for the Native American Indian’s freedom. King had focused his research on the area and had learned a great deal. He had memorised topographic and geographical features, a potted history and reckoned he would know his way out of the vast area without a map. He just hoped he was in the right place to begin with.

  A bank of showers ran along one wall, partially sectioned off by hardboard panel screens. There were stalls of warped plywood and dishes piled high with used soap bars. The floor was grated, and the place smelled of damp and urine and faeces. King guessed that many of the men would make use of the shower as they took the chance to defecate away from the cameras in their cells. With no paper in the cells, squatting and washing in the shower afterwards would have felt a luxury. Indeed, he imagined the many Muslim men preferring it to the Western toilet in their cell. King had found that once away from the larger hotels in the Middle-East simple squat toilets were the norm throughout most of the countries he had visited out there. But as he entered the shower area, it was clear from the smell that it hadn’t been inten
ded nor equipped for that purpose. A putrid, fetid obtrusion to his senses. It was enough to make him want to gag. He breathed through his mouth to nullify the smell.

  “Prisoner three-eight-one-four-B, you will strip and shower…” The speaker system crackled above his head.

  King was guarded. He knew that there were enough men here in need of a shower but couldn’t work out why he was alone. He kicked off the cheap plimsoles, stripped out of the orange jumpsuit and took off his boxers. He switched the shower head on and picked up some soap. He washed the boxers out with the soap, rinsed them thoroughly and wrung them as dry as he could and flung them onto a hook. The hook was loose in its plywood setting and tipped slightly as it took the weight. He looked at the fixings, wandered if it could work in his favour. He then scrubbed and soaped himself all over, washing twice and allowing the tepid water to run over his aching neck and shoulders.

  “Hey, look! Some fresh meat!”

  King looked up to see the gorilla sporting an eye patch. He was flanked by two more men, who were similar in looks to him, though a little smaller. But still over six-foot and twice an average man’s weight. To their credit, their size looked to be hewn from cheeseburgers and dumb-bells. Equal parts muscle and fat, but certainly strong and not underestimated.

  “I want to thank you for the cheap shot in my eye,” the gorilla said. “The doc says I’ll be lucky to get my sight back, so thanks a lot, buddy.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The man’s jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly enough. He snarled, “Oh, you’re gonna be sorry! But first, my bros here want to get acquainted…”

  “Prison gay?” King asked. “Or just gay?”

  “Does it make any difference?” one of the men asked incredulously.

  King smiled, started to soap his hands. Lots of lather going on as he looked at the three men. “Well, one type brings flowers, I suppose.”

  “It’ll still go in the same way. Spit and determination,” the man said coldly from behind a sadistic smile.

  “You seen Deliverance?” the gorilla asked, smiling. He took a step towards King. The two men followed suit.

  King nodded and smiled. “Yeah.”

  “Well?”

  King shrugged. “A couple of hill-billies rape a man, get killed for their trouble. Should serve as a lesson to you.”

  The gorilla shook his head. “I meant the squealing like a pig part.”

  King smiled. “Well, I guess we know who’s who.”

  “Meaning?” the gorilla asked. He was staring at King’s scars, a network of lines across his chest and torso.

  “Fuck me, you’re not that stupid, are you?” King kept lathering the soap in his hands, the water still running down his back. “You think you’ve got one thing planned, but it’s not going to pan out like that. Now, fuck off back to your cells, before it all goes wrong for you. Again.”

  One of the men shrugged. “No. You see, being here serves two purposes. We get a thrill, Chuck gets some payback for his eye and we get a serious amount of credit with the guards.”

  “That’s three dumb-ass,” said King.

  The two men glanced at each other and pumped themselves a little. Their stances widened, like cowboys with a brace of six-guns on their hips, only it was a combination of fat and muscle that kept their arms out from their sides. They didn’t quite manage it in unison, but they lunged forwards into the wet room, just as King threw the handful of the soap lather in front of them. Both men lost their footing, but one went down hard and the other slipped and slid and tried to regain his balance. King’s hands were still lathered, and he slapped the man in the face with an open palm, the soap plastering his eyes. He started to howl and dig at his eyes with his fingers and didn’t see King’s knee coming towards his groin. He felt it though and went down, his partner taking the brunt of his weight as he fell on top of him. King dropped to his knees, caught hold of the man’s ears and dragged his head over so that it lined up with his partner’s face. He lifted and smashed three times, until both men lay still. He gave it one more for luck, then let go and stood up. Still naked, unashamed and ready to take on the gorilla.

  The gorilla stood up straight and flexed. King wasn’t a small man at a shade under six-foot and although he had lost weight since his incarceration, he was still a well-muscled thirteen stone or so. All useful and no excess fat that wasn’t. But the man in front of him was a mountain. King had taken him on once, but as he sized him up a second time, the gorilla allowed a section of pipe to slide out of his sleeve. He gripped it firmly, the other end glinting in the light where it had been flattened and scraped into a makeshift chisel edge.

  “Walk away,” King said.

  “Not until I’ve cut off your dick,” he replied, eyeing him up and giving the pipe a twist, the edge glinting again. “And fed it to you, you son of a bitch!”

  King shrugged like the threat was nothing. “So, Johnson put you up to this?” The man said nothing, but he took a pace towards King, mindful of the water on the floor and the spread of lathered soap suds. “What did he promise you?”

  “Shut up and dance, mother fucker!” He swung the pipe and King dodged backwards, and to his annoyance he slipped on the wet, smooth concrete and nearly went down. The gorilla was faster than he looked and swiped the pipe a second time, slashing King across his bicep. King winced, and the man jeered. “How’s that feel?”

  King worked his way to his left, over the grate and to the dry concrete floor. He glanced at his arm, which was bleeding enough for a trip to A and E. The gorilla smiled and stepped around his two unconscious companions. He squinted through his one good eye, the eye-patch lending a comical pirate look, although the size and rage of the man could not be underestimated. King realised he was backed up against a row of sinks. He looked for something to use as a weapon, picked up a wet hand towel and caught hold of one corner. He spun it so that it twisted, then edged closer to his opponent.

  “Ah, gee, I’m fucking scared now, punk,” the gorilla sneered.

  King whipped the towel out like it was locker-room high-jinks and it cracked on the tip of the man’s chin. He howled and flinched, then came at King with a flurry of swipes with the pipe. King ducked and dived and whipped the towel again, this time cracking the man’s nose. A half-inch gash opened up and started to bleed. He quickly followed it up as the man recoiled, the next flick catching him in his remaining good eyeball. The man screamed and dropped the pipe, falling to his knees and cupping his face with both hands. He was cursing and screaming, some of it incoherent. King picked up the pipe and stepped closer.

  “That must smart a bit,” he said. “You’re not having the best day, are you? Well, it wasn’t like I didn’t warn you. Here, have some prison anaesthetic…” He swiped the pipe on the back of the man’s head and he fell forwards onto the pile.

  King put his orange jumpsuit back on and snatched his cleaned, but damp boxers off the hook. He bundled them up and tucked them under his arm as he left. The cavern looked large and ominous ahead of him. He glanced up at the guard, who did a double take when he saw King on his own. He looked uncertain what to do next, but King was already across the cave and up the steps. A backward glance as he left through the door showed the guard reaching for his radio.

  He dutifully followed the yellow line and ahead of him his cell door opened. There were no instructions on the speaker, and he imagined that somewhere there was a very pissed off individual who had wanted him broken down and beaten in the most animalistic way possible. Sure, the guards could perform the beatings until they killed him, but they wouldn’t have carried out the threat that the three prisoners had been willing to do. Somewhere, someone would be looking at a plan-B. But King was damned if he was going to give them the opportunity.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  King looked at the boxers on the floor. Damp, but clean. He could only assume that the camera was located in the ceiling rose of the single bulb high above his head. They would be watching h
im for sure. But he needed to remain calm. He had a chance now, but only if he could use it without drawing attention to it. He took off his shoes and placed them on top of the boxers, then pushed the pile under his bed while he peeled down the jumpsuit to his waist and used the damp towel that he had used against the gorilla to staunch the flow of blood to the slice on his shoulder. It was deep, but the bleeding had slowed. It was sore as hell, though. He looked up to the ceiling and pointed to the wound.

  “Do you want me to bleed to death?” he shouted. He turned his attention back to the wound, but other than dabbing it, he had nothing to treat it with. “Get me some medical attention!”

  Five minutes later and the cell door opened. A different procedure now. No cuffs, just three tough-looking guards with a shotgun each and a man in a white coat. The doctor who had searched him on arrival. The doctor scurried in and dropped a medical bag on the floor beside King. He opened it and set about taking out various packets. King watched him curiously, then looked over at the door as Johnson stepped in. He was still wearing his black suit with matching tie and white shirt. His resemblance to the actor Tommy-Lee Jones was uncanny. Perhaps the guy had watched the films, tried to replicate it as part of his persona.

  “You’re a tough son of a bitch, aren’t you?”

  King regarded him coldly as the doctor wiped the wound with antiseptic. “I am,” he said. “Nature or nurture. I grew up tough. And then they made me tougher,” he paused. “But I’m not sadistic. I can be violent when I have to be, but not purposely vicious. Whatever gets the job done.” He felt the hypodermic needle going in and watched as the doctor took out a needle and thread, ready to suture. He turned back to Johnson. “But you’re a vindictive shit. What you lined up down there for me was unnecessary,” he said. “You’ve got to be a special kind of wanker to try and have that done to somebody.”