Jack Frost

by Diane Capri

  “You know we’re not officially undercover, right? This operation is strictly off the books. Which means we haven’t been approved by anyone except the Boss,” Kim said, as she settled into the passenger seat.

  He should know the parameters of their assignment already, but she wanted him to be clear on the protocols. Meaning, there were none.

  Burke shrugged. “Yeah, I know. Our orders are to do the job on our own. We have zero support through the usual channels. We can reveal our official mission, but that’s all.”

  Kim nodded. “So, we just tell people that we are assigned to the Special Personnel Task Force, and we’re conducting a thorough background check on Reacher. He’s being considered for a special classified assignment. We don’t know what that is because it’s above our clearance levels.”

  He cocked his head and slipped his sunglasses on as they exited the parking garage. “And people buy that?”

  “It’s up to us to sell it. So be convincing.”

  Kim was the lead agent on the case, and Burke was number two. Number two drives, Gaspar had always insisted. Truth was Kim preferred the passenger seat anyway. More operational flexibility.

  Not that she intended to let him know it. He seemed to need the feeling of control. Or maybe he had something to prove to her.

  He was new on the job. He deserved time to tackle the learning curve. As long as he didn’t put lives at risk, she’d let his pompous attitude go. For now.

  “Speaking of the job at hand,” Burke said once they reached the highway that would take them to Bolton. “I read your reports. So I’m up to speed on the official details.”

  Kim nodded.

  “I’d like to know what you left out, though.” He turned his head to glance in her direction. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses. He couldn’t see hers for the same reason.

  “What makes you think I left anything out?”

  “Good agents always have a cover-your-ass file. You’re telling me you don’t?”

  “You think I need one?”

  Burke had returned his attention to the traffic. But his tone clearly conveyed his opinion. “I think this Jack Reacher guy is someone I’d have been proud to serve with, back in my SEAL days. But I doubt he’s fit for civilian life. Most guys I’ve met, with service records like his, are too rough around the edges, you know?”

  Kim nodded and said nothing. But she wondered if Burke was describing himself. Was he too prone to solve problems with combat solutions? Was that what had happened on his last Hostage Rescue Team operation? And was that why she was saddled with him now?

  When she didn’t respond, Burke turned on the satellite radio to a classic rock music station and they passed the miles accompanied by the best years of rock. At least, that’s what Kim’s dad had called it when she was growing up.

  The soundtrack of her childhood was mostly the Rolling Stones and Bob Seeger and the Eagles, with a little bit of Beatles thrown in, even though they were on their way down when she was still a kid. Classic rock reminded her of home.

  They’d been on the road for almost two hours when Burke glanced at the GPS. “We’re about twenty miles out. There’s a truck stop coming up on the right. How about we stop for coffee?”

  “I never say no to coffee,” Kim replied from behind her sunglasses. Sunset was almost another hour away and the sky was still bright enough to force a squint.

  “I’ll make a note of that,” Burke grinned as he slowed the big beast down for the turn and dialed down the music. “From the files I got, looks like Bolton, South Dakota, owes its prosperity to government spending.”

  “Nothing special about that. Thousands of small towns across America are in the same situation.”

  But Bolton’s revenue came from a slightly less common expenditure. The relatively new maximum-security federal prison brought development money, jobs, visitors, and notoriety to Bolton in a way nothing else would have. The state and the county piled on by adding their own prisons and jails to the compound. The final result was that the prison compound became a walled city in itself.

  “You ever been to a prison town?” Burke asked when he steered the SUV away from the fuel pumps toward the store and parked. He stretched his arms over his shoulders.

  “Probably. Why?” Kim unlatched her seatbelt and removed the alligator clamp she’d placed at the retractor to keep the stiff webbing from slicing off her head.

  “Prison towns are a different world. Totally artificial in some ways,” Burke said. He opened the big Navigator’s door and stepped outside.

  Kim did the same from her side and stretched the kinks out of her back. She’d been sitting a long time today. Maybe the hotel would have a treadmill where she could run a bit before bed.

  She walked toward the store and Burke walked alongside her, shortening his steps to match hers.

  “I lived in a prison town for a few years,” he said. “Every week supplies roll into the prison, and waste management contractors haul away the trash. Visitors arrive at the prison by bus from the town, where cheap motels and fast-food restaurants of every kind pop up to serve them.”

  She pulled the door open and walked inside.

  Burke followed, still talking. “Employment will be of the minimum wage variety, mostly.”

  “A new hospital was built on the outskirts of Bolton, though. A medical complex grew up around it, too. Those will be better jobs,” Kim replied, searching for the coffee counter inside the store. She followed her nose to find the setup in the back.

  Burke shook his head. “Turns out visitors, workers, inmates, and prison employees all need medical care. Most of that is government funded, too. Schools, services. All government.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Bolton is a company town. And the company is the government. And, if you were a philosophical sort, you might say the government was the people,” Burke finished, finally.

  It was about the tenth long-winded philosophical lecture upon which he’d pontificated since they’d left Rapid City.

  Which was more than enough.

  “Or you might say that people need work to put food on the table, and a job’s a job.” Kim poured black coffee.

  That was one of the best things about truck stops. They always had good fresh coffee. She found the lid and pressed it onto the large Styrofoam cup.

  “They need a job after whatever half-baked crime their dumb loved ones tried didn’t pan out, you mean?” Burke said with a snarky edge.

  Kim frowned.

  Burke said, “We don’t catch the smart ones, you know.”

  “No?” She grinned and gave him a cheeky, “Speak for yourself.”

  For half a moment, he seemed speechless. But that didn’t last.

  His eyes crinkled, and he laughed out loud, and she liked him a lot better, instantly.

  It was the first time he’d exhibited any ability to take a joke, which was one of the things she missed since Gaspar retired. Jousting with wit and humor against a worthy competitor was fun.

  Would Burke be so worthy? Not yet. But it was early days for their partnership. She could hope.

  After a quick bathroom break, they returned to the SUV, and Burke pulled onto the road.

  They’d driven five miles farther east when Kim peered ahead, squinting as she pointed off to the north. “Do you see that?”

  Burke lowered his sunglasses and stared into the distance. “Looks like a big fire. All I can see for sure is a lot of black smoke.”

  “Yeah. And from here, it looks like the fire might be close to Bolton prison. Check the radio. See if you can find breaking news,” she said as she fished her cell phone out of her pocket and speed-dialed Gaspar.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Friday, May 13

  North of Bolton Prison

  7:35 p.m.

  The hacker had his foot hard on the accelerator. His hands gripped the steering wheel, which was the only thing controlling his shaking. The kid was a fool. He should h
ave known Keegan couldn’t be trusted. He should have understood that from the start.

  Keegan checked his watch. They’d been traveling a full five minutes already. The prison siren must have been damaged in the crash and the fire that followed. Or maybe the cacophony was so loud that the siren was overcome.

  Either way, the prison guards would be calling reinforcements. No point in escaping from prison just to be recaptured on the road. They had to get out of the area and do it fast.

  Bolton PD would be sending all personnel to their prearranged checkpoints. Keegan had seen the map. The checkpoints were along a one-mile radius from the prison.

  Which meant he needed to get beyond the one-mile limit before Bolton PD arrived and set up the blocks. No doubt, their orders would be shoot to kill.

  Five minutes was too long.

  Over the years, Keegan had honed his ability to appear calm in every situation. He’d also learned to control his quick-flash temper embedded in his Irish DNA.

  A casual observer wouldn’t know that from the moment he’d seen the A320 hurtling from the sky toward the prison, his heart rate had pounded hard. Even the top of his head seemed electrically charged. His breathing had quickened and his entire body alerted, poised for escape.

  The plan had been meticulously sequenced by his most trusted guys. He’d rehearsed the steps in his head over and over for weeks, looking for the slightest mistake. He’d found a few, told Walsh, who had passed them along through Denny to the lawyer, and they were resolved long before the jetliner set him free.

  Keegan had trusted no one but Walsh, and only with the most necessary details of the escape plan. Until and unless he proved otherwise, which Keegan didn’t expect to happen, Walsh could be counted on to do his job. He’d be handsomely rewarded when they reached Canada, but that’s not why Walsh was so reliable.

  It was old-fashioned loyalty to Keegan that kept Walsh alive. Keegan trusted Walsh and no one else.

  Keegan was getting antsy. Walsh must have felt the vibe.

  “Where’s the Ford?” Walsh demanded from the backseat.

  The young hacker glanced into the rearview mirror nervously. He tried to speak, but no sound passed his vocal cords. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Two miles down the side road up ahead. Four miles north of the prison. Just like you said. We’re almost there.”

  “How long?” Walsh said.

  The hacker choked on his own saliva before he coughed out, “Five more minutes, tops.”

  “Get there in three,” Walsh insisted.

  The kid didn’t object. He pressed the accelerator and the Suburban lunged ahead.

  Keegan kept his senses alert for the sound of approaching helicopters and sirens from law enforcement and first responder vehicles likely to be speeding toward the prison. He didn’t expect to hear any. There were no real towns north of the prison for at least a hundred miles.

  The point of the jetliner crash was to do maximum damage to the prison building and its surroundings.

  Keep them all busy, giving Keegan time to get away.

  Everything had worked exactly as planned.

  So far.

  He wasn’t in Canada yet.

  But he would be.

  The kid kept his speed for another couple of minutes before he began to slow, peering out the side window.

  “What are you looking for?” Walsh asked.

  “A big rock,” the kid squeaked.

  “There’s rocks all over the place,” Walsh said, annoyed.

  “Yeah. This is a pink rock. I put a mark on it. And I checked the mileage. We’re almost there,” he slowed, lowered the window, and stuck his head out like a dog, looking at the ground as the SUV moved past.

  Keegan’s patience was at the breaking point, but he held his temper.

  Walsh would deal with the hacker soon enough.

  A few more minutes and the kid spotted his rock. He slowed the SUV and turned left onto hard ground, moving through the underbrush toward a stand of trees.

  He pointed, “I parked it back there.”

  Walsh grunted as the Suburban bounced along the dirt path. Keegan had said nothing, but he’d noticed when Walsh’s left arm had been sliced by flying debris back at the exercise yard. Walsh had sucked it up and kept moving.

  But the wound must have been worse than Walsh let on. Fresh blood had soaked through his street clothes underneath the sleeve in his orange jumpsuit.

  Keegan was starting to worry that Walsh wouldn’t be able to complete the job. Maybe they should have let Denny come along after all. Too late to do anything about that now.

  The kid drove around the stand of trees and pulled up next to another SUV. Keegan’s stomach tensed when he saw it.

  The kid had been instructed to get a second vehicle, but the directions should have been more specific.

  This SUV was silver instead of black. It was a Ford instead of a Chevy. They were too similar for Keegan’s comfort level.

  He shook his head. The hacker had been hired to crash the plane and hustle them away from the prison during the inevitable chaos that followed.

  He’d done all of that.

  He’d earned his money.

  But like a lot of geeks, his intelligence didn’t run to the practical aspects of criminal life.

  After the kid stopped the vehicle, Keegan opened the door and stepped onto the first free ground he’d experienced in months.

  He took deep breaths, imagining the free air smelled better here than the exercise yard at Bolton. Which was nonsense, of course. Air was air. And they were not even five miles away from the prison.

  “Where’s the stuff we told you to bring?” Walsh asked.

  “In the back of the Explorer,” the kid replied.

  Keegan walked over to the Ford, opened the driver’s door, and saw the key fob on the seat. Keegan walked around to the back of the SUV. He saw the guns and supplies and gave Walsh a thumbs-up signal.

  “Come on. We need to wipe down this cabin with the bleach you brought,” Walsh said to the kid. “It’s in the back, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Walsh used his right arm more than his left, but he didn’t complain about the damage to his bicep. Keegan hoped that was a sign that the pain wouldn’t overwhelm him. They had a long way to go before they’d be safe from recapture. Canada wouldn’t extradite him because of the death penalty. But they had to get across the border first. Seven hundred miles north.

  The kid was nervous, but he climbed out of the Suburban and trudged around to the cargo hold. He opened the back hatch, reached in, and collected the spray bleach and a roll of paper towels.

  “Hurry up. We’ve got to get this done and get the hell out of here,” Walsh said. The kid went right to work. “I’ll be right back. I gotta take a leak.”

  Walsh walked around to the other side of the tree and into the bushes. Keegan lost sight of him. A couple of minutes later, Walsh howled and cursed loudly. Two more sharp howls followed.

  “What the hell?” Keegan said as he hurried toward the tree, gun in hand. When he came around the big tree trunk, he saw Walsh stomping the ground with three large rattlesnakes clamped onto his calf.

  All three of the snakes were at least five feet long. They thrashed and squirmed, bodies writhing, tails rattling. Each triangular head was affixed to Walsh’s leg like a vise.

  “Get them the hell off me!” Walsh yelled. “They came at me out of nowhere. Stabbed me with their fangs. No time to move.”

  Keegan looked into the brush. A nest of pit vipers writhed like worms in a pile near Walsh’s left foot.

  “Move this way, Walsh!” Keegan said. He didn’t want to shoot at the nest of snakes. The risk that someone might hear the gunshots this close to the prison was too great.

  The kid came running with a shovel in his hand. “Stand still! Stand still!”

  Walsh did the best he could to comply. The kid raised the shovel and stabbed the blade down hard onto the biggest of the three snakes. He r
aised the shovel and stabbed again.

  On the third strike, he severed the snake’s body into two pieces. But still it didn’t let go of Walsh’s leg.

  Walsh struggled to drag the weight of the snakes and moved farther away from the nest.

  The kid began stabbing the shovel at the second snake. He managed to sever the second one with the first blow. Two more blows to the third viper and Walsh was free of the long bodies.

  Keegan scanned the ground until he found a fallen tree branch about four inches in diameter. He picked it up and walked over to Walsh. He bent and shoved the stick under the rattler’s head, pushing upward, until it released Walsh’s flesh and the head fell to the ground.

  He did the same thing twice more until Walsh was free. Then the three men moved farther away from the nest.

  Keegan turned to the hacker. “Finish up with the bleach. You got a first aid kit?”

  The kid nodded. “In the back of the Suburban.”

  The kid went to work, vigorously spraying bleach over every surface inside the passenger areas of the vehicle. He swiped it around and then sprayed it all again.

  Keegan nodded approval. Soon, all evidence that Keegan and Walsh had ever been inside the Suburban would be destroyed or degraded beyond any hope of analysis.

  Walsh found the first aid kit. He stripped off his clothes and stood in the cool air in his underwear. The kit contained a small bottle of alcohol, which Walsh opened and poured over the six puncture wounds in his left calf.

  He winced as the alcohol hit the wounds. “These bites hurt like a son of a bitch.”

  Keegan didn’t see much blood. Six streams ran down Walsh’s calves, but that was all. The only thing he knew about rattlesnake venom was what he’d learned from old western movies, which was probably exaggerated anyway.

  “You think that alcohol will fix those bites?” Keegan asked.

  Walsh shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know. I’ve got no idea what to do for rattlesnake bites.”

  “Any swelling?”

  “Maybe a little. Hard to say.”

  “How are you feeling? Any sort of reaction to the venom?”

  Walsh shrugged again. “I could use a bottle of water.”