by Michael Bray
"Not just any prison either," Trig said.
"What do you mean?"
"Some nasty fuckers in this place, Stanny. Real bad eggs."
"Like who?"
"Charles Bronson for a start."
"Bronson," Stanhope said, brow furrowing. "I know about him. Saw him in that film, Death Wish."
"Not that one ya' dozy cunt. Charlie Bronson, you know, violent psycho, been inside more years than he's been out. Likes to strip off and butter himself up then get into fights with the guards. They made a film about him."
"Oh, yeah, I know who you mean now," Stanhope muttered. "Either way, we shouldn’t be here."
"This one is direct from the Prime Minister. Doing a favour for the yanks. We need to pull someone out for em sharpish and get him to Heathrow," Parker said, setting aside the binoculars and turning towards the rest of the team. "Problem is, with no satellite info and this bloke we're supposed to extract being lost in the system, it means we're gonna have to go in and search for him."
"Fuck's sake, that could take hours," Trig said, spitting in the dirt for emphasis.
"No, we have an idea where we need to be. Northeast wing. Staff has evacuated, so it should just be prisoners in there for now."
"They just left them in there?" Stanhope said.
"What else were they supposed to do with em mate?" Trig said with a one-sided grin. "Safest place for em' to be. If they're locked up, it will make this job a piece of piss."
"Yeah, well, that’s the big if. Depends on if the warden decided to leave em in their cages to die or opened the doors to give em a fair chance."
"What do you think Parker?"
"I don’t think it matters to us either way. We've got a job to do and that’s all there is to it."
"I know that," Stanhope said. "What I was asking is what you think of this whole thing. It’s a fuckin' mess."
"The Yanks seem to be keeping a lot of it under wraps. They know more about it than everyone else which means they probably created the problem. All I know for sure is I've seen stuff this last few days I never thought I'd ever see. Some really fucked up shit I wouldn’t have believed if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Something somewhere has gone tits up, that’s for sure."
"I heard the morgues and hospitals are all full," Trig said, firing a frightened glance towards Stanhope. "Bodies are piling up on the streets. There’s nowhere to put them so they just leave em there."
"A mate of mine said they were using football stadiums to hold the bodies. Thousands of em he said. Heard the plan was to set fire to them. Big fuckin’ bonfire, like." Stanhope replied. "Some kind of virus going around, somethin' like rabies. Infects you with a bite or scratch, sends you off the rails, does things to you. Fuck that. I’d put a bullet in my brain first."
"It might all be bollocks yet," Parker grunted as he clipped the goggles back onto his belt. "I don’t believe anything until I see it for myself. The best thing we can do is deal with the mission. Just like always. This is no different to the stuff we do for our bread and butter every day."
"Did you see what happened to the White House?" Trig said, his voice an octave too high. "Those people, the ones we grabbed in Boston just took it over like it was nothing. They're either brave or stupid."
"Yeah well, we took the fuckers once, so we can do it again if it comes to it. Anyway, none of that matters now," Parker said, standing and pulling his balaclava into position, leaving the bright intensity of his eyes visible. "It's time to go to work."
Stanhope nodded and followed suit, rolling the balaclava down his face and adjusting his weight where he crouched. Trig spat into the dirt and did the same.
"Right ladies," Parker said, flicking the safety off his HK MP5 submachine gun. "Weapons ready. Let’s get in and out sharpish."
Stanhope and Trig readied their weapons and followed Parker as he ran in a half crouch across the deserted street and into the prison grounds. Fences and barricades were unmanned. Rubbish skittered across the ground in the breeze. Somewhere far in the distance, police sirens sang their monotonous song as they made their way to yet another emergency. Otherwise, there was silence. They approached the building, a dark tomb against the night sky. The three-man team took cover behind the wall to the entrance barrier; the security office, like the rest of the grounds, empty.
"Looks like the power’s out," Stanhope said, his voice muffled by the balaclava.
"Trig, get in there and see if the CCTV is operational. We could do with knowing what we're up against before we head inside.”
Like parts of a well-oiled machine, they moved in unison. Parker and Stanhope moved into cover positions, Parker on one knee with his weapon pointing towards the prison, Stanhope covering the street they had just crossed as Trig ducked into the security cabin.
"Power's out, no CCTV," he whispered.
"Alright, let’s move on. We follow the plan."
They moved in formation, ducking under the barrier and running towards the main entrance, the imposing rectangular red brick entrance building, which was in complete darkness.
They formed up on either side of the entrance, Trig and Parker on one side, Stanhope on the other. Parker peered through the glass, but could see only shadow draped husks of furniture which betrayed none of the prison’s secrets. He unclipped the night vision goggles from his belt and peered through the window, banishing the shadows and allowing him to see inside. Beyond the door, there was a second entrance which was magnetically locked, and beyond a reception desk and waiting area leading into the bulk of the prison. Parker recalled the maps he had studied, the locations of staff rooms, toilets and security station. Satisfied the room was empty, Parker gave the signal to enter. They moved into the prison, pushing the interior reception door open, its magnetic locking function made useless by the lack of power. The team adopted a triangular wedge formation, sweeping their weapons as they scanned the reception area. Satisfied it was secure, they relaxed, lowering their weapons.
"Right, let’s secure this unit and prep to move into the cell blocks. This is our extraction point," Parker said.
"What next," Stanhope said, eyes glimmering in the gloom.
"Through the back there we'll reach the courtyard. On the other side, we're into the prison wings themselves. With luck, it will be clear and the inmates sleeping when we get in. Obviously, without staff to patrol the place, it will be impossible to tell."
"Right, let’s crack on then."
Parker nodded and pushed the security door open led them through the free standing metal detectors on the inner part of the reception. Deserted offices led them to another security door with a keypad at the side. Parker punched in the combination and pulled open the door. On the other side was a small courtyard. The three men froze and listened, staring at the smoke rising from the opposite side of the wall accompanied by a dull orange glow of fire. As they listened, they could hear the rowdy sounds of a riot in progress.
"So much for the slow and quiet approach," Stanhope said. "Sounds like they're out of their cages."
"Right, in that case, we move to plan B."
"What's plan B?" Trig asked.
"Forget going though, we go up. Trig, find a way onto the roof. We'll need the rappel lines and explosive charges. Let's move."
The three men set to their tasks as two more fighter jets blasted overhead. Within the prison walls, the rampaging inmates were unaware of their presence.
Trig fired the pneumatic rappel gun, the barbed dart embedding into the brick. With well-practiced efficiency, one by one they ascended, moving in silence as they grouped together on the roof. They moved in perfect formation, eyes wide and aware, weapons ready to fire. This was them at their best doing as they had been trained. Parker led the way, Stanhope second followed by Trig, who of the three was the least experienced but still a deadly killing machine trained to cause maximum damage. They kept to the edge of the roof, away from the adjoining inner yard. They arrived at an air vent, the barred grill thick with d
ust and oil. Parker raised a fist and dropped to one knee, joined by the rest of the team who formed around him in a rough circle.
There was no need to speak. They had memorised and rehearsed the plan countless times. Each man knew what was expected of him. They removed the vent cover and set it aside, then, attaching rappel lines to the outer frame, lowered themselves into the dusty storage room. Illuminated by the dim pre-dawn light coming through their entry point, the two men took defensive positions, each scanning the room with their weapons. The large storage space was, as per their intelligence information, empty apart from a few dozen dusty boxes of files stacked in a corner, and some broken plastic chairs in the other. The single door ahead of them lead to a short corridor, beyond which another gated door gave onto the prison wing proper where their subject awaited them. They moved on as a singular entity and in complete silence towards the door. Stanhope unhooked the snake inspection camera from his belt. Attached by a thin flexible cable, the camera was used to look underneath doors and examine potential entry points prior to breach. The pictures would be relayed in real time back to the operator’s handheld unit. Stanhope activated the device and fed the wire underneath the door.
"Looks clear," he said.
"Let’s get it open."
Trig aimed his weapon at the door as Stanhope tried the handle. "Locked," he grunted.
"Pick the bastard," Parker replied.
Doing as instructed, Stanhope took out his lock picking kit, his hands moving with assured ease as he manipulated the tumbler with two thin hooked rods.
"I’m not sure I like this," Stanhope said.
"You saw the prison plans same as we did. This is the only way."
"I know, I still don’t like it, though."
"Come on mate, let’s just crack on," Trig said
"Remember," Parker whispered. "Lethal force authorised as and when needed. We don’t need to be heroes. In and out as quick as we can."
Stanhope nodded and opened the door. The trio filed out, weapons ready. Darkened offices stood silent and abandoned as they moved towards the control room, which was separated from the admin wing by a yellow steel security gate.
Stanhope didn’t need to be told what to do. They had gone over and over the plan so many times it was second nature. He jogged ahead and crouched at the gate, taking the PE 7 Explosive and attaching the sticky, putty-like blocks to the door, shaping it to blast out away from them before rigging a detonator. He jogged back, unrolling the wire which he inserted into the detonator control. He looked at Parker, who nodded in response.
The sound was deafening in the confines of the corridor. The gate was thrown off its runner, mangled by the blast. Smoke and dust hung in the air, and yet the three-man team was already on the move, breaching the shredded metal gate and into the command centre. Parker went into the control room, scanning the banks of monitors and controls and located the group lock/unlock function. Only used during an emergency such as a fire or other critical emergency, the controls acted as a master key, unlocking all interior doors and the transitional segments between cell blocks. Parker activated the controls and glanced at the rest of his team as a symphony of unlocking gates greeted them. Unlike the rest of the building, the gates were powered by a secondary generator, ensuring they remained operational in the event of power loss.
"Right, let’s move," he grunted, leading the way as the others fell into formation behind him. There was no more need for silence. Any element of surprise was gone with the blast. They moved deeper into the cell block in search of their target.
II
It had been six years since Ross Jordan had interacted with another human being, unless, he counted the semi-regular visits of the prison guards to bring him his meals or escort him to the exercise yard after everyone else had gone inside. At thirty-eight, he knew his life was waning away in his tiny five by eight cell and was still no wiser as to why. Born in northern Canada to a hardworking middle-class couple, Ross had led a trouble free life, which made the reason for his incarceration - a conundrum to which he still had no answer- all the more puzzling. For as much as it was true that the average prison was full of people who claimed to be innocent, Ross could state hand on heart with absolute sincerity that in his case it was true. He had never broken the law, not even getting as much as a parking ticket. The only questionable thing he had done was taking part in a series of medical trials for the government in an effort to pay for a new motorcycle. The trials were said to be harmless, the doctor in charge, a spindly old guy by the name of Genaro, was insistent the trials were for a good cause, something related to improving the health and wellbeing of the average American citizen. Ross didn’t care about that. He was more interested in the hundred dollars a pop he received for letting them take samples of his blood and inject him with whatever shit they were testing. He took part in the programme for five weeks, letting them perform their experiments and taking the cash payment for it, each helping him inch closer to the deposit he needed for his motorcycle when something changed.
He had reported, as always to Genaro’s office, a small, stifling room which always smelled of old wood and dust. Genaro greeted him, and Ross saw there was something different about him. He was agitated and tense and kept rubbing at his ear lobe as he paced the office, the usually pristine desk filled with papers and folders containing charts, numbers and hand-scrawled notes. He was rambling, talking gibberish. It was only then he noticed Ross standing there in the office, a look of confusion etched onto his skinny face.
Without warning, Genaro had exploded into a tirade of abuse, shoving Ross out of the door and screaming at him for wasting valuable government time and money. Confused and more than a little shaken up, Ross left, wincing against the winter air as he shoved his hands in his pockets and started to walk, mentally trying to figure out how he was going to fund the purchase of the bike and curious what had bugged Genaro so much, when a black car pulled up alongside him. Three men got out and flashed innocuous identification badges at him. Intimidated by their size and the aggressive nature of their questioning, he barely protested at their insistence he go with them to answer some questions relating to Dr. Genaro’s research. He got into the car, realising that something was very wrong about the entire situation.
He was taken to a building somewhere out in the Nevada desert, his questions and protests to the three men in the car going unanswered. Once there, he was handcuffed and locked in a windowless room for three days. No communication of any kind took place. No questions, no explanations. No opportunity to make a call or speak to a lawyer despite him screaming himself hoarse at the door of his cell in demand of answers. On the fourth day, more men in sharp-looking black suits who were different to those who had initially stopped him entered his cell and told him he was under arrest under suspicion of intent to commit terrorism. The accusations were ridiculous, and at the time, he didn’t take them at all seriously. He even laughed it off and asked them what evidence they had to convict him. The men in suits declined to answer and told him he would be held in remand until a trial could be arranged. He had asked to speak to a lawyer when he realised the situation was far more serious than he gave it credit for. He was promised a lawyer would be called and made available to discuss the situation with him upon arrival.
It was an arrival which never happened.
Instead, a hood was thrown over his head. He was driven to the airport and bundled onto a private plane and flown halfway around the world to the hellhole he now called home. No lawyers ever came. He was put in the cell he currently resided in with no answers to his questions and no clue what he was doing there. Day after day, he screamed at his door, demanding information, to speak to the American embassy, to someone in charge. Nobody came. Nobody interacted with him. He saw the guards who brought his meals, and others who led him to the exercise yard. Nobody else. The solitude wore him down to the point where he stopped asking, realising that he was never getting out. Someone had put him there deliberately and t
here was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t even angry, not anymore. His isolation and the slow passage of time had taught him that anger wouldn’t help. Instead, he had accepted his fate. It was likely he would, for whatever reason never see the outside of his cell again. It was this level of absolute acceptance of his future which wouldn’t let him get up from his bunk when he heard the explosion, nor when the door to his cell slid open. He was convinced it was a trick or a ploy to try and incriminate him and give them another reason to keep him. It was only when the three men clad in black tactical armour appeared at the entrance to his cell did he find the motivation to stand.
"On yer feet, now," one of them snapped, his accent as aggressive as it was English. The three sets of eyes glared at him as he stumbled to his feet.
"Who are you?" he said, the sound of his voice somehow alien to him.
"Shut up," one of them said. "Trig, secure our exit."
The man's colleague responded, jogging off down the corridor.
"What's happening here?" Ross said, suddenly afraid to leave the confines of his cell with these men. The last time he had trusted three individuals, he had been brought to his own private hell.
"Someone wants you out of ere mate," the one who appeared to be in command said. "And it's our job to do it. Now shut up and come with us."
"Not until you tell me who you are. I’ll call the guards."
Parker and Stanhope glanced at each other, then Parker turned back to Ross.
"Do you have any idea what's goin’ on out there mate?"
Ross shook his head. "No."
"Hell on Earth mate. Hell on fuckin' Earth. Now move your arse."
Ross moved towards the men, a giddy mixture of nerves and excitement swirling in his gut.
"Right," Parker said, “let’s get moving."
The trio stepped into the corridor and moved back the way they had come. As they passed through the haze, Ross took a few seconds to comprehend what he was looking at.
The men who had broken him out of his cell saw it too and reacted immediately. They were shouting, pointing their weapons at the crowd of prisoners who crowded the corridor between them and their way out. The crowd was neither intimidated nor afraid. They had a bargaining chip of their own. At the front of the crowd, with a knife held to his neck, was Trig. His balaclava removed, his nose bloody. Ross watched in sick fascination, wondering how this was about to play out.
