What's Left of My World (Book 3): We Won't Go Quietly

by C. A. Rudolph

  Paul nodded without looking Dan in the eyes. “Sure. Of course they will. The system is fail-safe.”

  Dan grunted. “You mean fail-secure.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “So…you’re not misspeaking, then. I take it to mean you don’t know the difference?”

  “Sorry, it’s just the first time I’ve heard the term.”

  “Paul, how many prisons have you retrofitted with your controls?”

  “Um, that’s hard to say. I don’t know—twenty, maybe thirty.”

  Dan shifted in his seat. “You’ve done that many, yet you’ve never heard the term fail-secure?”

  Paul didn’t respond verbally, answering Dan’s question with just a slight swivel of his head.

  “Paul, fail-safe means the device—in this case, a prison cell door—would be unlocked when power is removed. You need power to secure the door and apply power to do so. That’s not the scenario we want to happen here, I assure you. Now, when a door is fail-secure, it locks down when power is removed. Power is needed to unlock the door. If your company is going to replace our pneumatic systems, then you need to substitute a product that provides an identical action.”

  Paul nodded and produced the most uncomfortable grin he had shown all day. “I guess I need to brush up on my vocabulary.”

  “At the very least,” Dan mused. “We have six layers of security here, Paul. The innermost layer—the cell doors—holds the top spot on the totem pole. It must be foolproof, and it simply cannot fail. We have enough problems here already. We’ve been forced to double up many of our cells that were designed for a single occupant, due to overcrowding. NBCI was designed to house a thousand inmates, and we’re damn near twofold that number now. Every time we put an inmate together with another inmate in the same cell, it creates a more dangerous situation and it puts officers at risk. When inmates such as the ones we have here room together, it causes problems. Problems cause mishaps, and the warden orders us into modified movement, like today. Other times, we’re ordered into a full lockdown. Inmates tend to get resentful when lockdowns are ordered too often, especially those who didn’t do anything to deserve it. That in turn leads to more threats and more attacks.” Dan paused. “My biggest concern with this new technology is it’s being installed for the sole purpose of allowing us to operate with less staffing. And that in itself has proven to be a profoundly bad idea.”

  “You just need to give it time, Mr. Abrahams. I think you’ll find, in addition to being more secure, your new system will definitely be easier to operate,” Paul said.

  “Give it time, huh? Paul, no machine, device, or technology in the world can match the resourcefulness and grit of a maximum-security inmate with nothing but time on his hands,” said Dan. “This facility was built specifically to house the worst of the worst. Nothing was broken before, so forgive me, I don’t see the need to fix anything…and I definitely don’t see any need whatsoever for some ‘emergency door release’.”

  Paul shrugged. “All I can tell you is that it was designed for a purpose, Mr. Abrahams. If the purpose didn’t exist, I’m certain no one would’ve bothered thinking it up. Even you must admit how horrifying it would be to find yourself locked up in an inescapable prison cell during some unprecedented catastrophe.”

  “I’ll admit only this, Paul,” Dan began. “The men behind the walls at NBCI committed atrocities to be placed here—atrocities they are all still very much capable of. The only things keeping them from unleashing their evil right now are the precast walls, ballistic-rated doors, and multiple layers of curvilinear razor-wire fencing surrounding us. Listen close, and let this burn deep in your gullet. If something bad ever happens to any of them—emergency, catastrophe, or even if God himself descends from the heavens and strikes them all individually with bolts of lightning, believe you me…every single one of them has it coming.”

  Chapter 1

  “The patriot volunteer, fighting for country and his rights, makes the most reliable soldier on earth.”

  —General Thomas J. “Stonewall” Jackson

  Point Blank Weapons Training Center

  Capon Bridge, West Virginia

  Approximately two years before present day

  Dodging her assaults nonchalantly with the deftness of a man who had encountered hundreds, perhaps thousands of close-quarters tussles, expert hand-to-hand combat instructor Dave Graham gained the upper hand and tossed Lauren Russell’s body over his shoulder and onto the ground like a ragdoll.

  The Army Special Forces veteran’s body language was relaxed, calm, and collected, his facial features expressionless, as if carved out of stone, and his voice, though recognizably raspy, was as strict and foreboding on this day as it had ever been.

  Dave smacked his leathery palms together and cocked his head to the side. “Get up,” he said tersely, as if barking an order to an underling.

  Lauren’s fall had left her breathless. As she struggled to find her wind, she pushed away the hair that had fallen over her face, thereby hampering her vision, while silently reminding herself she needed to either trim her bangs or find a better way to restrain them.

  Lauren was slow getting to her knees, and by the time she was fully upright, her opponent had already started in on her with a barrage of open-hand strikes, each stopping mere inches from her face. She stood there, frozen in time, practically dumbfounded, her instincts failing her, her guard nowhere in sight.

  Dave scowled in disapproval for her lack of appropriate reaction to the melee. “Why the hell aren’t you protecting your head? Are you trying to lose? Do you want to spend the rest of your day sitting on your fourth point of contact? If so, you’re doing a goddamn exemplary job of it.”

  He continued to verbally chastise her until she’d decidedly had enough and responded in kind. Lauren went after him with a lengthy combination of punches, followed by a swift high-altitude roundhouse kick that nearly knocked the olive drab boonie hat from Dave’s head.

  When her foot planted on the ground, Dave held up a hand, pausing her advance. “There she is—that’s the GI Janey I remember! Glad you decided to show up today, young lady.”

  Lauren scowled and tightened her fists. “I hate it when you call me that.”

  “What? Young lady?”

  “No! The other…thing.” Lauren moved in on him, her fists soon finding a rhythm with her instructor’s hands, a pace he had instigated and was directing without her even knowing.

  Each strike was smooth yet powerful, subtle yet purposeful, and if exploited appropriately, even deadly.

  Lauren’s style was Chinese Kempo Karate, a traditional, diverse martial art she had been learning since childhood. Dave Graham’s style was a hodgepodge of many he had accumulated, and today, his focus was primarily on two: Krav Maga, a military fighting system developed by the Israel Defense Forces, and Wing Chun, a southern Chinese style of kung fu. Both styles were efficient and direct, specializing in close range combat along with simultaneous invasive attack and defense. Dave had selected them because their techniques were some of the most effective in existence, predicated on real-world combat scenarios, and were ideal for permitting a smaller, slower, weaker, or otherwise disadvantaged combatant to overcome a bigger, faster, stronger, more advantaged one.

  So far, this had been a no-contact sparring drill. Dave had always been careful to pull his punches, maintaining enough distance between Lauren and himself so his strikes would land inches away from her, even at full extension. Today, he had other plans in mind. Lauren wasn’t as alert as she had been in prior visits, and Dave decided it therefore appropriate to remove her from her comfort zone.

  He moved in, eluding her guard, and unleashed a strike to the side of her head, his hand making only slight contact. The impact wasn’t enough to hurt her or render pain in any way, but it did manage to wake her up.

  When Lauren felt the coarse skin of his hand touch the side of her face, the muddled look on her face disappeared. She lowered her head, set
her jaw, and with eyes wide open, went on the offensive, launching a foray of punches at Dave’s head and neck. When Lauren saw an opportunity to attack Dave’s windpipe, she took it, but the martial arts expert saw it coming long before. He grabbed Lauren’s fist in midair, twisted her arm behind her back, and just as she propelled an elbow toward his face, Dave kicked her leg out from under her, sending her to the ground with an audible grunt.

  Dave backed away, allowing his young opponent a moment to gather herself. “You know—if I was anyone else other than me, you’d be dead already.” He scratched his ear. “Are you injured?”

  “No. I’m not injured.”

  “Okay, good. Get up, then.”

  Lauren let out a loud, goaded sigh and shook her head in frustration, tossing her rebellious hair out of the way once more. “This is bullshit,” she griped. “There’s no way I can beat you.”

  “Of course there isn’t. But beating me isn’t mission critical, and it’s not the objective of this exercise.”

  “Enlighten me, then, please. What is the damn objective?”

  “The objective is persistence. Perseverance. Improvisation. And doing what’s necessary to stay alive in a life-or-death situation. One of these days, an obstacle will block your path, and you’ll need to learn how to overcome it somehow.” Dave tapped his thumb on his chest. “Today, that obstacle is me.”

  Lauren rolled her eyes. “You’re an obstacle, all right. A brash, hideous, obnoxious one.”

  Dave puffed his chest out and crossed his arms. “That type of flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Janey. And you’re not going to accomplish this exercise’s objective without getting off your fourth point of contact.”

  “Fourth point of contact? Are you even human? What the hell does that mean, anyway?”

  “It means your ass. Backside. Buttocks. The point of contact you’ve been landing on all morning. The one you need to get off of this very moment, and never stop getting off of. Perseverance, like I said already.”

  Lauren shook her head obstinately and hesitated, taking plenty of time getting back to her feet. Before Dave re-engaged, she turned her head to see if her dad was still watching from the sidelines, and was pleased to find him there. His facial expressions were challenging to gauge through the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses, but he appeared content, relaxed, even mildly apathetic as if it were any other day, which came as a bit of a surprise to Lauren. Wasn’t he even the slightest bit bothered that his youngest daughter was getting her ass kicked?

  While Alan observed the goings-on from his position behind a wooden table several yards away, Fred Mason walked up to join him, taking a position just to his side. He occasionally turned his head, sending a thoughtful glance in Alan’s direction.

  After a long moment, Fred finally broke the silence between them. “You can correct me if I’m wrong, of course, but you look a might troubled today.”

  “That’s very perceptive, Fred,” Alan said. “Hello to you, too.”

  “Does the problem exist with the spectator? Or is it the game he’s watching?”

  “The game.”

  Fred nodded, gesturing ahead, after a meagre attempt at evaluating Alan’s disposition. “I suppose…this could be somewhat difficult to observe without some level of participation.”

  “It’s not exactly easy.”

  “Fair enough. I wouldn’t worry too much over it, though, if I were you. The Graham cracker over there knows what he’s doing. He’s a little crude and unrefined, but he’s a good ol’ boy, Alan—a gentleman. He won’t hurt her.”

  Alan shrugged as he watched his youngest go toe-to-toe with instructor Dave for what seemed like the fifth time today, by his count. Lauren was using her vocabulary this time in place of her fists, but even that variance only gave him a moment’s pause. “Fred, I know he’s your brother-in-law, a fellow vet, and I know you trust him. But something tells me you would feel otherwise if it were Megan out there on the receiving end.”

  Fred placed his hands into the front pockets of his olive green tactical pants, his eyes darting away into the distance. He kicked at his heel, spit on the ground, and dug the moistened dirt in with his boot. He didn’t say anything, figuring Alan would fill in the blanks for him if given the time.

  “It’s like I’m watching Bruce Lee chastise his least favorite student,” Alan said after a moment of inarticulate silence. “No matter what she does—right, wrong, or indifferent, it’s just not good enough.”

  Fred nodded. “Almost reminds you of parenting, doesn’t it? I take it you two had an enjoyable time at the Sods?” he asked, referencing the backpacking trip Alan and Lauren had just returned from in Dolly Sods Wilderness. “From what I remember, it’s gorgeous there this time of year. Been a while since I’ve had a chance to head that way.”

  “The weather was agreeable,” Alan replied flatly, his gaze and attention transfixed on his daughter. “And the views didn’t disappoint—they never do. Lauren impressed me; she actually led most of the trip. She used the sun and the landscape to navigate whenever we lost sight of the trails. We were ten to fifteen miles away from civilization at times, and if it bothered her at all, I sure couldn’t tell. It was like being at home to her…a walk in the park.”

  Fred grinned. “That’s good. That’s real good. You should be very proud of who she’s becoming.”

  “I’m proud of who she is and who she’s becoming,” Alan said. “She impresses me more and more every day. She’s such an amazing person—and I learned so much about her on this trip. I didn’t want it to end. Part of me wishes we’d never left.”

  Fred’s eyes narrowed. “What about the other part of you? The part that’s here right now.”

  Alan hesitated. “That part of me is…undecided at this point. And apprehensive.”

  “Mind telling me why?”

  “I didn’t bring Lauren here to get into a battle royal with a Green Beret and watch her get beat up,” Alan said. “This was supposed to be a field-training exercise—a week of infantry training. You know, combat boots, guns, camouflage, maybe a radio or two, that sort of thing. I don’t remember buying tickets to see the sequel to Bloodsport.”

  Fred raised an indignant brow. “And you think that’s all this is?”

  Alan relented, gesturing his head in the negative. “No…I mean, I brought her here to learn things I’m not qualified to teach her, and so she could learn what she needed from someone competent, someone I trust, someone who can treat her objectively.” A pause. “She’s my daughter, and there’s no way I could ever be impartial to her. In some ways, I feel like I’ve always been too easy on her.”

  “You’re doing her a service, Alan,” Fred began. “And believe me, I know something about being too lenient on a daughter. I’ve always been hard on Mark and Chad, always forced them to toe the line, and they’ve grown up to be halfway decent young men because of it sometimes. But Megan…well, she’s my princess. I’ve never so much as laid a hand on her, and sometimes, I can’t even locate the intestinal fortitude to discipline her, even with words.” Fred paused. “All things considered, I think you’ve made a good decision bringing Lauren here. I know some of what you’re seeing doesn’t sit well with you. I get that, loud and clear. But do me a favor, and give Dave the benefit of the doubt. There’s a purpose to all this. A substantial one. And you both are in good hands.”

  “I truly hope so. I haven’t had to use Lauren’s health insurance for at least a year. Although, dental is another story entirely.”

  Fred paused for a moment and then diverted, the tone of his voice becoming almost semi-jovial. “Dave looks like a reject from a nineteen-eighties Vietnam war movie, doesn’t he?”

  “What?”

  Fred held up a yielding hand. “Sorry…it’s force of habit for me to give him shit—he practically begs for it. I’m curious, has he ever told you about the snafus he got himself into when he was deployed?”

  Alan sighed and shook his head. “He’s mentioned a few
things in passing, but Dave’s always been vague when speaking about his past.”

  “That’s because he has to,” Fred said. “Dave has seen his fair share of suck—most of which is of the hush-hush variety. He’s autographed more nondisclosure agreements over the course of his career than he’s signed personal checks.” Fred turned and faced Alan. “You are cognizant of what the Special Forces does?”

  Alan shook his head despondently, his focus remaining on Lauren. “I know they specialize in something called unconventional warfare. But I’m not military—I don’t presume to know what it means.”

  Fred nodded. “It means several things. Dave’s unit’s primary mission was training foreign citizens in the art of guerilla warfare, while stationed behind the lines in occupied nations—the ones with particularly unstable political and military regimes.”

  “Making them particularly dangerous places.”

  “Affirmative,” Fred said. He pursed his lips, nodded, and wavered a moment. “Alan, what I’m about to divulge to you is privileged information. I’ll obscure the details as best I can, but keep in mind if any of this ever got out, it could ignite a shitstorm. So kindly keep it to yourself.” He motioned to Lauren. “Of course, you can share it with that pretty, young, female revolutionary over there if you like. I know I can trust both of you. Most importantly, I think we all could use a little reassurance in the times we’re living in, to help us maintain our direction and stay the course. It’s the only reason I even considered telling you this.”

  “Mum’s the word, then,” Alan said. “If you think it’s relevant.”

  “I think you’ll find it to be just that. You see, Dave’s special ops unit was considered top echelon, the elite of the elite. As such, they worked in conjunction with and were sometimes requisitioned by the Central Intelligence Agency’s Special Activities Division. One of their ops involved supporting a rebel insurgency in the Democratic Republic of Congo. As you may know already, the Congo is one country that’s been beleaguered with an abundance of bloodshed and political repression throughout the years.”