Marked Man II - 02

by Jared Paul

  The hollow sound on the phone was worse than any demon’s hiss that Shirokov’s subconscious could conspire to invent. The mind was a wonderful, terrible thing, as evidence by his dream the previous night. But the fact that this voice was real; that it belonged to a real man was worse than any nightmare.

  “I will not wait.”

  “You will do what you are told, Vladimir.”

  “I am fighting for life in this place. I cannot wait for lawyers and courts and witnesses. These men will kill me if they can. I cannot wait. You do not know what this is like in this place.”

  Something resembling laughter came in from the other end.

  “Do not presume anything about me Vladimir. Except that I know everything. You are aware of what happens to those that disobey me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now tell me again. What are you going to do?”

  A very long pause passed before Shirokov found the words.

  “I will wait.”

  The call went dead. A beeping from the receiver filled the room. Shirokov reached out with one hand to catch the wall with the phantom payphones. He meant to hold himself up. But after only a few short moments his trembling arm betrayed him and he collapsed to the floor, shivering.

  ...

  Two days later the lawyer Solomon visited to inform Shirokov that everything was in place. Finding a captain for the speed boat proved both more difficult and more costly than he had anticipated, hence the delay, but that was the last piece. The guards and the electrician had been compensated, both the inner and outer fences had been marked, and the crew was on standby. They just awaited the go ahead from the plan’s architect.

  Once Solomon was through describing the preparations he reverted to lawyer mode. It was his duty to double guess every course of action.

  “So are you sure you want to go through with this? I mean, things are going well on my end. Once we’re able to track down Zhadanov it may only be a matter of weeks, a couple of months maybe… Vladimir?”

  Since the last call Shirokov had gone without a single wink of sleep. His eyes watered and he yawned intermittently throughout their meeting. He shook himself out of it.

  “I am here. Yes.”

  “What’s it going to be?”

  Shirokov ground his teeth. He was convinced of his plan’s ultimate success. For months, even before the conviction, he had been studying from every angle. The layout of Sing Sing’s exercise yard, making inquiries about the staff, the currents of the Hudson River, the geography of its sediment, not to mention the extensive coursework on flash powder. In the dingy subterranean cool of Paviel’s lab he’d nearly lost a hand several times before he got it right. All of that work could not go to waste. And yet defying the voice was a proposition that Shirokov had never considered before. Perhaps the voice was right. The lawyer could get him out of this place. And yet. Out of the corner of his eye Shirokov spied one of the skinheads making grotesque faces at him while his girlfriend with a series of swastika tattoos played in his pants.

  “Vladimir?”

  “Tell them tomorrow. One o’clock thirty. Precisely.”

  …

  When Shirokov saw a gray sky the next morning he was filled with dread. Rain, even a slight downpour, could derail everything. For the first time in years Shirokov crossed himself.

  “So this is it then?” Winston asked from his bunk.

  “How do you know?”

  “Man finds religion in here all the sudden, it’s only for one of two reasons. He’s either getting ready to hang himself with his sheets, or gonna try busting out.”

  “Will you not come with me?”

  Given his sentence Winston had to be tempted but to his credit he did not let it show.

  “Nah man. I hope I’m wrong, but if I was laying odds I’d say the chances of you seeing the sunrise tomorrow about 18 to one. If that.”

  Shirokov sighed and turned to face Winston.

  “Pah! I will take those odds. It was good meeting you my friend.”

  “And you.”

  They shook hands. Before they left for breakfast with the other inmates, Shirokov advised Winston to stay away from the southwest corner of the soccer and baseball field during the outdoor hour.

  When the hour came the yard was getting showered by a light mist. This was unwelcome for two reasons. There were less inmates outside to occupy the attention of the guards, and the moisture made lighting the flash powder fuse problematic. Shirokov and his men huddled up around the weight lifting benches as was their custom. They stood in the tightly packed circle so that no one could see inside. For several days they had been doing this, so that when the time came it would arouse no undue suspicion.

  From under his coat Shirokov brought forth the balloons with the compounds. Askokov produced an empty plastic baggy he’d lifted while working in the kitchens. Yakov brought a Zippo lighter he’d won in a game of Spades. They carefully poured the flakes of aluminum into the baggy, followed by the potassium perchlorate. Leonid brought the fuse, which he had gotten through some means so vile that when Shirokov asked him he only replied “you do not want to know,” and he believed him.

  Ruslan’s contribution was himself. While he hoped to escape with his comrades in the impending chaos, Ruslan was operating under a unique sentence that superseded the laws of men and society. He’d contracted the bug at Leavenworth. The famed federal prison’s tattoo artist had not cleaned the needle properly, so the second that the metal pierced Ruslan’s skin it was over. Once Ruslan was diagnosed he instantly knew the cause. For consolation, he’d killed the guilty party with his own tattoo gun in a most heinous fashion, but there was no reprieve. Regardless of how the plan turned out, Ruslan would be feeding the soil in five, perhaps another six months at most.

  It made the most sense then for Ruslan to be the one to light the fuse. The chemist had warned Shirokov to keep back twenty yards at least from the composition. Depending on how fast the fuse burned, Ruslan might be able to sprint away in time, but he might not. There was no way to test this and they had only the one fuse to spare. Ruslan was eager to prove his worth, and was rather cheerful compared to the other Russians, who were nervous. Ruslan had nothing to be nervous about. One way or another he would be freed that day. Any uncertainty Ruslan may have had was quashed by the seven figure sum Shirokov arranged for his nephew, which was deposited the previous Thursday in a distant relative’s name.

  Shirokov watched the guard tower in the southwest corner of the yard. There were two bought and paid for guards inside, patrolling with automatic rifles bearing sniper scopes and ostensibly watching over the inmates like shepherds. At exactly one thirty both would be stricken with an overwhelming need to smoke a cigarette and leave their post unattended. At the same time Sing Sing’s electrician would cut the power to the outer fence. He had contrived an ingenious technical malfunction to explain the glitch. If he did his part correctly the electrician would be able to retire comfortably to any destination on earth.

  Aside from the explosion the primary obstacle was the next closest guard tower, one hundred yards east. Shirokov had gone to trial an absurdly wealthy man. But Solomon and the other attorney’s fees were exorbitant, and the vast majority that remained of his fortune had gone towards arranging this daring escapade. There were only so many millions to go around and he did not have anything left to bribe more guards. If the honest ones in the east tower got wind of what was happening, the Russians would have a very long dash indeed to the river, with nowhere to run for cover. Shirokov eyed the tower warily and then the faces of his men.

  “Alright. This is last time for questions. Is anybody confused about roles?”

  None of them spoke up. They seemed subdued, their confidence shaken by the light rain and the long odds.

  “Comrades! You must smile. What is this long faces about? Today we are leaving this place. Dead or alive, we will be free men. Eh? Eh?”

  He slapped big Anton and Leonid on the back. He laughed
as he hugged Ruslan and Boris and Yakov. Their spirits seemed buoyed by his zeal, if only a little bit. That might be enough. A discouraged, frightened army stood no chance on the battlefield even with overwhelming odds in their favor.

  Over the top of Boris’ shoulder Shirokov saw the two guards leave the southwest tower.

  “That is signal. Ruslan. You are go.”

  Before he went Shirokov embraced him again. He whispered into his ear.

  “Jusqu'à la prochaine fois.”

  Ruslan took the bag of flash powder, the fuse, and the lighter and broke away from the circle. He ducked his head down as he was walking into the wind and the mist. Despite the rain the Aryans were playing baseball with two full teams. As Ruslan trudged along the third base line a couple of them whistled at him. They were still as of yet afraid to challenge him directly, but Ruslan was a quiet inmate; a sign that the Aryan Brotherhood and all true fools took to indicate as weakness.

  “Look at this painted Russian monkey,” the shortstop cackled.

  Ruslan stopped in his tracks for a split second and glanced over at the diamond. Shirokov thought he might have a stroke if he picked this time to fight with the Nazis but then he allowed himself to breathe again when Ruslan started walking. The closer that Ruslan got to the southwest tower the thicker the mist became. By the time he reached the designated spot where its stone foundation met the fence, it was practically a downpour. With his hand out collecting the drops, big Boris fretted.

  “Oy. Aye. What do we do? We are going to die. We are going to die, avtorityet.”

  “Silencieux!” Shirokov hushed him. He had faith in Ruslan’s desire to be free. That was the surest wager that a man could place. When a hurdle stood in between a man and his freedom, the hurdle was always going to lose. And yet the weather was the hand of God, and God had a long-standing unblemished winning streak going.

  The skinny Russian knelt down at the base of the tower. He placed the bag of flash powder in the appropriate spot, then stuck the wick in one end and began to walk away. Ruslan flicked the Zippo lighter several times but the flame would not take. Giant brutish raindrops kept interfering and snuffing it out. Ruslan stopped and glanced around the yard for a moment. Shirokov thought that he might panic and run but Ruslan made his way back to the flash powder and began taking off his clothes.

  On the baseball field the Aryans stopped playing to watch. Ruslan was a few yards behind home plate, bent over in the corner and getting naked as if preparing for a train. A couple of them started approaching from behind.

  “The fuck is this crazy painted monkey doing now?”

  Ruslan laid his polyester orange pants and shirt over the wick to protect it from the rain. He lifted the edge of his shirt up, then snapped the lighter. Once, twice, and then on the third it caught. Ruslan stood up and turned around to discover three Aryans converging on him.

  “SEEG HAIL! SEEG HAIL!”

  He mocked them as he screamed and shot his hand out in the old Fascist salute. The batter and the catcher and a few of the Aryans on the bench all got up then, and started to surround the cornered Russian. Ruslan tried to run around their flank but they caught him and threw him back into the center of the ring that was enclosing. From the benches Shirokov watched in awe.

  “What is he doing, avtorityet?”

  “He makes spectacle of self. So they will not look at his clothes.”

  “But how will he…”

  The report cut Yakov’s question off as he was flung to the ground along with Shirokov and the others.

  Slowly, Shirokov rolled over and got to his knees. He surveyed the yard. Smoke was billowing everywhere. The explosion had knocked everyone within two hundred feet of the tower onto their backs. As for Ruslan and the Aryan baseball players, there was no sign of them except for bits and pieces of red scattered all over the field.

  Paviel had warned Shirokov that so many ounces of the flash powder was unnecessary for the desired effect, but Shirokov insisted on ingesting as much of the compounds as his stomach would tolerate. As he groggily pushed himself up onto his feet Shirokov thought to himself that should he survive the day he would defer to the experts going forward.

  Waving through the smoke, Shirokov squinted in the direction of the corner tower. Part of the foundation of the tower had been torn off, but more importantly the inner fence had been shredded. A hole fifteen feet wide had been blown open by the blast. “Get up! Get up you fools and run!” He yelled to his men, still rolling on the ground. Shirokov took off running towards the hole in the fence. Leonid and Anton and the others were soon up and straggling behind. From the south tower a warning boomed over the loud speakers.

  “Stop. Get down on the ground and put your hands on your head. If you resist we will fire.”

  Shirokov’s response to the threat was to run faster. By the time he reached the hole the guards in the east tower were peppering the area with sniper fire, but because of the smoke they did not have a clear view to shoot. The bullets twanged and ricocheted off the ground.

  Twenty feet of scorched grass and dirt stood between the inner and outer fences. Shirokov reached this and began searching frantically for the marker. If all had gone to plan a red tag would indicate a weak point in the fence, where several links were partially snipped by a bulb cutter in the middle of the night by one of the bribed guards.

  “Do you see it? Does anybody see tag?” Shirokov screamed to his men, who were also searching with their hands. The smoke made seeing a painful and difficult proposition.

  “Avtorityet I found it!”

  Shirokov followed the sound of Anton’s voice. The red tag was there, intended for tying garbage bags together. Together they pushed on the weakened links but the fence did not give.

  “Leonid! Here!”

  The giant came hustling over and told them to get out of the way. Leonid backed up a couple of yards and got a running start. Just as he was about to hit the fence a sniper’s bullet struck him in the back of the neck, but Leonid’s momentum brought him through the fence. His body collapse through on the other side. The hole was just big enough for him to pass through.

  Shirokov came through next. He had no time to honor his fallen comrade with anything more than a thank you as he stumbled over his colossal corpse. Yakov, Anton and Boris all pushed into the hole and out the other side, ducking from the fatal projectiles whistling by just inches over their heads.

  Knowing that the inmates were free of the yard, the guards in the east tower we now aiming for head shots. The Hudson River curved in and met the land just around the bend of a narrow road winding around the yard. It was one hundred fifty, perhaps two hundred feet to the water but a monstrous northerly wind had blown the smoke away and the guards had clear shots.

  As Shirokov ran he winced each time he heard a round land. The bullets spiked into the concrete, shooting up spurts of rock and earth. Shirokov never looked backwards. He kept his eyes always on the river. The speed boat was waiting at the curve, ten feet from the shore.

  He was not the fastest of his men. That was Boris, who despite his size turned out to be quite a capable athlete. Boris was five yards ahead and would have reached the river first if he had not been struck down by a sniper. Shirokov gasped when he saw him buckle forward, a puff of red mist issuing from the back of his skull. He never made a noise. Shirokov leapt over him and took the lead. As he dived for the water he heard Yakov shriek from behind him as he was hit in the spine by a bullet.

  The cool blue water came as a refreshing shock. All at once Shirokov felt the slimy residue of confinement washed from his skin. He was a new man. Beneath the waves, he kicked towards the boat with a vigor he had never known. When he came up he felt as if he had been baptized a second time.

  Luka Gusin and another one of his lieutenants helped Shirokov out of the water. The other man went for the wheel. He wanted to dart away immediately, but Shirokov commanded him to wait.

  The slowest runner of the group by far was Anton Askokov,
but it was a handicap that turned out to be lucky for him. As they were heading for the river the guards had been firing at the big targets and the leaders out in front. They were confident that they could hit Askokov in due time, but by the time it came the shooters were forced to pause and reload.

  Huffing madly like a pregnant goose, Askokov had his hands splayed out towards the boat. Shirokov cheered him on.

  “Jump Anton you must jump!”

  He did a cannonball dive into the Hudson River. As he swam for the speed boat Luka and the other man got their rifles and provided over by shooting back at the guards. Horns were wailing all over the prison. After what must have seemed like a 400 meter dash in the Olympics to him, Askokov reached the stern of the boat and Shirokov yanked him up with his own two hands.