As I sat on the cold concrete bench, I wondered once again if I should have fought my way out of that apartment block. It might have been possible, but the armed cops were far enough away to cause me a real problem. Up close, I might have had a chance to disarm them; from the other end of the hallway, they had the drop on me. If I moved in a way they didn’t like, they’d shoot; and in the confines of the hallway, they might well have hit me, too.
So I’d decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and put up my hands in surrender.
I lay back on the hard bench, eyes staring at the dull white ceiling as I remembered how it hadn’t taken long for the boys to make it down the hall and cuff me – sensibly keeping one pistol trained on me from a safe distance while the other did the cuffing.
It hadn’t just been the logistics that had made me surrender though – if push had come to shove, I could have escaped by taking out the guy with the cuffs as he got close, and using him as a human shield between me and his partner. I could probably have disarmed him and had a handgun trained on the other man too.
But then I might have been forced to use it and – despite my sometimes dubious moral compass – I still wasn’t prepared to cross that line and kill a cop. Not an innocent one, anyway.
And the presence of these cops – along with the revelation that the guys I’d just taken out were also cops – had put an entirely new spin on the situation anyway. No longer was it the disturbing kidnapping of a helpless woman; now it seemed to be a sanctioned police operation, which meant that the woman herself might be some sort of criminal.
Or did it?
There was still something a little off about the whole thing, something that just didn’t add up. Why were they dragging the woman out, why didn’t they make a proper arrest? Why were they in plain clothes, with the uniforms waiting outside?
I wasn’t entirely sure that the uniforms were part of it anyway. From what I could tell from the snippets of conversation I overheard, it seemed they had been in the neighborhood and were responding to a call – possibly from Ricci, I guessed. But I didn’t think that they were part of the same group, which raised multiple questions.
Before I could start to go through them though, I heard the steel bars rattling and turned my head to look.
Two cops waited there, one tapping the bars with a nightstick while the other called over to me. ‘Okay, John Doe,’ he said in a thick Southern accent. ‘Time to meet the chief.’
He reached forward and opened the sliding bars, approaching me with cuffs out as the other man monitored my reaction.
‘On your feet, boy,’ the cop said. ‘Hands out.’
I considered fighting my way out of there, but the fact was that I was curious. If I was indeed going to meet the chief, I might be able to find out something about what had been going on in that apartment block.
And so instead of attacking the cop, I simply stood and extended my arms as he asked. Two seconds later the cuffs were on, and a second after that, they were cinched tighter than hell, accompanied by a sadistic look from the guy in front of me.
And a second after that, he’d buried his fist in my gut, dropping me to my knees.
‘Those guys you did over were cops, you sorry little bastard,’ he whispered. ‘Our friends.’
I didn’t like the sound of the word ‘our’; and sure enough, a moment later I felt the impact of the second cop’s nightstick on my back, sending me sprawling across the cell floor.
It was painful, but I was selling it a bit; better to let them think it was worse than it was, they might stop sooner.
But I’d heard of suspects being beaten to death in jail cells just like this one and – given the fact that I had no ID, and as far as they were concerned I was just a vagrant – it was possible that this might be one of those times.
On the other hand, the fact that they didn’t know who I was might just stay their hands. After all, what if I was someone important?
I decided to let them have their fun, at least for a minute or two; but if it went on any longer than that, I would have to readdress the situation and do something about it.
As it turned out, they were done after a couple more ineffectual blows; it had just been a little something to warn me to behave myself, to let me know that they were pissed off with me.
The message was received, and I remained silent and cooperative as they pulled me to my feet and finally escorted me out of the cell.
I hoped that my meeting with the Sand Springs chief of police would be worth it.
The interrogation room wasn’t all that different from my cell, as it turned out. Small room, whitewashed walls; except that instead of bars, there was a door, and instead of a concrete bench there were a table and two steel chairs.
On our short journey, we’d passed a few other cells; most were empty, but around a corner and through a heavy set of swing doors, I could see that one of them housed a woman. The same woman who had been the target of the plainclothes – off-duty? – cops.
I tried to get eye contact, but her head was down, as if in a deep depression, and I could see bruises across her face and neck.
The anger had boiled inside me – it was one thing to rough me up, but her? What kind of cops were these? But I held on to it, tried my best to keep myself calm.
My escorts had pushed me along before she could look up, and before long I was in the interrogation room, ankles chained to the chair legs and hands cuffed at the wrists. But at least they’d let me rest them on the table, and had even brought a cup of coffee. It was cold, but better than nothing.
It was probably cold just to piss me off, but I also wondered – due to my performance back at the apartment block – if it was because they were scared I might throw it all over the police chief. Hot coffee would do a lot more damage.
But maybe it was just me that looked at everything as a potential weapon. My cuffs, the leg chains, the table, the chairs, even the walls and door – everything could be used if needed.
And who knew – maybe it would be.
I sat quietly in my chair, sipping on the cold coffee as I waited for the chief of police to arrive.
Keeping me waiting wasn’t a particularly original tactic, but it was often an effective one; it gave you time to start doubting yourself, to second-guess the story you were going to use, even if it was the truth.
Another reason for the wait, and the coffee, was to make it more likely I’d need to use the restroom. It would create a psychological dependence on the man questioning me, and was designed to return me to a grade school mentality – sir, please can I use the restroom, I need to go pee-pee?
Of course, the wait might be because the chief was busy, the offer of coffee because they were being nice, and it might have been cold only because it had been prepared for me earlier.
But the cynic in me didn’t think so. Always assume the worst, is my motto. That way it’s hard to disappoint you. Or, more important in my line of work, to surprise you.
The fact that I was sitting there in just my boxer shorts didn’t help matters either; I was pretty sure that most jails would have made an effort with overalls or a jumpsuit of some kind. An issue of human rights, or some shit like that. Sitting there with no clothes or shoes made me feel like there were some pretty serious prisoner’s rights protocols being broken here.
But I was much angrier about seeing the bruises on that lady’s face. It was things like that which gave cops a bad name. Despite my own various run-ins with law enforcement over the years, I didn’t have anything against them on the whole. They tended to be good, upright citizens who joined for all the right reasons and did the best job they could, considering the restraints they were forced to operate under.
Still, every barrel had a few rotten apples in it, and law enforcement was no different; but whereas a bad apple in the postal service, or behind the checkout of the local Walmart, might not cause too much damage, a bad apple with a badge and a gun was a different story altogeth
er.
And if a few bad apples with badges and guns got together – helped each other, protected each other, covered up for one another?
Well, that could be a real shit storm waiting to happen.
I sipped from the Styrofoam cup, wondering if anyone was observing me via the CCTV camera mounted on a bracket high up on the wall opposite. Were they watching to see how I was reacting to being left alone? Checking to see if I was nervous, agitated, panicked?
Or were they just drinking their own coffees and kicking back with their feet up, catching up on the latest football scores on cable?
I supposed it all depended on how important they thought I was.
I started to wonder how much they knew about me. The first cop in the cell had sarcastically called me ‘John Doe’, so I supposed they still didn’t know my real identity. I hadn’t been fingerprinted yet, which surprised me. If I had been, they might well have been surprised by what would turn up – a military personnel file as thick as the yellow pages, but with most of the information redacted due to national security issues.
The basics would be there though – Colt Ryder, born in Rock Springs, Wyoming in 1978, Ranger school at 17, passed out just after my eighteenth birthday, operational not long after. The youngest ever Ranger to pass selection for the Regimental Recon Detachment. A string of successful missions, until a clusterfuck in Iraq had nearly killed me. Invalided out with a Medal of Honor and a hundred thousand dollars; the fact that I’d given all the money to the widow of a friend I’d lost in that last battle probably wouldn’t be in there though, I figured.
I wondered what other facts my identity would lead to. The string of menial jobs that I managed to hold down for a week here, a month there? The pit fights I took part in to raise money for that widow’s sick kid? The charge for assault after I punched out my boss at the meat factory? The break-in of my trailer home, the theft of my last thousand dollars? My name as a suspect in the hospitalization of the people who’d burglarized me?
The chain of events, all in all, that had led to me giving up a normal life and becoming reborn as the Thousand Dollar Man, wandering the country and sorting out people’s problems for a thousand dollars a time?
I sighed, finished the coffee, and wondered how much they knew.
And then I smiled, realizing that – despite myself – I had fallen for their trap, used the time they’d given me to start second-guessing myself.
Well, that was why they used the tactic, after all.
It worked.
I was still smiling when the door to the interview room opened with a bang and the Sand Springs chief of police stood in the doorway.
He was smiling too, but not in a nice way; and I knew immediately that this first meeting was going to be anything but friendly.
Chapter Two
‘Nice work,’ I said as the chief sat down opposite me, deciding once again that attack was the best form of defense.
‘What you talkin’ about, boy?’ the chief asked in a slow drawl, with a face that looked as if it had been born with a sneer. He was about six foot and his body appeared hard and lean, despite his age – which I guessed was rapidly approaching fifty. He looked like the kind of guy who’d done manual labor since being a kid, a life that had made him mean and tough. His salt and pepper hair was neatly trimmed, and he was perfectly clean shaven – obviously setting a good example to the rest of the Sand Springs police force.
‘The lady,’ I answered finally. ‘Nice work your boys did on her. Several professional police officers, one defenseless woman.’ I nodded my head again, voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Nice work.’
The chief looked at me closely, then the sneer transformed into a self-satisfied grin. ‘You got some lip on you, son, you know that? But don’t you be givin’ the credit for the lady’s face to my boys here – that was all me.’ He made a fist with one large hand, held it up to me. ‘Me and old faithful here.’
I was at a loss for words – the sonofabitch not only didn’t deny that the woman had been assaulted in police custody, he was actually taking the credit for it!
His smile widened as he sensed my discomfort. ‘That make you angry, son?’ he asked softly. ‘You got an itch to jump up out of that chair and teach me a lesson?’
I leveled my gaze at him. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I do.’
The chief laughed. It was a deep rumble, and hardly endearing. ‘I bet you do,’ he said, ‘seeing as you’ve been sleeping with the bitch. Ain’t that right?’
He’d said the words calmly, reasonably, and yet I sensed a barely controlled malice behind them, the unpleasant threat of violence just waiting to be unleashed on someone.
Was he just trying to get a reaction from me, or did he really believe those words?
And why did he care so much?
‘Who is she?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know what name she gave you,’ the chief said, ‘but can you read this badge right here?’ He tapped the gold badge on his shirt breast, and I narrowed my eyes to read the small letters on the nameplate.
‘Chief Donald P. Carson,’ I read.
He nodded his head, cold smile returning. ‘Good,’ he said, as if encouraging a small child. ‘That’s good, boy. I’m Chief Carson, right. And the lady I’m keeping in that cell through there,’ he continued, gesturing over his shoulder back down the hall, ‘even though she rented that apartment in the name of Rachel Steward, actually goes by the name of Mrs. Samantha Carson.’
It took a few moments for the information to register – but when it clicked, the horror of the situation only intensified.
The woman was this man’s wife – and she must have been trying to leave him, setting up a safe house with a new identity. But he’d found out, sent his boys round to get her; and when she was safely back in police custody, he’d visited her in her cell and given her the good news with ‘old faithful’, probably as a reminder to never try it again.
So she wasn’t a criminal in any way, shape or form; just an abused wife trying to escape from the clutches of her demonic husband.
The only trouble was, her husband was the chief of police, and escape was going to be hard as hell.
But she’d tried, which told me two things – her life must have been truly horrible, and she had courage in spades.
Maybe she still had a chance.
I looked across the desk at Chief Carson.
‘You’re one sick bastard,’ I told him.
The chief leaned back in his chair, looking at me with that same look of smug self-satisfaction I’d seen earlier.
‘And you’re one brave bastard,’ he replied, ‘talkin’ to me that way. Given our present environment.’ He gestured around the room, to remind me that I was a prisoner here. ‘And your present condition,’ he continued as he pointed at my cuffs and leg chains. ‘Or maybe you’re just plain, old fashioned stupid.’
‘Maybe I am stupid,’ I said. ‘I should have taken out all of your boys back at the apartment, and got your wife the hell out of there.’
‘Maybe you should,’ the chief said reasonably, with a shrug of his large shoulders. ‘Then maybe you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re in now.’
‘And what situation is that?’
He grinned. ‘Up shit creek without a paddle, my friend.’ He gave another shrug of his shoulders. ‘Or then again, I guess things could be even worse – maybe you could have killed one of them, and then you’d be on the run as a cop killer. And trust me when I tell you, that’s a fate you would not want around here.’
‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘Yeah,’ Carson said with the smile still on his face, ‘you’re a brave bastard alright. A brave little smart-ass.’
The smile on Carson’s face broke just an instant later, and he leapt across the table at me, his big meaty fist smashing me straight in the face. The violence had erupted from nowhere – even with all my years of experience, I’d failed to pick up on any of the cues.
I tilted backward too
far, and the chair collapsed to the floor. I was dazed, but kept my chin tucked into my chest as I fell; the last thing I wanted was for my skull to smash onto the tiles. A concussion, I could live without.
But it still hurt like hell, and then it was made worse by the chief, who raced around toward me and placed a crushing knee on my ribs, thick sausage-like fingers wrapped around my throat.
His fingers tightened, and I wouldn’t have been able to reply even if I’d wanted to; the air and blood were being cut off to my brain, and I was just figuring out how I could get the big guy off me when he released the hold on my neck, allowing me to catch my breath.
He paused above me, face and neck sweating, the musk mixing with the scent of dried cologne. He was breathing hard, and I could see the conflict in his eyes – one part of him clearly wanted to kill me, while the other half disagreed. Whether that was because his conscience reminded him that he was a police officer, or it was just because he wanted more information, I couldn’t be sure.
But the man was bat-shit crazy, I was pretty sure of that.
Finally, he pulled me back to my feet, wrenched the chair up from the floor and dumped me into it. His big hand slapped me around the face a second later, the impact sharp and painful.
‘Look, John,’ the big man said, ‘this isn’t getting us anywhere.’ His voice was calm and controlled once more, as if he hadn’t just almost killed me; and the change was so sudden that it unnerved me in the extreme. Despite myself, it scared me, and I could only imagine the hell that living with him must have been for Mrs. Samantha Carson.
‘So let’s start with the basics,’ he continued. ‘How do you know her? How did you two meet?’
He’d called me John – for John Doe, just like the other cop – and it was clear he still had no idea who I really was. On the face of it this was a good thing, but it also had me a little worried that he was making no effort to find out; I still hadn’t been fingerprinted, and he wasn’t even asking me my name.
The Thousand Dollar Escape Page 2
