Redemption

by Will Jordan

  Some were suffering from pretty severe signal degradation, no doubt due to age and faulty wiring.

  This room also served as the prison’s communications centre. A big old-fashioned radio unit in one corner, no doubt tied into a high-gain antenna on the roof somewhere, provided the facility’s only contact with the outside world. Disabling it was as easy as slicing through the power cables and pouring the remainder of the guard’s cup of coffee into a vent in the side.

  Data backup was handled by a pair of high-capacity hard drives busily humming away in one corner, recording everything that came in from the various feeds. They were perhaps the only pieces of sophisticated technology she had seen so far.

  Ten seconds later she had cut power to both units, removed them from the metal storage rack they were resting in, and was busy dismantling them to reach the disk drives within. As soon as she had access to the disks themselves, she would use the cutting torch to reduce them to so much molten slag.

  Interrupting her work for a moment, she hit the radio pressel at her throat. ‘Alpha to Bravo. You’re clear to move. Good luck.’

  Chapter 19

  ‘COPY THAT. BRAVO, en route.’ Drake let out a breath and turned to Dietrich. ‘Let’s go.’

  They were moving within moments, quickly descending the metal ladder to rooftop level once more and sprinting along the top of the western block to the north-west tower.

  Once more they found a ladder leading up to the observation area. Clambering up and shouldering their weapons, they spotted the guard taken down by Keegan during the descent. His single shot had done its work with deadly efficiency, splattering a good portion of the man’s brains over the floor and walls. Flakes of snow were drifting in through the shattered window, already coating the exposed surfaces with a fine dusting.

  Ignoring the grisly sight, Drake went straight for the stairwell door. Much to his relief, the guard on duty in the watchtower hadn’t bothered to lock it behind him when he came up here.

  ‘We’re in luck.’

  Dietrich hit his radio pressel. ‘Bravo to Alpha, we’re going down. What’s the guard situation in north block?’

  ‘Wait one.’ Silence for several seconds. ‘No activity on the video feeds. There’s a lot of black spots, though. Watch your backs.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice,’ Dietrich replied in a sour tone. ‘Out.’

  Grasping the door handle, Drake hauled it open, revealing a spiral staircase that wound its way down into the bowels of the prison. Rather than bare concrete, the walls had been painted a horrible lime green colour. There were splashes of it on the steps where the painters had been sloppy, and in other places the paint was peeling and cracked. Electric lights were fixed into the wall at regular intervals, burning harsh and bright.

  ‘Delta, any movement?’ Drake asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Keegan replied. ‘It’s all quiet.’

  ‘Copy that.’ Shouldering his MP5, he glanced at Dietrich. ‘Ready?’

  He received a curt nod in response.

  Drake went first, his feet echoing on the bare concrete steps as he descended. He was hot inside his thermal suit now as a combination of nervous energy and physical exertion took their toll. Tiny beads of sweat trickled down his back, and the fabric of his balaclava was warm and clammy against his face, but he resisted the urge to remove it. Masks had to stay on until they were well clear of the prison.

  His senses were acutely heightened, taking in every detail of his surroundings. The slight weathering on the stone steps where countless sets of feet had passed over the years, the barely audible sigh of Dietrich’s breathing, the rattle of the weapon as he moved, the growing ambient warmth as they approach the inhabited section of the prison.

  One of the lights mounted in the wall was flickering and cutting out, plunging the stairwell into shadow every couple of seconds. Drake averted his gaze as they passed. The light hurt his eyes, exacerbating the headache that still dogged him.

  The stairs were strewn with rubbish – cigarette butts, torn pieces of paper, bits of chewing gum casually spat out, crushed Styrofoam coffee cups … It was a mess. It reminded him of the kind of dilapidated public areas found in shitty council estates back home.

  ‘What a dump,’ Dietrich remarked, apparently thinking the same thing.

  ‘I’ll leave them a memo.’

  In the security centre, the cutting tool had done its work well. The two hard-drive units had been reduced to a pile of charred, smoking debris that nobody could ever possibly salvage.

  The security guard had been rendered unconscious for the next several hours courtesy of a shot of Etorphine from Mason. Originally designed for knocking out African elephants, it had proved remarkably effective against humans, and the CIA had soon found a use for it.

  ‘Anything?’ Mason asked, having taken up position by the door to cover the corridor beyond.

  With the room secure, Frost had settled herself in front of the security monitors in the hopes of aiding Drake and Dietrich. She couldn’t see either man yet because there were no cameras in the stairwell, but there was good coverage of the cell block they were heading for.

  Whoever had installed the security cameras here was either drunk or an idiot, she’d soon decided. There were blind spots all over the place, and cameras that were either out of action or defective to the point where their output was unrecognisable.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s all quiet. No wonder this guy was bored,’ she added, holding up the porn magazine the guard had been so engrossed in.

  Mason cracked a smile. ‘Anything good?’

  ‘Only you could think of tits at a time like this.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m all about the articles these days.’

  Ignoring him, she turned her attention back to the screens, then froze when she saw the grainy image of a prison guard on one of the monitors.

  They had reached the base of the stairwell. Beyond, according to the blueprints, lay the security station for the western cell block, with the master switches controlling the electric cell doors.

  The solitary confinement cells were secured with old-fashioned steel doors and simple deadbolts, ensuring they could only be opened one at a time. But the two general population blocks followed the standard prison model of barred cells opened electrically via a remote access point. It was a necessary function to allow them to move large numbers of prisoners within a reasonable time frame, like during exercise breaks or shower visits.

  It also ensured that any would-be escapees couldn’t free their comrades. With heavy locked doors at each end of the block, any prisoner who somehow made it out of his cell would have nowhere to go.

  Drake was just reaching for the door handle when his radio crackled.

  ‘Bravo, you’ve got an incoming tango,’ Frost warned, the urgency in her voice obvious despite the static.

  Drake felt his heartbeat shift into high gear. ‘Where?’

  ‘Heading north through the general population block. He must be walking the perimeter. Where are you?’

  ‘At the base of the tower, about to move.’

  ‘Recommend you hold position until he passes by.’

  ‘How long do we have?’

  ‘Thirty seconds, maybe less,’ she replied. ‘It’ll take him at least five minutes to do another circuit.’

  Dietrich leaned in closer to speak to Drake. ‘Perfect. We take him prisoner and use him to find Maras.’

  ‘Twenty-five seconds.’

  Drake was torn. It was quite a gamble to try to subdue an armed man without making any noise. But then again, there were thirty-two solitary confinement cells on this block, and searching all of them would waste precious time. Plus, the inhabitants were unlikely to react well to a pair of armed men in full assault gear.

  ‘Twenty seconds.’

  ‘Drake, don’t be a fucking coward,’ Dietrich hissed, staring intently at his comrade. ‘This is our best chance.’

  ‘Fifteen seconds. Bravo One, talk to me. W
hat’s going on?’

  Drake chewed his lip, knowing he had only moments to make his decision. ‘All right,’ he conceded at last. ‘We’re going for it. Alpha One, let me know when he’s outside the door.’

  ‘Copy that. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  Dietrich nodded, checking that the safety on his MP5 was disengaged and the under-barrel flashlight switched on. Drake gripped the door handle again, getting ready to throw it open.

  ‘Ten seconds,’ Frost said. ‘He’s unlocking the security door at the north end of the block.’

  Sure enough, they could hear the clank of keys in a lock just outside their own door. According to the blueprints, each cell block was secured at both ends with heavy steel doors, designed to contain prisoners in the event of a riot. Their cutting torches could do nothing against 2 inches of solid steel.

  Drake glanced at his companion. ‘Remember, no English.’

  The older man gave him a look of pure disdain.

  ‘Five seconds. Door open.’

  Taking a deep breath, Drake gripped his weapon tighter with his free hand. The man on the other side wouldn’t be expecting them. He would be bored and tired, and slow to react.

  They had the drop on him. They could do this.

  ‘Now.’

  Unlatching the door, he pulled it open with a hard yank, feeling old rusty hinges grating and rasping.

  Dietrich was first through, and Drake was right behind him, weapon up at his shoulder, eyes searching the dimly lit room for a target.

  It wasn’t hard to find one.

  The guard in question was a beast of a man, easily weighing 300 pounds and standing at least 6 foot 4. His hands looked as if they could crush boulders, his neck was thick and bull-like, his face wide and fleshy. He was dressed in a fur hat, military boots and a thick, heavy winter overcoat that further enhanced his massive frame.

  He froze at the sudden clang of the door being thrown open, and for a good second or so stared open-mouthed at the two weapons now trained on him, squinting into the twin flashlight beams shining right in his face.

  By the time he finally thought to reach for the weapon at his hip, it was far too late.

  ‘Don’t fucking think about it!’ Dietrich hissed in Russian. ‘Down on your knees! Down now!’

  He was being too aggressive, Drake knew. People don’t react well to having guns waved in their faces at the best of times, and if their captor is screaming and ranting, the primitive, illogical part of their brain takes over.

  That could spell disaster in a situation like this. They needed the man calm and compliant, not panicky and unpredictable. Especially when he weighed almost as much as both of them combined.

  Still, this guy was no mild-mannered civilian. Overcoming his shock, the guard did a quick assessment of the situation and decided that resistance in this case would equal instant death. With some difficulty, he lowered his massive frame to the ground.

  ‘Hands behind your head!’ Dietrich ordered. ‘Do it!’

  What was with him? Drake wondered. Dietrich was a veteran of operations like this. Why was he suddenly acting like a rookie in his first firefight?

  Again the giant complied, eyes flicking between the pair of flashlights. They were careful to keep the beams in his face and eyes. If he couldn’t see them properly, he was less likely to make some foolish move.

  While Drake kept him covered, Dietrich quickly removed the giant’s side arm from the holster at his hip, ejected the magazine and tossed the weapon into a corner.

  Reaching into his pocket, Dietrich unfolded a printed photograph of Maras and held it right up at the guard’s face. Was his hand shaking?

  ‘Where is this woman?’ he demanded.

  The giant’s eyes opened wide in shock, his mouth gaping open to reveal a set of yellowy, nicotine-stained teeth.

  ‘Where is she?’ Dietrich repeated, brandishing the sub-machine gun for emphasis. ‘Tell me or you die now!’

  ‘In solitary confinement,’ the giant replied at last, his voice sounding like boulders tumbling down a mountainside. He pointed to another door on the east side of the room like the one he’d just come through.

  ‘Which cell?’

  ‘Sixty-two.’

  Dietrich folded the picture and replaced it in his pocket, then took a couple of steps back. ‘Up! Get up!’

  Slowly the giant rose to his feet again, keeping his hands behind his head while his dark eyes surveyed both men. Clearly he was weighing up his chances of taking one or both of them out.

  ‘Take us there,’ Dietrich ordered before he had any further thoughts. ‘Now! Move!’

  Chapter 20

  ‘COME ON, RYAN,’ Frost whispered, her eyes glued to the monitors as the three men advanced quickly through the second security door and into the solitary confinement block. They were marching the giant of a guard between them, Dietrich keeping him covered while Drake swept the corridor ahead.

  He appeared compliant, but what if he made a break for it? What if he managed to grab a weapon? What if she was forced to watch the two of them gunned down over a grainy closed-circuit security system?

  She tried to push those thoughts aside. Drake and Dietrich were experienced operatives, well trained and competent. They could handle this. They could handle anything.

  But as hard as she tried, the fear wouldn’t abate.

  ‘Come on. Hurry.’

  The tension was unbearable. Every second they stayed here increased their chances of being compromised. A dozen armed guards could come walking down that corridor at any moment, and even with Cole watching her back, she felt jumpy and paranoid.

  What if they were caught? What would happen to them? What would happen to her? She was a woman, after all. The possibility of capture, interrogation and even torture was something she had understood and accepted on an intellectual level, without pondering too deeply. She hadn’t wanted it to impede her performance. But now, sitting here, it was impossible to avoid thinking about.

  She wanted to leave right now. She wanted to get out of this shithole and be on a warm plane heading back to the States.

  But they couldn’t leave. Not until the job was done.

  They had come all this way for Maras. They were putting their lives on the line for her. They couldn’t leave until they found her.

  ‘I hope you’re worth the trouble, you bitch.’

  Backing up against the wall outside Cell No. 62, Dietrich pointed to indicate they had found the right one. Like the others, it was barred by a reinforced steel door, scarred by rust in places, with a slot for observation or sliding in trays of food. The door was secured with a simple deadbolt.

  Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate. No way out.

  Drake’s heart was beating wildly. They had found it! After all the planning and worrying, thousands of miles of flying and a nerve-shredding infiltration of a high-security prison, they had reached their goal at last. Yesterday Maras had just been a face on a photograph, now he was about to meet her in the flesh.

  Gripping the MP5 with his right hand, he seized the deadbolt and drew it back, then raised his boot and delivered a single kick powerful enough to send the door flying inwards.

  His weapon was up in an instant, flashlight beam playing across the cramped cell beyond. Sink, toilet, bare brick walls and concrete floor.

  Then his eyes fastened on the woman standing in the midst of it all. His breath caught in his throat.

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  * * *

  Two floors below, and entirely unknown to Frost, a young prison guard was pacing the wide, badly lit hallway, struggling to hold in check his mounting irritation.

  ‘Where the fuck is he?’ he muttered, waiting impatiently for that big bastard Lopukhin to return from his patrol. It should have taken him no more than five minutes to walk the blocks.

  The prisoners he could handle; it was the other guards who were his biggest enemy, especially Lopukhin. The man was a nightmare to work with, surly and
aggressive, and as vicious as an Arctic wolf with anyone who crossed him. He had cringed when he found out he’d drawn the night shift with him.

  Stubbing out his cigarette, he picked up his radio and hit the transmit button. ‘Lopukhin. Where are you?’

  His request was met with nothing but static.

  He frowned, an edge of concern now overshadowing the irritation within him. ‘Lopukhin. Where are you? Respond.’

  They had found her all right, but the prisoner standing before him bore little resemblance to the vibrant, strikingly beautiful woman he’d seen in the picture.

  Her blonde hair, cut short and neat in the photograph, was now a tangled and greasy mass falling on either side of her face. Her skin was deathly pale, sallow and streaked with dirt. She had lost weight as well, the impression enhanced by her oversized clothes, clearly intended for a man. Her standard prison-issue shirt and trousers were filthy and threadbare, covered in grime and stained with blood and God knew what else.

  But it was her – of that he was sure. Her appearance might have changed, but her eyes hadn’t. He would have recognised those eyes anywhere.

  She was staring at him with those eyes at that very moment, her gaze filled with a strange mixture of surprise, curiosity, apprehension and wariness. And something else; something he couldn’t consciously identify, but which made a far deeper impression. Somehow he felt like an animal being observed by a predator; a predator still undecided about whether or not to strike.

  For a good second or two, neither one of them said a word or moved a muscle. The smell of stale sweat, blood, dampness and mould permeated the air inside the tiny cell. Jesus, what had she endured in this place? How long had she been here?

  Dietrich broke the silence at last. ‘Maras?’

  Her eyes opened wider, all other emotions washed away by complete and utter shock. But she didn’t speak.

  ‘Is your name Maras?’ Dietrich demanded in Russian. ‘Identify yourself or we’ll leave you here!’