the Second Horseman (2006)

by Kyle Mills

  His mom had once told him there were always options, it was just a matter of whether or not you were smart enough to figure them out. He'd be willing to bet that piece of philosophy came from having never been on the wrong side of a prison wall in a Noah-and-the-ark level storm.

  He struggled to his feet again and began backing slowly away from the gate, watching the towers as they came into view. Somehow he wasn't surprised to see that they were manned again.

  "Hey!" he shouted, holding his hands in the air. Another step back put him into the beam of one of the spotlights and he shielded his eyes with the phone he was still holding. "Hey! I give up! I'm not trying to escape! This is all a mis--"

  The crack of a rifle shot and the screech of a round going past his ear made him duck, but he managed to keep his hands up.

  "Goddammit!" he shouted, trying to be heard over the rain. "Stop shooting! It's me! Brandon! I'm --"

  The second round went by his other ear and he heard it hit the mud behind him with a sickening splat. He just turned and ran.

  Chapter TWO

  "It's a little late to turn back now. For everything."

  Edwin Hamdi was visibly nervous. Agitated even. His suit and tie exuded quiet dignity and European tailoring but couldn't hide the subtly fidgeting hands and the way his dark skin stretched over his cheekbones. Richard Scanlon poured two scotches and handed one to Hamdi before crossing the expansive office to a grouping of leather chairs and sofas in the corner.

  Outside the closed door, the rest of the building was dark. Scanlon had set security at a very high level -- not wanting to repeat the errors of other government contractors and agencies that made the papers for misplacing critical hard drives, documents, and God knows what else. The entire complex was meticulously evacuated and locked down at seven every evening. No one but he and the people working directly with him at that moment had the authority to stay

  "How's he doing?" Hamdi asked.

  Scanlon looked at his watch. "It's just started. I'm sure everything's fine."

  "You're sure? You're not getting updates?"

  Scanlon shook his head calmly. "I'm not an operational person, Edwin. I signed off on the plan and now I've handed it over to people with experience in this kind of thing." He pointed to the phone on his desk. "They'll call me if there's a problem or if they need to make a change."

  Hamdi took a sip of his drink, his lips tightening either in reaction to the liquor or extreme disapproval. Probably the latter.

  "This is a mistake, Richard. There's no way to control him. Even before all this, the situation was turning unpredictable. I'm beginning to question the likelihood of our succeeding in this."

  Scanlon nodded thoughtfully and stared into the crystal glass in his hand. Hamdi was a man of almost unfathomable contradictions. Abstractly brilliant, yet focused to the point of single-mindedness. Outwardly dignified, but deeply passionate.

  Hamdi's Egyptian father had run a company that exported cotton to the United States and it was through that business that he'd met the American woman he married.

  Young Edwin had spent most of his childhood on the move, suspended -- perhaps trapped -- between the two cultures before landing in a New England boarding school. After he'd graduated, he'd gone on to Harvard and then to Oxford, where he'd earned a doctorate in Middle Eastern studies.

  Despite his American heritage and the fact that he had no apparent religious convictions, there was something fundamentally different about him. Something hard to come to grips with. A subversive undercurrent that occasionally surfaced, but then was almost immediately gone. It made Scanlon question whether the people of the West and East would ever be able to truly understand and trust each other when he himself couldn't fully trust this man he'd known for so many years. But then, faith wasn't something that had ever come easily to him.

  "I'll be honest with you, Richard. I'm beginning to regret having approved this. You've been incredibly effective at bringing in some of the best and the brightest to work on this . . . project. How is he going to mix with the men you already have in place?"

  Hamdi had an uncanny ability to see the gray in any given situation, but was blind to the gray in any given individual. To him competence was measured in the weight of one's degrees, the cut of one's hair, the amount of starch in one's stark white shirt. Anyone who didn't display these symbols of conventional success was somehow defective in his mind.

  Of course, in this case he was right. Brandon Vale was defective.

  "You're right, Edwin. They probably won't be able to keep up."

  Hamdi leaned forward, his voice rising for a moment before he became aware of it. "Even with impossible responsibilities resting on our shoulders, facing a mission that simply cannot be allowed to fail, you enjoy antagonizing me, don't you, Richard?"

  Scanlon smiled and took a sip of his scotch. The problem with doctors of Middle Eastern studies was that they tended to get a bit lost when faced with situations that had no historical precedent. It was hard to be too critical, though. Hamdi had the imagination and the courage to embark on this fool's errand, and there was no question that he could make things happen that Scanlon himself couldn't.

  "If you have another suggestion, Edwin, I'm listening."

  Hamdi didn't respond, instead turning and staring at a blank section of wall, reminded of the fact that it was one of his rare failures that had left them in the dangerous situation they were now in.

  He had promised that Scanlon's company would win a two hundred million dollar contract from Homeland Security, but that was before the terrorist attack on the Mall of America brought security funding to a grinding halt. There was nothing like pictures of little American girls separated from their limbs to send politicians scrambling. Currently -- and for the foreseeable future -- virtually all Homeland Security contracts were on hold until the completion of yet another lengthy government inquiry that would ultimately recommend even more bureaucratic layering and complexity.

  So now his and Hamdi's backs were against the wall, and Brandon was the best thing -- the only thing -- they'd been able to come up with.

  "You've never been one to dwell on decisions that have already been made, Edwin. Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"

  Hamdi turned back toward Scanlon, but didn't seem to be able to fully focus. "I think you know what's on my mind, Richard."

  "Do I?"

  "I want to be certain that we have the same understanding of Brandon Vale's usefulness to us."

  "Yes?"

  "He's a tool. That's all. No. That's not entirely correct. He's a syringe. Precise, effective, and safe -- as long as you remember to discard it after use."

  Hamdi didn't have an identifiable accent, but his speech had an odd cadence and lyrical quality that had come from a life straddling Egypt, the States, and England, and that gave everything he said additional weight. Combined with his natural charisma and intensity, it was difficult at times not to be mesmerized by him.

  But not impossible.

  "Is this really something that we need to talk about right now, Edwin?"

  "Better now than when things turn desperate. And they will. We both know that eventually they will."

  "I'm not necessarily arguing with you on this point, but let's give Brandon a chance. Let's see what he can do before we start planning his disappearance. All right?"

  The silence between them extended for almost a minute before Hamdi finally put his drink down and stood. "I'm going to give you some rope on this, Richard. But I'll tell you now that we're not finished with the subject of Brandon Vale." Scanlon nodded. "I know."

  Chapter THREE

  The fact that the intermittent crack and hiss of gunfire had been replaced by the dull wail of an alarm was probably a positive development, but at this point "positive" was a fairly relative term. Brandon had escaped the illumination surrounding the prison and was now wading through the mud in what seemed like a sea of ink. He kept moving away from the light, not allowing him
self to look back, partly because of the effect it would have on his night vision, but mostly out of fear of what he might see.

  He tripped for what seemed like the hundredth time and again landed face-first in the gritty muck. The rain was coming even heavier now and he was breathing hard enough to choke on the droplets. He almost vomited but managed to hold down the corned beef and frozen peas he'd had for dinner.

  He started again, shaky and increasingly cold, heading for the tree line he knew was there but still couldn't see.

  There was no sign yet of anyone following, but that didn't mean much since the rain was deafening him and he still refused to look back. Maybe they were right behind him. Maybe they were waiting for Daly -- the injured party -- to regain his equilibrium enough to properly line up crosshair and skull. Maybe he was just about to pull the trigger.

  Brandon ducked involuntarily and ran in an uncomfortable crouch, slowing his progress but hopefully presenting less of a target to that mean-spirited, fat, James Dean wannabe psycho. Okay, maybe he wasn't actually fat. But he was a mean-spirited psycho and Brandon refused to get his head shot off by him. Not that the alternative of getting shot in the ass and dying of old age sitting on a rubber donut in his cell was all that attractive. It wasn't fair. He hadn't done anything. Not to Daly. Not to anyone at that prison.

  He finally made the trees, entering them without slowing and taking a few painful branches to the face before raising an arm as a shield. After about fifteen graceless feet, he stopped and slammed his back against the broad trunk of a tree. It turned out to be about thirty seconds too late, though, and this time his convulsions left peas and corned beef splattered down his pant leg.

  He always talked about taking advantage of the exercise equipment in the yard instead of sitting on his butt playing cards. But what had been the hurry? How could he have anticipated that Daly had this kind of initiative? He'd seemed so happy forcing Brandon to empty rat and grease traps. What would he do for entertainment now? Oh, yeah. Shoot him in the ass, catch him, and ensure that his plaything would be at his disposal for the rest of his natural life.

  Brandon's breathing evened out enough to spit a few times and the stitch that had knitted itself in his side began to ease. He started to lean out around the tree but then caught himself. What was there to look at? He already knew that they were coming after him. What he saw wouldn't affect his decision about what to do, so it was just mental clutter. Not what he needed right now.

  Options?

  Few.

  He could circle around toward the prison and take a stab at sneaking into the courtyard in the confusion -- making him the only guy in history to ever break himself into prison. Chances of success? Ten percent. Chances of survival? Maybe twice that if he was lucky.

  Brandon wrapped his arms around himself and tried to ignore the cold rain that had soaked his clothing. If he just stood there, he'd probably freeze to death. How long would that take? How the hell should he know? What was he? A forest ranger?

  What if he just stayed put and concentrated on keeping warm? The darkness and confusion might give him time to explain himself and emphatically give up before anyone could get a bead on him. On the other hand, the darkness and confusion could be just the excuse Daly needed to shoot first and ask questions later. Who would doubt a viciously attacked, Godfearing prison guard if he said he thought he saw a weapon?

  Finally, he could keep running. But what chance did he have? He'd probably either break a leg or poke an eye out in the next hundred yards, and even if he didn't, he had no plan, no idea how to get to the road, no clue where that road led if he found it, and no allies on the outside. Even worse, he was the master of the thirty-minute mile and wearing a prison uniform.

  The rain wasn't hitting him directly anymore, instead rolling off the tree behind him and down his back like some half-assed Himalayan waterfall. The thunder was an almost constant drone now, blending with the prison alarm in a way that made it hard to discern where one started and the other left off. Not exactly good for the concentration.

  After a few more moments of thought, he decided that heading back to the prison was his only hope. No one would be looking for him pressed against the wall waiting to get back in. And once he was inside, it would be a lot harder for anyone to shoot him under false pretenses. Too many witnesses. The big drawback here was that if he survived, he would not only have his sentence extended until doomsday, but he'd get his place in history as one of the stupidest criminals of all time. With just a little more bad luck, he'd be immortalized in the J. Edgar Hoover Building tour alongside the guy who wrote a bank holdup note on the back of his personal check. Now there was something to be proud of.

  Brandon wiped at his glasses with a muddy sleeve and came out from behind his tree, cautiously pushing his way back through the dense foliage toward the clear-cut surrounding the prison. He'd made it about ten feet when he came to a sudden stop. The phone in his pocket had begun to vibrate.

  He'd completely forgotten about it. Could Daly be tracking him with it? Some of them had built-in GPSes now. Was he calling to say he was only ten feet away?

  Brandon grabbed the phone in a muddy fist and was about to throw it, but then stopped. None of this made any sense. The escape, the phone, Daly. So far, his overdeveloped sense of curiosity had been nothing but helpful to him in life, but it was hard not to remember his father's warning that it would get him in trouble one day.

  He looked down at the phone, noticing for the first time a wireless earpiece taped to the back.

  What the hell? It wasn't like things could get all that much worse.

  He stuck the little speaker in his ear, securing it with the tape, and pushed the answer button.

  "Hello?"

  "Get going, Brandon. Move away from the clearing and start bearing left."

  "Who is this? Daly? Why are you doing this to me? I --"

  "Shut up! There are twelve men with dogs and guns coming across that clearing right now. They're not coming to catch you. They're coming to kill you. Is the earpiece secure? Did you use the tape?"

  The voice came from someone smart and decisive -- definitely not Daly or anyone who would hang around with him. Brandon opened his mouth to give whoever it was a piece of his mind but then realized he didn't really have anything to say. Instead, he touched the earpiece and confirmed that it was stuck on.

  "It's in there."

  "Then get moving."

  He didn't. "How do I know you're not just trying to get me to keep going so it looks like I escaped --"

  "As opposed to how it looks now, Brandon? Listen to me very carefully. You're a smart guy -- we both know that. But right now you're cold, tired, and confused. So you can do what I tell you and let me get you out of this, or you can stand around asking stupid questions until somebody shoots you."

  Brandon hesitated. "I can barely see to walk in here and those guys will have lights---

  "Quit whining and start moving, goddammit!"

  The truth was that the upside to the best plan he'd come up with on his own was spending the next twenty-five years inside. And while prison hadn't been as bad to him as it had to some, he didn't see growing old there. Better to get shot, maybe.

  A moment later, he was on the move, getting tangled, slapped, and jabbed by branches and sliding uncontrollably down steep banks all at the behest of the disembodied voice in his ear.

  "Bear left a little more -- about eleven o'clock."

  Brandon smashed a shin into a jagged rock and stopped, bending at the waist again but managing not to vomit. There was nothing left in his stomach.

  "Why are you stopped? Get moving!"

  "I'm stopped because I'm tired, soaking wet, freezing my ass off, and probably being led into a fucking ambush . . ." He thought he heard the excited barking of a dog rise above the storm, and he spun around, staring into the darkness.

  "Fine. Good luck to you," the voice said with a tone of indifference that sounded pretty convincing over the static
-ridden connection.

  "Wait!" Brandon shouted, cringing at the sound of his own voice. "I'm going, okay? I'm going."

  He started forward again, bearing left and cursing himself for his pathetic flash of pointless defiance. Even Kassem would have seen through that bluff.

  "Okay, you're doing good, Brandon. Keep your pace up. You've only got about another minute."

  "To what?"

  The question was ignored. "Can you see a light in front of you?"

  "No."

  "Keep going."

  He did as he was told, stumbling forward and looking for a hint of anything unusual. Another thirty seconds and he caught sight of something. It was too dim to make out if he looked directly at it, but his peripheral vision could just pick it up.

  "I think I see something. It's kind of greenish --"

  "Go toward it! Double time!"

  "Okay, I'm --"

  The phone went dead.

  Brandon stopped short. "Hello? Hello!"

  He hadn't trusted the guy on the other end of that line, but at least it had been a human voice. Now, in addition to being frozen, lost, and hunted, he was alone. His teeth began to chatter as he pulled the phone from his pocket and confirmed that the line was dead. "Shit!"

  He looked over his shoulder, but could only see blackness. They couldn't be far behind though. The forest was thick enough that he probably wouldn't see their lights until they were just about on top of him.

  Turning back toward the glow, he pushed forward, feeling his heart rate rise still more as he came to the edge of a small clearing. He half expected to find Daly standing there with a .44 Magnum, grinning ear to ear.

  Wrong again.

  The light was coming from a single glow stick hanging in a tree. But that wasn't all. Dangling next to it was a thick vinyl duffle. Brandon took it down and began digging through it. A pair of boots, a towel, a set of thin farmer-John underwear, and a light, waterproof black jumpsuit.