by Dawson, Mark
Josie went for it, but he blocked her. He brought up his elbow and struck her in the face.
She fell away from him.
His hand slid into his jacket.
And then they heard the siren.
Mendoza was distracted for a moment, and Josie took her chance.
She swung her elbow up into his face. The bony point caught him on the side of the temple. He was taller than she was, and it was difficult to put any power into the blow, but it caught him by surprise. He tripped and fell to the floor. Josie followed with a kick, driving the point of her boot between his open legs and into his crotch.
Mendoza yelped in pain.
Something fell out of his jacket pocket onto the floor.
His cellphone.
She scooped it up.
“Josie!”
She kicked him again, turned away and ran back up the stairs.
* * *
THE NOISE grew louder.
Milton edged to the open doorway and glanced out.
The walkway swarmed with inmates. They were spilling out of the cells.
He looked up. He could see through the metal slats of the walkway above him that the doors had been opened on that floor, too. More men were coming out, their curiosity quickly changing into something more urgent and desperate.
The prison was full of dangerous men. Under normal conditions, it exchanged the loss of liberty for order and security. It was a menacing place, but, if you played by the rules, it was possible to serve out a sentence and leave in one piece.
This was different.
It was chaos now, and, for as long as chaos suppressed order, the prison was almost unimaginably perilous.
Without order, grudges could be settled.
Vendettas followed.
Blood spilled.
Milton didn’t care for the quarrels of his fellow inmates, but he needed to get around them so that he could start to make his way out of the building. One of the unconscious guards was just outside the open door. He reached and grabbed the man’s ankle, yanking him inside. He frisked him quickly. He had a bunch of keys attached to his belt, and Milton flipped through them until he found the one that would open his cuffs. He bent his right wrist back so that he could work the key into the lock, twisted it, and popped the mechanism. The cuffs sprang open and Milton shook them off.
One orange-shirted prisoner ran by the open door and tackled another to the ground. The first man pinned the second to the metal and pounded at his head and face, a flurry of lefts and rights that splashed blood and saliva and mucus over the metal surface. The man kept punching, even as his victim lay still, his fists rendering his face unrecognisable.
He was about to leave the cell when he heard another boom from the shotgun. The inmate’s body was suddenly riddled with shot. The pellets shredded his clothes and the flesh beneath. He fell forward, his blood commingling with his victim’s.
Milton risked a look up at the booth. The guard was reloading.
He had to move.
The inmates were spilling down the stairs to the communal area at the bottom of the building. Milton took the billy club with him and stepped out of the cell, following the flow along the walkway. The atmosphere was charged with a frantic energy, and exultant whoops bounced back from the walls. The breakout was gathering momentum. Soon it would be difficult to stop.
There was going to be a full-scale riot.
Milton was borne down the stairs by the surging crowd. He reached the bottom and caught a glimpse into the first cell as he was jostled ahead: two men were holding a third man down as a fourth watched. Another pair of inmates was scuffling, toppling back against the table tennis table and bumping the two sections apart.
Milton heard a scream and looked up. The elevated booth had been breached, and the guard with the shotgun was struggling with the prisoners who had surged inside. The man was dragged out onto the platform and, as the men paused to watch, he was thrown over the balustrade. His body fell through the vaulted space and bounced horribly as it slammed into the concrete floor just yards from where Milton stood.
63
JOSIE RAN back in the direction that Mendoza had brought her.
The building was chaotic. Staff were running freely along the corridors, hurrying to the exit.
She bumped flush into a guard.
“What is it?” she asked him.
“The cells. The doors. They’re open.”
Ziggy, she thought. It worked.
The man looked at her, panic in his eyes. “The inmates! They’re getting out. There’s going to be a riot. You have to leave. We all have to leave.”
“Which way is it?”
“I’ll take you.”
The guard set off and Josie ran behind him. He took a left and then another left. The corridors all looked the same and she hadn’t been paying attention to where Mendoza had been taking her.
They turned a corner and she saw two orange-shirted inmates coming straight toward them.
The guard crashed into both of them. The first inmate drew back his fist and stabbed it into the guard’s chest. Josie saw a flash of something metallic as he withdrew his arm and then the droplets of red blood on the bare concrete floor.
The inmates spotted her, smiled, and stalked ahead.
Josie was next to a door. She turned the handle. The door was unlocked. She pushed it open and darted inside.
The room was dark. Josie glimpsed the shapes of a table, two chairs, and a sofa. It was some sort of waiting area. There were no windows.
She shut the door and looked for a key. She couldn’t see one.
The handle rattled as it was turned and the door opened an inch.
“Come on,” a voice called out.
She slammed it shut again and put her back to it.
“Come on, baby. Open up.”
There came an angry hammering at the door.
“It’s just me and my little shank. Come on. Open the door.”
Shit.
The pounding stopped. Josie waited with her back to the door, hardly daring to move. She waited another fifteen seconds and then, knowing that she had to do something, she went to the sofa, grabbed it with both hands and pulled. It was heavy, but she was able to muscle it across the room, the legs scoring marks across the wooden floor. She hauled it in front of the door and pushed it until it was flush with the wall.
It was just in time. The handle turned again as someone tried to force the door open; the sofa jerked forward an inch or two until she pushed it back and held it in place.
Now what?
She was stuck here.
She looked around the room. It was practically empty. She wished that she still had her pistol.
That reminded her.
She reached into her pocket and took out the cellphone that Mendoza had dropped.
It was unlocked. She tapped in the number that she had just given Milton.
The phone rang three times.
“Milton?”
“No. Hernandez.”
“Where are you?” It was Ziggy.
“I’m inside the building. The inmates are out. There’s a riot. I can’t leave.”
“Hold the line.”
There was a moment of silence and then Hicks came on the line.
“Are you safe?” he said.
“I’ve barricaded myself in a room.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in the administrative building. The door’s not locked, though. I don’t know how long it’ll stand up.”
There was another crash as the men outside hurled themselves against the door again.
“Josie?”
“You need to hurry. I can’t hold them out for ever.”
“I hear you. Stay on the line. Ziggy wants to speak to you.”
There was another moment of silence as the phone changed hands.
“I need you to send me your location,” Ziggy said. “Put the call on speaker and do as I say.”
She did. Ziggy told her to launch the messages app and then to send him her current location.
“Got you,” Ziggy said. “I know where you are. I’ll call the police and tell them that you’re trapped.”
There was another heavy thud against the door.
“I don’t have time for that,” she said. “It’s a riot. The police will wait for the army, but that won’t be for hours. The inmates know I’m in here. They’ll break the door down.”
She couldn’t hear a reply. She pressed the phone to her ear.
“Ziggy!”
“Stay where you are. I’m working on it.”
“Please hurry.”
64
MILTON FRISKED the body of the guard who had fallen to his death.
He was unarmed, but, in his back pocket, Milton found a small Nokia cellphone.
He took it and dialled the number that Josie had given him.
The call connected.
“It’s Milton.”
He heard Hicks. “Where are you?”
“There’s a full-scale riot. I need a way out.”
“You can come out the front. The guards in the watchtower have cleared out.”
“Anything else?”
“We’ve got a problem. Hernandez is trapped inside.”
Milton gripped the phone a little tighter.
“Where is she?”
* * *
JOSIE SAT down with her back to the sofa, planted the soles of her feet flat on the floor and braced her legs. There came another thump as whoever it was outside in the corridor tried to force the door. The sofa jerked a little bit farther into the room and the door opened a crack.
“Open the door!” the man cackled through the gap.
“I’m a police officer,” Josie shouted back. “And I’m armed.”
“Sure you are, baby,” the man said.
“I’ll shoot anyone who tries to get in here.”
“Yeah? I say you’re bluffing.”
Josie heard a gale of laughter and then a stream of salacious suggestions about what the men outside would do to her once they got through the door.
She wished that she was armed. That might have given her a chance. But she wasn’t. Her gun was still inside the security lodge. If the inmates were logical enough and thought about it, they would be able to loot the office and arm themselves. That the situation could get worse was obvious, but it was also an irrelevance as far as Josie was concerned.
It was already bad enough.
There was no way out. No windows. No other doors. She was trapped, a female police officer lost inside the swirling chaos of rioting prisoners, many of whom had no hope of being released and no hope of ever being with a woman again. They had nothing to lose. The fact that they could take out their anger and frustration on a police officer at the same time would be just another bonus for them.
There came another almighty thud as something was slammed against the door. It was weightier and harder than before, more solid than the shoulder charges that she had been able to fend off.
A heavy object.
There came a second crash.
And then a third.
Josie heard a splintering and, as she looked up above the back of the sofa, she saw that the door was splitting down the middle.
* * *
MENDOZA SHOULDERED through the door that led into the main lobby.
He stopped, his feet slipping on the floor.
There were two orange-shirted prisoners blocking the way ahead.
Mendoza didn’t pause. He reached into his jacket, yanked his Glock out of its holster, and shot both of them. The men went down, one of them dead before he hit the floor and the other trying to staunch the sudden rush of blood from his abdomen.
Mendoza gripped the pistol tightly and ran for the door.
Josie was still in there for all he knew, but he didn’t care about that.
She was the reason he had come down here. Her interference and disobedience had put them both in danger.
Maybe the riot would put an end to that once and for all.
It would save him the job.
Two more prisoners emerged from the security lobby.
Mendoza turned and fired. Both rounds missed, but the prisoners got the message. They dived into cover.
He had seven rounds in the magazine and another in the chamber. He had to get out.
He backed away, the pistol aimed at where the men had hidden, and then he turned and ran.
* * *
JOSIE PUSHED back until her thighs burned.
She wasn’t going to give up.
She closed her eyes and thought of Angelo.
She would hold out for as long as she could.
There came another crash and then another rending creak as the door panel continued to split down the middle.
There was a fresh cackle of laughter, an exhortation to redouble efforts, and then…
The sound of something heavy falling to the floor.
Josie sat up.
She heard a scream interrupted by a yelp of pain and then the unmistakable sound of something hard colliding with flesh and bone. There was another impact as something dropped to the floor. She heard a cry of angry indignation that was choked off before it could be finished and then the slap of running feet that quickly faded out.
“Josie!”
She pushed harder, her muscles burning. “Who is it?”
“It’s Milton.”
She stayed where she was.
“Open the door.”
Josie found that she was trembling, her muscles quivering uncontrollably. Was it Milton? He had found her? She was too scared to allow herself to believe that she might have a way out. Maybe it was a trap. But how would anyone else know to pretend to be him? There was no logic to suggest that it was anyone other than Milton, but panic was obscuring her logic.
“Josie,” Milton said through the crack in the door, “they’ll be back. We need to move. Please. Open the door.”
She got up and heaved the sofa aside. The door had splintered down the middle and wouldn’t have stood too much more punishment. She opened it: Milton was standing outside. He was holding a prison officer’s billy club in his fist. Three orange-shirted inmates sprawled on the floor, unmoving; one of them was bleeding freely from a wound to his scalp, the blood pooling around his head. Milton’s own orange shirt was flecked with red, and there was sweat on his face. There were fresh marks, too, and darkening patches that promised fresh bruises.
“Ready?” Milton said.
She nodded.
“Come on.”
He started to jog. Josie followed, matching his easy pace. He reached into his pocket for a cellphone and put it to his ear, speaking as he loped along.
“Is it still clear?”
Josie couldn’t hear the reply.
“It’s Hicks,” he explained as he put the phone back into his pocket. “They’re out the front. They’ll pick us up.”
“What about the police?”
“There’s no one there yet.”
“They’ll be coming. The army, too.”
“That’s why we’ve got to hurry.”
Milton led the way to the main entrance hall. A fire had been set in one of the adjoining rooms, and smoke was pouring out of broken windows and an open doorway. They saw other prisoners choking as they emerged into the dimness of the main room. The security lobby had been overrun, with inmates passing through the defunct scanner and making their way to the doors and the clean, open air beyond. They were fixated on the prospect of their freedom, and none of them stopped to give Josie any heed. The one man who did divert his direction to intercept them, making a lewd comment as he approached, was briskly persuaded to see the foolhardiness of his ways. Milton swung the baton at him in a diagonal downward swipe that caught him on the bony knuckle of his knee. He yelped in pain, rolling to the ground and clutching his leg.
The main doors had been forced open, and now they swung
impotently on broken hinges. Milton shouldered them apart and, reaching back to take Josie’s hand, led the way outside.
She looked up at the watchtowers and remembered seeing the rifles of the guards stationed there. But the guards were not there now. More smoke piled out of smashed windows and formed vast pillars that were already several hundred feet tall. She saw the hungry yellow and orange of flames through other windows and heard the sounds of screams, whoops and breaking glass.
“Run,” Milton said. “Don’t stop for anyone.”
Milton set off to the main gate. Some inmates were gathered just outside, as if unsure what to do now that they had their freedom. She saw flashes of orange as others, perhaps wise to the inevitable arrival of enforcements, hurried across the neighbouring fields and into the dense vegetation that fringed them.
The gates had been forced, too, and now they hung limply, creaking in the breeze.
A car was approaching them at speed. It flashed its lights.
“There,” Milton said, changing direction.
The car raced up to them, skidding to a sudden stop. The rear door opened and Josie slid in, bumping up against Ziggy Penn. His laptops were still open. Hicks was in the front, and he reached over to open the passenger door. Milton slid across the hood, opened the door all the way and dropped into the seat.
“Go!”
Hicks did not need to be told twice. He stomped down on the gas and the wheels squealed as the rubber bit into the rough asphalt. The car jerked forward and then swung around as Hicks turned the wheel to full lock, the rear end fishtailing and smoke pouring out of the wheel arches. Hicks straightened up and, stamping down on the gas again, they raced away.
65
MILTON REACHED over and clapped his hand on Hicks’s shoulder.
“Well done,” he said.
“It wasn’t me. It was all Josie and Ziggy.”
Milton turned. Ziggy was looking at him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“Good to see you again,” he said.
“That was fun,” Ziggy said. “Impressed?”
“You’ve never failed to impress me.”
Milton knew Ziggy well enough to know that he responded best when his ego was massaged. He could certainly be irritating, but the fact of it was that he was able to back up his hubris with ability. Ziggy had helped Milton hack the headquarters of the Mossad. What he had done today was just the latest in a long line of increasingly impressive demonstrations.
