“There’s going to be rioting, sir. What should we do?”
Pete remembered the image he’d had of a riot back in Anchorage Correctional, and now it seemed prophetic. It was just that it had come to him too early.
“Those doors shouldn’t have opened. They’re programmed to stay closed in case of a power failure. How certain are you that the men are out?”
“Can’t be certain,” one of the men replied. “We’re running blind in here. But there’s so much yelling and shooting out there…”
“It has to be Clyde,” Pete said. “Maybe his followers have infiltrated the prison.”
“That’s a sobering thought.” Andersen held up his hand to silence the guards. “When was the last time one of you saw Dean?”
“I saw him on my screen,” one of the guards said. “He was, um, in the shower area with Clyde.”
Marie sucked her teeth as if this confirmed some suspicion of hers, but whatever bullshit had been taking place in Mueller was not Pete’s problem right now. He had men in here, and he’d known many of them for years. His first and only mission was to make sure they were safe and then get them the hell out of here.
“Are we secure in here?” Pete asked.
“Steel door,” one of the guards said. “Reinforced framing. Unless the prisoners find a rocket launcher, we’re good to go.”
Which was great, except Clyde was the kind of man who could probably build a rocket launcher from things he found lying around in the prison.
“What about the rest of this level?” Pete asked. “What’s down here?”
“Some storage,” Andersen said. “The rest of it is mechanical. Heating, cooling, water, electricity, and the backup generators.”
“Do the radios work?” Pete said.
“They’re down too, sir,” the lead guy said, his voice sounding like it was clogged with unshed tears. “It’s a miracle the emergency lights are still on.”
“Buck up, Smith,” Andersen said.
Instinct had Pete taking a long, searching look at Smith. He was a freckle-faced kid with big, innocent eyes. Osborn had been a kid, too—and had worn that same harmless expression.
“Let me guess. You’re new here.” Pete raised his gun and pointed it at Smith’s face.
“Lieutenant!” Andersen said.
“What did you do?” Pete asked, ignoring the warden.
A crafty, triumphant look crossed Smith’s face.
“You sack of shit!” One of the other guards dove for Smith and tackled him to the ground. “You’ve probably gotten us all killed!”
Pete was tempted to break up the impromptu wresting match, but to do that he’d have to holster the gun or give it either to Sadler or Andersen. Meanwhile, Andersen stood there with his dick in his hand, doing absolutely nothing. He could have at least ordered them to stop. Pete would have thought the guy would be savvier, considering he oversaw one of the most infamous prisons in the United States.
But it looked like he was going to be completely useless.
Pete shouted at the men to stop, while looking for an opportunity to put a stop to it. Marie, who now seemed cool, calm, and completely collected, stepped in a moment later. She paused, waiting for her opportunity, and then stabbed one of the syringes into Smith’s neck.
Smith bellowed. “The fuck was that? What did you do to me, bitch? You better believe I’m going to tell Clyde about this, and then you’ll see what’s what!”
Then he blinked slowly, yawned, and went limp.
“Tranquilizer,” Marie said.
“Why’d—”
Pete interrupted Andersen before he could finish his question, which Pete suspected was going to be to ask Marie why she was walking around with a tranquilizer in her pocket. But the answer would have taken some explaining, and they had enough enemies inside Mueller without turning the warden against them, too.
“I need to see to the safety of my men,” he said. “Then we can help you secure this facility. In the meantime, maybe whatever Smith did in here can be reversed. At least get the cells locking again.”
The guard who’d attacked Smith tucked his shirt back into his pants. “This isn’t something Smith could have done. Not all of it. Maybe he was supposed to do something in here but never got a chance. Something big has gone wrong. Outside. Maybe everywhere. Smith was going on about how Clyde has this theory about a solar storm. He said a big one was coming, but no one listens to the scientists anymore. Could that be what this is?”
Pete had seen something about solar activity in the news but had disregarded it, categorizing it as more fearmongering by the media. Now he wished he’d actually listened.
“Coronal mass ejections,” Marie said. “CMEs. They ionize the atmosphere and turn it into a giant electromagnetic pulse. The charged particles knock out transformers. All but the most basic electronics, gone.” Then, as though she wanted to add some good news, she said with a shrug, “The auroras afterward are supposed to be spectacular.”
“Like an EMP?” Andersen said. “That would explain my phone.”
Pete’s eyes went wide. The implications were staggering. “That would explain our clothes,” he said. “An EMP would kill the nanotech. But why would the emergency lights have come on? They should have been fried as well.”
“The emergency generator has a Faraday cage,” Andersen said slowly—though Pete couldn’t tell if that was because he didn’t understand what that meant, or because he was just realizing the importance of said cage.
“A what?” he asked.
“A cage that blocks all electromagnetic waves,” Marie—who was evidently the woman with all the answers—said, her voice small. “Why would they have installed something like that?”
“It was part of a retrofitting process several years back,” Andersen answered. “A defense against technologically-minded groups who might seek to shut our operation down. Always thought it was unlikely myself. I mean, what kind of people have access to EMP weapons? But now…”
“What about the plane—will it still work?” Sadler asked, as if he’d missed the entire conversation—and the implications.
“There’s no way to know for sure,” Marie said. “Theoretically, the plane would act like a Faraday cage, and the electronics inside would be protected. But so much depends on the design of the aircraft and its proximity to the EMP; if that plane was in the air near the path of the flare, there’s every likelihood that it’s on the ground now. In a million pieces.”
There was silence after that as everyone digested what she wasn’t saying: that if they’d been on that plane, they would probably have been dead, too.
“But it doesn’t explain everything,” Andersen finally said. “If the cell doors opened, it means they overcame their own programming. There are fail-safes in place to prevent just such an occurrence.”
“I don’t care about that,” Pete said bluntly. He walked over to Andersen and grabbed him by the shirt. “Tell me where I can find my men. You stay here and see what, if anything, you can get working again.”
Andersen pulled out a blueprint and showed him where the auxiliary recreation room was located. “They were in there,” he said, pointing out the route from the control room to the room where Pete’s men had been taken. “If they’re smart, they’re still there. Waiting.”
“I’ll stay here with the warden and his men,” Sadler said.
“I expected nothing less,” Pete snorted.
Sadler ignored Pete’s sarcasm, and what did it matter? Pete didn’t want him along anyway. He would only be a liability. And given how edgy Pete was feeling, he was liable to do or say something he’d regret later.
“I’ll come with you,” Marie said.
“I don’t think—”
“I don’t care what you think,” she snapped. “I’m familiar with the layout of the prison. I can make sure you get to where you want to go.”
Andersen’s lips went pinched, then relaxed. “Do you know how to use a firearm, Ms. Simo
ns?”
“Yes, I do.”
He tipped his head to one of the guards, who opened a drawer and passed another Glock to her. Marie flicked off the safety and checked the magazine, her actions making it seem like she did that sort of thing every damn day.
Pete wanted to protest further, wanted to insist one of the guards come with him instead, but he didn’t think it would be wise to leave Marie here with Andersen. She was dying to speak her mind, and Andersen didn’t have a problem bending the rules.
There were a lot of things that could go wrong. And Pete didn’t want any more blood on his hands.
Chapter 8
Pete tucked Andersen’s keys into a pocket then punched in the code the warden shouted out. Now that he knew some of the electronics would be working, it opened up his options. He threw open the door and checked the corridor. When he was sure it was safe, he stepped out of the control room. Marie put her hand on his back to let him know she was behind him.
He moved to the right, but Marie whispered, “Left. It’s left.”
Pete wanted to be irritated, but knew she was right. For a second, his tired mind had flipped the map over.
They began moving, taking care to be quiet, though this level didn’t have any cells and it was unlikely the prisoners could make it down there. Further, Pete thought that if any prisoners were coming their way, they’d be able to hear them well in advance. Unruly men very rarely moved silently. Especially if they were getting their first taste of freedom in some time.
Unfortunately, the auxiliary recreation room was up one floor. As was solitary. He should have thought to ask how many men were in solitary confinement so he’d have a better idea what they’d be up against. Or, Andersen should have volunteered the information. It was his prison, after all.
Then a new and chilling thought came to him. Anyone here could be working with Clyde, including Marie. He’d seen firsthand that the man had his contacts planted almost everywhere—from the team that hadn’t even been supposed to collect him to the prison he was being sent to.
And Marie was behind him, toting a Glock. Except she’d tranquilized Smith. If she was one of Clyde’s followers, would she have done that? Still, the skin between his shoulder blades tightened.
When they reached it, the stairwell was still pitch black.
“Seven, then seven,” Marie whispered.
He started counting steps, trying to contain the itching between his shoulders. If she was going to shoot him, there wasn’t a great deal he could do about it. No point getting himself all worked up. Not yet, at least.
When they’d made it up to the next level, it became clear something was going down on the other side of the stairwell door. There was shouting and the sound of fists meeting flesh.
“Let’s see if we can wait it out,” Pete said.
“I think we should get in there and try to talk to the prisoners,” Marie said. “They were very quick to take advantage of the outage. My guess is that the way they’ve been treated has them fired up and thinking about revenge. Maybe we can persuade them to cooperate, especially if I tell them that Andersen’s going to be brought to justice.”
Something thudded against the other side of the door and Pete flinched. He expected Marie to scream, but she only sucked in a breath.
“Are you insane?” he asked. “I am not stepping into the middle of a riot and trying to negotiate with the scum of the earth.”
“Your attitude is part of the problem,” Marie whispered.
“Excuse me?”
“‘Scum of the earth.’ ‘Animals.’ ‘Dirtbags.’ And so on. These are human beings. They have stories. Backgrounds that may explain their behavior.”
Pete stared at her incredulously, then said, “Regardless, I’m not waiting any longer. My men aren’t armed.”
“I’m ready.”
“Stay low, or better yet, stay here.” Pete pushed the handle down and eased the door open, knowing she wouldn’t.
Nothing happened, so he opened it a little further, hoping to give himself a better view. What he saw didn’t give him much hope. There was a guard on the floor. His head had been bashed in.
And Marie was leaning around him, staring at the body.
“His name was Charlie,” she said. “He was a nice guy. He wasn’t part of Andersen’s bullshit.”
Pete stepped into the corridor, trying to figure out how to get around the body. Before he could, someone yelled from his left. He whirled in that direction, raised the gun, and saw one of the prisoners racing toward him, the bowl of a metal sink raised above his head.
Pete shouted at him to stop, but the guy ignored him.
So Pete spread his feet, braced one hand against the other on the gun, and fired.
The shot hit the man in the chest, right where Pete had been aiming. There’s something about the way a man falls when he’s dead. The sound reminded him of the summer he’d worked in a meat-packing plant, when one of his coworkers had failed to secure a side of beef to the hook.
Marie made a strange noise, and Pete turned to investigate. A different prisoner had his arm wrapped around her throat.
“Give me the gun, bitch.”
Ignoring her attacker, Marie threw her Glock toward Pete, and then, with an angry roar, the man flung Marie at the wall. She stumbled, fighting the inevitable collision, but hit hard and dropped to her knees.
Pete took one step forward, stepped on Marie’s gun, and fired his own, hitting the prisoner in the head. Blood and brain and skull fragments sprayed across the hall, hitting the wall and the floor.
“Jesus.” Pete had known the Glock was powerful, but it was one thing to think about the idea of shooting a man in the head, and quite another to actually do it. He gagged.
Get it together, Marshall.
Marie looked at the gore and turned and puked on the floor. When she finished, she spat and wiped her mouth. Looking gray, she touched her forehead and winced. There was already a bruise forming, along with swelling that looked like a chicken egg was trying to rise out of her forehead but had only made it a third of the way before stopping.
“Are you okay?” Pete asked.
“I’ve never seen—” She waved her hand in the direction of the dead man.
“I’d have thought a nurse would have a stronger stomach.”
He’d meant it to be a joke, but she blanched and looked guilty.
In two quick steps, Pete was in front of her. He grabbed her shoulders and gave her a shake.
“What the fuck is with you? Something’s off. Are you one of Clyde’s followers?”
“God. Stop it. My head.”
“Answer my question or I’ll do worse.”
She stared at him. “Jesus. I believe you would.”
He saw her come to some sort of conclusion, her eyes clearing, her chin growing firmer, and her eyebrows lifting just a bit. It changed her entire face. She was still beautiful—but she was a whole lot harder now. No longer a nurse with shaking hands.
She was a professional.
“I’m not a nurse. I’m a journalist.”
Pete remembered the glitch in medical when she’d corrected herself and the fact that she seemed to know a whole lot more about solar storms and electromagnetic fields than she should. And now the pieces started to come crashing together.
Of course she knew about that sort of stuff. She’d probably researched it. Written stories on it. Done exposés.
He shook his head. “You’ve got big, steely balls, I’ll give you that much. You may also have a screw loose. Anything for a story.”
“Screw you,” she said. “I have atoning to do.”
“Whatever,” Pete said. “It’s not my problem. Let’s get going before we bump into any more of these guys.”
Because he was sure there would be more of them. Given Andersen’s proclivity toward prisoner abuse, it was unlikely he’d only had two men in solitary confinement.
They shot forward, around one corner and then another, Pete
no longer worrying about Marie’s loyalties. He’d known a couple journalists in his life, and if he knew anything, it was that they didn’t have any loyalty but to themselves. If she was in here, it wasn’t to help Clyde—or even Pete. It was to get a story. And to get that story, she’d need someone to help her stay alive. Right now, Pete was her best bet.
They arrived at the door that would take them where they needed to be, and there were shouts and curses and thumping coming from the other side, but from further away. Pete cracked the door only wide enough to see what was going on, holding tight to the handle in case he had to yank it closed and lock it again.
Well, that was where the rest of the solitary prisoners had wound up. They were split evenly, four to a door, trying to break into the auxiliary recreation room. So far, it looked like Pete’s men had managed to hold them at bay. But Pete wasn’t going to gamble on them holding out much longer.
“We’re going to have to make every shot count,” Pete said. “Stay cool. Take aim.”
“Not everyone in here is a total psycho,” Marie said. “My brother wasn’t.”
Again with the brother. Even dead, the guy was a pain in his ass. He was keeping Marie from looking at things logically—and might end up costing her her life if she wasn’t careful.
“What do you suggest?” Pete asked. “We walk in there waving a white flag saying, ‘Hey, you bunch of out-of-control convicts, can we chat, pretty please with sugar on it?’ The only advantage we have is surprise.”
“I am not charging in there, shooting first and asking questions later,” she said. “This isn’t the Wild West.”
Pete clenched his teeth to hold back all the things he wanted to say. “Fine. But follow my lead. If I start shooting, you’d better, too. I don’t care about the prisoners. I care about my men.”
“Fine.”
Pete eased the door open.
“Hey. Over there!” one of the prisoners shouted.
Pete shoved the door all the way open and stood with his feet shoulder-width apart and the Glock raised. “Everyone take it easy.”
“We just want out.” The speaker was a wiry, bald guy with inked sleeves on both arms. He looked only partially crazy. He also looked desperate. “Let us out, and we’ll let you live.”
Stone Cold Fear | Book 1 | Powerless Page 7
