the Second Horseman (2006) (3 page)

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The fact that the intermittent crack and hiss of gunfire had been replaced by the dull wail of an alarm was probably a positive development, but at this point "positive" was a fairly relative term.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 himself 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 increasingl
y c
old, 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 i
t a
bout 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 doin
g t
his to me? I --"

"Shut up! There are twelve men with dogs and guns coming across that clearing righ
t n
ow. 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 tha
t t
he 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.

He stepped close to the trunk of the tree, getting out of the rain as much as possible and stripped. After drying himself off as best he could, he put on the clothes, finding they fit perfectly, and reveled for a moment in the sensation of spreading warmth.

There was also a small backpack in the duffle containing a water bladder with a hose to allow him to drink on the run, a few energy bars, and night vision goggle
s t
hat he was familiar with from a job he'd done a few years back.

He slung the pack on and stood, noticing for the first time a Polaroid photograph hanging next to the glow stick in the tree. It was a shot of the equipment he'd just put on, neatly laid out on the ground, but with one addition: a rather serious-looking hunting rifle.

He powered up the goggles and looked around, but couldn't find the rifle. Most likely because it wasn't there. Whoever had set this up wasn't stupid. The men from the prison would track him here and be drawn to the photo by the glow stick. Nothing slowed down a thirty-grand-a-year prison guard like the thought that the guy he was chasing might be sighting him in from a hundred yards away. No real point in actually providing the rifle, though. If this thing came down to shooting, it was over.

The phone began vibrating again and he reached down and picked it up.

"Are you ready?"

A few seconds ticked by before Brandon answered. "Yeah."

Chapter
FOUR

"You wanted to see me, Richard?"

Catherine Juarez stood in the middle of the office, hands clasped behind her back and foot tapping casually on the carpet. When she was a child he'd paid more attention: to the way she'd grown, to the dramatic changes in appearance that inevitably accompanied changes in fashion, and to what people more knowledgeable than him called phases. Now that she was a woman, though, it occurred to him that he didn't ever really look at her anymore.