The Widow's Strike (8 page)

J
ennifer fought to
control her
emotions. No sooner had the adrenaline subsided from the clone mission than she felt it begin to build back up as they drew closer and closer to Piggy’s house, each passing mile reverberating in her like the clank of a roller coaster heading inexorably to the top of the hill.

Driving down a tidy lane with space for only one vehicle, she counted the houses, knowing his was the tenth one from the intersection. Too soon, it was upon them. When Piggy turned off the car, she clicked the timing feature of her watch, seeing it begin to count down from thirty minutes, each second seemingly longer than the last.

Piggy gave his lizardlike smile and said, “Shall we?”

She simply nodded and opened her door.

Inside, the house was surprisingly clean, with teak furniture and a large flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a faint fragrance of citrus in the air. Piggy went into the kitchen, bringing back two bottles of Singha beer.

Jennifer waved him off, saying, “Really, I just want to discuss how I can help my friend. Can we do that?”

Going to the couch in front of the television, he said, “Certainly.”

She sat on a teak chair across from him, dropping her purse next to it. He said, “No, no. Sit here. Next to me.”

She felt clammy. Nauseous. She didn’t think she had the strength to do this. She focused on Knuckles, remembering why she was here. Remembering Decoy outside, just a press of the button on her phone from breaking down the door. And hesitantly moved to the couch.

As soon as she sat down, he scooted next to her and began rubbing her thigh, causing every muscle in her body to become rigid.

She said, “Stop it. You said we’d talk first.”

He leaned over her, and she could smell the spice on his breath. “Talk later. Payment up front.”

Enough.

She pushed him away and jumped to her feet, glancing at her watch. With dismay, she saw only ten minutes had elapsed. She began to tremble.

Piggy stood up, now clearly angry. “Don’t pretend you have no idea why you’re here. Pay up or instead of helping your friend, I’ll have him hurt.”

She saw her purse across the room. She needed to stall. To get to it.
How? What will he believe?
She sagged her shoulders and said, “Okay, okay, but let me get something out of my purse. A condom.”

She moved to it, hearing, “No condom. I’m not sick.”

She picked it up and reached inside, feeling the heft of the Mark III. She said, “Yes. You
must
wear a condom. I’ve heard of all the diseases here.”

She turned around to find him right on top of her, grabbing for her purse and shouting, “No condom!”

She jerked the purse out of his hands, and he swung a wild right cross at her head.

* * *

Marching up to
the entry control point in what I hoped was a prissy, State Department way, I presented my black passport and said, “I’m here to witness the transfer of American prisoner alpha twelve twenty-eight.”

The guard said something in Thai too fast for me to catch, and I turned to Nung, letting him take over. They bantered for a little bit, most of which I missed, but it was something about an odd time of day, or not the usual time, or some other bullshit.

Eventually, Nung got him to at least check his computer, and I felt the pucker factor get very, very tight. If the Taskforce failed on this one, I was headed out the door and flying straight home to punch some hacker in the mouth.

After I had finished up my meeting with Izzy, I’d figured I had about an 80 percent solution, so I’d called Kurt, laying it all out. He was on his way to an Oversight Council meeting, which were never good, and had very little time to talk. He’d given me permission to coordinate with the hacking cell and “explore options,” but he’d told me in no uncertain terms that all I was to do was develop the situation. No execution. Which is why I’d ignored the last two blocked calls that had come in. I didn’t want to hear about some Oversight Council hand-wringing. If Kurt could have seen how Knuckles was deteriorating, he’d have executed the mission himself.

Using the cyber-penetration of the police bureau from the Ministry of Education—the very reason Knuckles was in prison to begin with—the hacking cell had been able to duplicate a prison release form and inject it into the official system. Well, at least that’s what they’d said. Now I would find out if it was true.

The man hunted for a bit, then turned back around, shaking his head. This time I caught every word. “No such request in the system.”

Damn it. Useless fifty-pound heads.

I said, “Check again please. Maybe it went into the wrong inbox.”

“There is no inbox. It’s a special system.”

I raised my voice. “Check it again. Now. I’m not leaving without him.”

Inside, I was getting ready to do just that.

He banged on the keys a few more times, searching various pages, then paused. He leaned into the screen, and I began to have hope.

He turned around, his face suspicious. “I’ve found it, but it’s on an outdated form. It went straight to the archives as something old. Why isn’t it on the correct form?”

* * *

Jennifer had no
conscious thought, her body moving instantly, like a cat dodging the lumbering strike of a Saint Bernard. Holding the purse, she collapsed her right arm against her head and blocked Piggy’s wild punch with her left, ducking under the arm and getting behind him. She snaked a hand back inside the bag and closed it on the butt of the pistol, seeing Piggy whirl around, his face contorted in rage, his fists balled at his sides, embarrassed that he hadn’t landed the swing. Not realizing that it wasn’t blind luck.

“I say no condom, I mean no condom!”

Her mind flashed to Lucas Kane. She felt his attack against her, the cord cutting into her wrists as she fought to escape. The stench of his body.

Standing just outside of her reach was another man with the same predilections. Wanting the same thing from her. Willing to take it by force. The thought struck a primeval fear, the terror as strong as a person trapped in a room on fire. She began to pant, the panic rising.
Get out. Get out now. Before he gets his hands on you . . .

And then she felt the rage.

Piggy shouted something unintelligible in Thai.

She said nothing, letting the blackness grow.

Piggy switched to English. “Drop the purse!”

She let go of the pistol and did as he asked.

Piggy smirked. “Yes, that’s right. If you want the help, you have to pay for it. This doesn’t have to be hard.”

She caught a trace of her fear-soaked sweat rising from the gap in her shirt, wondering if Piggy could also sense the destruction about to come. She raised her hands in a fighting stance and looked him in the eye.

Confused, Piggy said, “What are you doing? You want to go to prison with your friend?”

She savored the anger flowing through her, a river of violence splashing inside of her looking for a way out. Drawing strength from it, she smiled and said, “Bring it on, you little toad.”

He gave a guttural scream and charged, swinging both arms in a windmill of ineffective blows. She ducked under and out, grabbing his wrist as he went by and locking up his elbow. Using it like a pry bar, she levered him facedown onto the floor.

He screamed again, threatening her with all manner of vile things.

She said, “Turn your head. Look at me.”

He rolled until he could see her, his left ear still on the floor.

She said, “I wanted you to watch this.” And lashed out with her foot, catching his elbow against the joint and shattering it, like she was breaking a stick for firewood.

This time the wail was short, as he passed out from the pain. The front door exploded inward, and she whirled against the new threat, seeing Decoy coming through instead.

He took in the scene and said, “Jesus Christ! Why didn’t you alert me?”

She said, “No need. He was no threat.”

Decoy stared at her for a moment, then picked up her purse and handed it to her.

“Told you that you were good at this shit.”

T
he Thai corrections
officer repeated
the question. “Why is the prisoner release request on a form from two years ago?”

Outwardly, I showed nothing, but my mind was ricocheting around like a bullet, trying to find an answer that would preclude a phone call. Which, if what I was doing was for real, would have been exactly what I would want.
“I have no idea. Why don’t you call the assholes that made it and let’s get this cleared up?”

The officer muttered something in Thai. I didn’t catch it all, but it sounded like bitching about idiots at headquarters, and I felt an edge. Nung heard it too and walked right into the role, surprising me again.

“Don’t complain about the bureau headquarters. You people out here always give us trouble. What difference does the form make? I’ve just driven for hours and it’s still an official request.”

“Trouble? You idiots transfer prisoners every single day, and you can’t ever get it right.
You
set the protocol and then never follow it.”

Nung acted like he was biting back a response, then said, “Just get the prisoner. I’ll talk with the people who made the mistake.”

The one thing we had going for us was that the form was in
his
official system. It wasn’t like we’d brought it with us, some forged piece of paper he could question, and that seemed to turn the tide. That, and the fact that a prisoner breakout this elaborate was outside the scope of his imagination. He printed out the requisition, then pressed a button, getting us through gate one.

“Follow me to control block four. But this prisoner is special and will need local release, regardless of your official requisition.”

Piggy
.

I acted like he’d just given me a birthday present, smiling and moving into the prison. We went through the visitation area and entered the cell blocks proper, the stench hitting me immediately. A cloying odor of unwashed bodies and fetid water, it caught in the back of my throat like sour milk.

The prison was a two-story U-shaped building with a courtyard in the middle. The open end of the U held a single building not connected to the other cell blocks and was the newly constructed maximum-security facility holding Knuckles. We had to pass through the courtyard to get to it, and had to get permission to even do that—our next hurdle.

We reached control block four, which was nothing more than a cage housing a corrections officer who controlled the doorway access to the cells in this block, as well as the courtyard. The first officer told the man in the cage why we were there, handed him the release form, then turned and walked away. The man took one look at the name and brought out his cell phone, saying, “I’m sorry, but I have to get permission from the maximum-security area prior to letting you enter the courtyard.”

I glanced at Nung, and he slid his hand into his pocket, turning on the cell jammer. I’d given it to him on the off chance they’d make me wait at the front entrance, only letting him proceed forward as an “official” prison representative. The jail was supposed to routinely leverage the encrypted Wi-Fi system for VOIP phone calls through the Symbol PDAs, but on our reconnaissance, we had found they didn’t really use it, preferring to simply dial a cell number. I needed to force this guy onto the backup of the VOIP.

The guard turned away, the phone to his ear. He stood with his back to us for a few seconds, then pulled the phone away and stared at the screen. He muttered something, then opened a cabinet and pulled out a duplicate of the PDA Piggy carried.

Here we go.

I dearly wanted to call Retro using my covert radio, but camouflaging it with my cell phone would be a little weird, given that nobody else’s cell phone seemed to be working for some strange reason, and I couldn’t very well wander around simply talking to the air.

I glanced at Nung and found him as impassive as ever. Even a little bored. Either he was a cold-blooded bastard, or he didn’t have the intelligence to realize the risks involved.

The guard was now talking into the PDA, speaking in a whisper and glancing at us. I saw his eyes widen, and he hung up. He punched a button and said, “Follow the yellow line until you reach the next control, directly across the courtyard. The man who will release your prisoner will meet you there.”

Perfect. On to gate three.

We exited into the courtyard, the sun blinding but the heat mild compared to the humid air of Bangkok. Following the yellow ribbon of paint, I saw the segregation cells of the maximum-security facility. Brand-new, with the paint still fresh, it looked like a benign hospital wing.

We marched up like we owned the place, playing the shell game again, with Piggy now “not here” but “understanding” our importance, with us saying we’d talked to him at control four and he’d open the door for us once we checked in. I prayed the new guard didn’t call control four, because the switcheroo was getting ridiculous.

Two minutes of tension—or, in Nung’s world, two minutes of absolute boredom—as we went through the cell-denial/PDA dance again. Within minutes, Knuckles was brought to us, looking forty years older, with scabs dotting his body like a leper. The only indication he wasn’t an AIDS victim was the look in his eyes. They were bright blue and dancing. He rolled right into the charade, acting like he’d been waiting for the State guys since day one.

We began following the yellow line back out, with me actually having to help Knuckles walk, the shackles on his legs scraping the concrete.

Embarrassed, he said, “Sorry, man. Other than seeing you I’ve been crammed in that hole the entire time.”

I patted his back, saying, “Cut the apologizes, you pussy. Give it to the Taskforce when I tell them how I had to carry you out of here.”

He grinned and said, “Glad the Taskforce lives up to what they say.”

The smile was grotesque, his missing teeth making him look like a meth addict, and I felt a spike of anger at how he’d been treated. Along with the Oversight Council’s bullshit tap dance on his fate.

We entered the courtyard and shuffled as fast as Knuckles could manage, given his chains and health. As we walked on the little yellow ribbon the Thai prisoners in the courtyard only gave us a courtesy look, and I was beginning to pat myself on the back for my incredible knack for operations when Knuckles brought me back to reality.

“Pike, that crew to the left works for Piggy. They’re the ones I fought. They’re looking hard at us for a reason.”

I kept walking and saw four prisoners break from the group and start keeping pace with us. The gate to the main prison building was still seventy meters away.

“What’s their story?” I said. “Do we need to worry?”

“Oh yeah. That old guy with the tats is the leader. He’s working with Piggy. He’ll know this is bullshit without Piggy being here. Best case, he wants a last shot at me. He won’t give a shit about a fight. He’s had people beating my ass every night, and he’s going to want a final beat-down.”

The group of four changed direction and began moving toward us.

I said, “Keep cool. I’m a State Department guy. A US official. They won’t do anything here.”

Knuckles said, “You think they know that because you’re wearing a suit? They’ve probably never even heard of the State Department. Either way, they don’t give a rat’s ass. I killed their boy, and they’re in prison. All that asshole wants is a final shot. You can’t hurt him.”

I kept walking, seeing the gate getting closer.

“What about the guards? What will they do?”

“Nothing until the fight is over. Happens all the time. Pike, you’ve got to hammer them quick. Trust me, I know. You want some help from the guards, you have to show some strength.”

I watched them advance, running through the options and finding nothing but land mines.

“Damn it, we can’t do this. You don’t know what it took to get in here. If we raise a stink, we’re done.”

Chains clanking, shuffling forward like something out of a Tolkien novel, he stated the obvious.

“The stink’s already here. Get ready to fight.”