John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

He closed his eyes and tried to summon the image of the serene lake where the long-ago shrink had taught him to seek refuge when the attacks came. If he could get to the lake before the wave broke, the whole incident could pass. If it didn’t, then he guessed he’d see another blackout. He’d go wherever his mind would take him, and when it was over, he’d have to assess the damage he’d done.

Come on, he begged himself. Let me win. To lose was to wipe four successful years completely off the books. Please, God, don’t let that happen.

He saw it. On the movie screen behind his eyes, he saw the mirror-smooth surface of the water reflecting the flawless blue sky and the green pines. He saw himself as a little boy sitting on the edge of the dock casting for bass, his bare feet swinging, his toes cutting V — shaped wakes in the still water.

The image was born of hypnosis, and when it arrived, it always felt real. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his neck, feel the chill of the water on his toes. Those sensations were every bit as real as the slowing heart rate and the regulated breathing. He’d broken the wave before it could break him. He’d won, and he was proud for it.

“Are you okay?”

It was Jeremy. He’d climbed off his chair and taken a position on his haunches in front of Harvey. The touch of the kid’s hand on his shoulder brought him back from the lake.

“Are you okay?” Jeremy asked again.

Harvey inhaled deeply through his nose and blew it out as a silent whistle. It steadied him. The panic was gone.

“You and I have some serious thinking to do, young man,” he said.

“I’m setting up a breaching charge,” said Boxers’ voice in Jonathan’s ear.

The framed explosives that the big guy had brought along would make easy work of the security doors, but not without leaving an unholy mess. Jonathan wanted to say no, but things were looking grim. “Fine,” he said. “But don’t blow anything until I give the command.” They were here to free one prisoner, not a whole jail.

“What the hell is going on?” Jimmy Henry demanded. He looked terrified, fully ready to join the other side. “And who do you keep talking to?”

Jonathan ignored him. “Mother Hen, speak to me,” he said.

“It’s bad,” Venice said. He could hear the computer keys clacking in the background. “They figured out what we’re doing, and they’re trying to stop us. So far, they’re as locked in as you are, but that won’t last long. Once you’re out, you’re going to have to move fast.”

As if I were planning to dawdle, he didn’t say.

The lock buzzed, and Jonathan pushed Jimmy Henry ahead of him through the open door into the hallway. He pushed him to the left, toward the fire door, but as he glanced behind him, he saw a living mural of faces pressed against the reinforced glass of the central security station. He knew none of them, but there was no mistaking their desire to kill him.

Jonathan tried to move his precious cargo faster, but the shackles limited the kid to baby steps. They were five feet from the fire door when the security station door slammed open down the hall behind him and released a tidal wave of five pissed-off guards.

“You!” one of them shouted. “Stop!”

“They’re coming!” Jimmy shouted.

“I see that,” Jonathan growled. “Mother?”

“I’ve got it,” she said, and the fire-door lock buzzed.

“Don’t be stupid!” a guard yelled.

Jonathan threw open the door and hurled Jimmy Henry through the opening with enough force to send him sprawling on the linoleum. He slipped through, and pressed himself against the door till he heard the lock slide home, a heartbeat before the wave of guards slammed into it from the other side.

“Too close,” Jonathan said. But in the instant he dedicated to making eye contact with them, he noticed with great relief that none of them were armed with guns. He wasn’t surprised, given all the things that could go wrong by having a firearm in the presence of hardened criminals, but he was definitely relieved.

Now they were one-third of the way to freedom, trapped in a box in the middle of the cell block. All around them, inmates who’d been awakened by the commotion pressed against the rectangular windows in their cell doors, screaming profanity or words of encouragement. Just as Deputy George had predicted, the residents of the Basin Jail did not appreciate being awakened out of a sound sleep.

That’s why you have locks on the doors.

His own smartass comment returned to his mind without warning. “Holy shit,” he said. “Hey Mother, I have an idea.”

“Not now,” she snapped. Again, he heard the furious tapping of computer keys in the background.

“Unlock the doors,” he said. “All of them. Cell doors, too. It’ll give the guards more to do.”

He correctly interpreted the silence he got in return as her appalled response.

“They won’t all rush out together, but we only need one or two. Once the guards have someone else to occupy them, we’ll get a break.” Ahead of him, Jimmy Henry had already waddled to the next fire door.

“But I can’t-”

“Do it, goddammit.” He missed the days when people didn’t question his orders.

Granville sensed that he was winning. Whoever was on the other side of his computer system knew it, too. Why else did they keep locking all the doors simultaneously instead of opening the doors for their coconspirators? He’d just finished the last digit to open Fire Door C in the middle of A-Wing, and as he hit ENTER…

The annunciator for every friggin’ door in the jail went green.

The locks all buzzed at once just as Jonathan arrived at the second fire door. It opened easily, as did the one containing the guards, and for a moment Jonathan thought he’d miscalculated. As the plug of guards raced down the hall toward him, the inmates all remained behind their closed door.

“Y’all are free, goddammit!” he yelled.

The lead guard-a man only slightly smaller than Boxers, and mad as hell-was only ten feet away from Jonathan when the first cell door flew open and a mostly naked behemoth with long hair and complete sleeves of biker tats charged into the hallway.

If the guard saw him, he made no indication. He wanted Jonathan and Jimmy Henry. From the flame in his eyes, it was a safe bet that he wanted them dead, in fact. Jonathan squared away and braced himself for the fight that was on its way. If killing were an option, it would have been easy, but that was off the table, which meant that it would have to be about pain tolerance.

The guard had committed himself to a high-velocity takedown that would have torn Jonathan in half, but you could tell by his eyes that he wanted to take him out at the chest. At the last instant, Jonathan ducked at the waist and charged forward two steps to body block the big man and send him sprawling to the floor.

It was all the time Jonathan needed to dart through the fire door and swing it shut behind him. “Lock it!” he yelled. “Lock it, lock it!”

He heard the bolt slip closed, and then it buzzed again.

“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped at Venice.

“It’s not me,” she said. “They were anticipating. Hold it closed.”

Jonathan threw his shoulder into the door and braced his legs against the slick linoleum. On the other side, he heard the riot blossoming, but that didn’t stop somebody from launching an enormous blow against the door. It parted a couple of inches from the jamb, but it wasn’t enough to launch the door open all the way. If there was one more like that, or the guy on the other side got some help, this exercise was over.

A shadow approached from behind, and before Jonathan could react, two black hands planted themselves on either side of Jonathan’s hands, and he felt heavy breath on his neck. “Gotta press harder,” a voice said. “Otherwise, they’ll get through.”