Sullivan and Gabriel stepped up again, and this time, after a short delay, the lights flashed green. The sound of the door unlocking was more soothing to Kovalenko’s ears than the trickle of Southern Cross vodka into a frozen shot glass.
Something else he would be enjoying come evening.
Mordant stepped cautiously out into the corridor beyond, a steel-walled rat run with no doors, no windows and another security scanner at its far end. Hopefully by now the men downstairs were taking out the security cameras — they had been left with half a dozen rifles, not to mention tasers and other more makeshift weapons. Kovalenko thought it would be interesting to monitor the evolving situation below, to see who came out on top, who failed, who lived and died and who bled the most, but this time his own plans were far more appealing.
Maybe another time, another place.
Sullivan stepped up and shot out the caged CCTV camera. Kovalenko mused on the fact that the success of this mission would be subject to more than one fortunate situation, but it was the only chance he would get, and he had made sure all the best players were on his side. Mordant beckoned Sullivan and Gabriel forward again, skull shining under the bright lights. The dome-shaped head looked unnatural, adding to the man’s ferocious appearance. If any man could be said to be born with one foot already in the Devil’s door, Mordant the albino was that unfortunate man.
The door clicked open and Mordant pushed his way through. The chaotic scene beyond provided a soothing balm for the Blood King’s aggravated mind. Through a set of thick iron bars lay a large open-plan office. Cluttered desks and partly concealed cubicles took up the floor space. To a man, the prisoners fanned out and stared at the long row of windows beyond, seeing daylight for the first time in a long while. A hubbub of cursing, shouting and harsh exclamations imbued into the office a desperate atmosphere. Most of the assembled guards and administrators were assembled in front of the expanse of windows, staring out and shaking their heads. Others were shouting into a phone, gazing at their colleagues as if they might see through them to the tumult beyond. Even from where he stood, Kovalenko could hear the gunfire and see the rising smoke outside the window. Many of the phones rang incessantly, ignored. Gabriel and Sullivan opened the inner door in less time than it took for Mordant to say the words, and it was only then that one of the men saw the escaping prisoners.
His shouts were lost in the bedlam. The only time his fellow colleagues noticed was when his blood sprayed across the windows, soon followed by their own. The glass shattered instantly, showering down to the ground as an encouraging message to the attackers, and a howl of desert wind whipped into the room. Some of the men did manage to get shots off, but their efforts were in vain as both Mordant and Gabriel skipped through the carnage of bodies, desks and chairs to scoop up discarded guns. Both men fell to one knee and took out the last of the guards, a dead-center head shot at a time.
Kovalenko strode toward the bank of windows. Below, he saw a small parking lot bordered by a high fence. The fence would be high-security, but the problem with presenting a secret facility to the world was that it couldn’t appear to be heavily guarded. At least on the outside.
Its designers had trusted in the abilities and morals of the men who worked there. But it only took one rotten apple to spoil the barrel.
Part of the fence was leaning inward, the result of a rogue unmanned vehicle with a plank of wood jammed against its accelerator pedal. Two helicopters were waiting outside the prison, painted with the logo and colors of a local Grand Canyon tour operator. Fire splashed up against the high fence time and again as homemade bombs were lobbed at it. Gunfire rattled off the uprights and smashed into the cars standing in the parking lot. Many of the guards must have been staring, bemused, wondering just what the hell the attackers were trying to achieve, maybe even hoping to re-educate their misbegotten asses at length in the near future, when Kovalenko and his men bust out.
Never dreaming it was a mere distraction. ‘Smoke and mirrors’, as Gabriel had said.
Now they lay in pools of blood, dead.
Mordant headed unerringly toward the facilities entrance, no doubt following a blueprint he had committed to memory. They weren’t out of here yet. Gabriel turned as one of their fellow prisoners rifled the guards’ lifeless bodies.
“What de fook you doing, man?”
“Cell phones. Cash. Jewelry. We’re gonna need it on the outside. Maybe we should take their clothes, too.”
Gabriel stepped up to him. “Fookin white ape. Dey jus’ trace you with dat shit. Follow me twin brother o’er dere. He get y’out.”
Mordant grinned back at him. The two men — known inside as The Twins — were equally as good or as bad as each other, matched in every way, never defeated or even close to being challenged, the worst of the worst made doubly strong by their union.
“No dawdling now,” the albino said. “Their response time ain’t too shabby. No army bases around, but both Nellis and Fallon are close. Unless they send a team from Area 51.” He grinned.
“Look out. Dey hav’ dem fooking ray guns.” Gabriel shot back.
“Who would respond to a prison break?” Kovalenko was confident Mordant knew his business.
“Locals. Feds. Whoever’s available. SWAT, most likely. But this is one of the notorious US black sites. The confusion and official ass-covering might add hours to their response time.”
“Black sites?”
“An unacknowledged project. Secret prisons, that kind of thing. The mid-US has several.”
Mordant studied the doors, which had been locked from the inside the moment the assault began. To his right stood a sturdy functional desk bearing a computer screen. With a single bound he cleared the desk and found the hidden keypad that controlled the doors. He glared at Sullivan.
“Code.”
“One, one, nine, four, one. But it could be on lockdown protocol.”
“Ya tink?” Gabriel pushed him aside and aimed a rifle at the locking mechanism. “Try it, bro.”
Mordant input the code. Machinery clicked, but nothing happened. The albino rose to his feet. “Override time.”
Gabriel opened fire, destroying the lock instantly. Both doors sagged outward, held up only by broken hinges. The African pushed the twisted frames and held them open, motioning Kovalenko forward.
“You are free.”
The Blood King stared up and sighed as sunlight struck his face for the first time in months. It was good to be free. Not since the latter days of his childhood had he felt so constrained, so in need of breaking out and making a statement. It had worked back then — the young Dmitry Kovalenko had seized the day and piled victory upon victory, eventually becoming the world’s most notorious criminal — but he had not killed a man in over twelve weeks. Around the world, his reputation would already be weakening.
So the statement should be big. And for a man born in blood, there could be none bigger than the one he was planning.
The escapees strolled out of the prison entrance and into the parking lot. Mordant spied one of the prison guards hiding in the back of his car and laughed. “Looks like someone was late for work.”
Gabriel brayed. “De chance for some sport.”
“We have no time,” Mordant said reluctantly. “Hey, Sullivan.” He turned to their pet guard. “Go light your friend up, and make sure he knows we’ve left his prison in the hands of the inmates.” His white face showed no expression. “No comms. Just anarchy. I almost wish I was there to play king of the hill.”
They strode toward the waiting choppers, hearing nothing above the constant clatter of the rotor blades. Kovalenko scanned the skies but saw only the bright desert glare. “Today,” he said. “Is a good day. The start of something special.”