I take a slow, deep breath to compose myself. I quickly step out and drop to one knee, raising my gun up to aim at the guy. He doesn’t even have time to register surprise or shock — he just looks at me impassively for a brief second before I squeeze the trigger twice. A double-tap — one in the chest, one in the head, in quick succession. He crumples to the floor, lifeless. The dirt around him turns dark from the flow of blood from his wounds. I walk over to him, twisting my foot on his cigarette as I pass.
“Those things’ll kill you,” I say to him, shaking my head disapprovingly. To Josh, I say, “One down.”
“Seven to go,” he replies.
24
I quickly search the body. He’s got a radio, which I slide into an empty compartment in my harness, and plenty of spare magazines for his gun, but I don’t need his weapon, so won’t need his bullets either.
“Right, where am I going? I ask Josh.
“Head straight up the West Road,” he replies. “When you get to the main prison building, you’re gonna need to head inside and cut through, which will bring you out on the East Road. You’ll see the water tower on your left as you do. The Quartermaster’s building is just beyond that. I can see three heat signatures in there. My money’s on one of them being Pellaggio.’
“Any other movement I should worry about? Where are the other three?”
“Nothing of any consequence. You should have a clear run into the prison at least — the rest of them are milling around near on the East Road at the moment. Looks like a loose patrol.”
I set off along the West Road in a small jog. I look to my left and see the outline of Angel Island State Park illuminated by the pale orange glow of the sun as it begins its descent for the night. It’s a beautiful evening — a little breezy, but that’s understandable, considering I’m surrounded completely by water. It should be a nice evening, which will likely see fireworks on board the S.S. Jeremiah O’Brien.
Hopefully not the bad kind.
I make good time and come up on the main prison within ten minutes. The building is old and the brickwork has fallen away in places over time. Steel railings are block the entrance — presumably for the purposes of the tours that they operate on the island. There’s one door on the sidewall that looks like a service entrance of some kind. It’s metal, dark gray in color but rusted over the years, with thick bolts studding along the edges.
“I’m here,” I say into my earpiece. “Is this the only way in?”
“Seems to be,” replies Josh. “I’m checking the schematics now — that door should bring you into a small corridor that leads into the main prison holding area.”
“Okay. Anyone nearby?”
“No sign of life behind that door,” he confirms. “Everyone is still where they were a few minutes ago.”
“Great. I’m moving in.”
With my Beretta in hand, I try the handle slowly. The door is unlocked, which I expected — I figured this was the way the guy I’ve just killed had come. I open the door an inch and look up and down the gap, checking for wires, just in case it’s been booby-trapped. Ahead, I can see a short, narrow, open-ended maintenance corridor that seems to lead into the main prison area. Mold stains cover the walls, and the old cement floor is mottled with damp patches.
“Looks clear,” I whisper. “I’m heading inside.”
“Copy that,” acknowledges Josh. “Still looks good.”
I push the door open and take a step inside.
Click.
Oh, shit…
I spin around and see a small, black, circular device attached to the wall behind the door, which I immediately recognize as a trip mine. A small laser that fires out from the top of it. If that beam is broken, it triggers the explosive on a slight delay.
The door just broke it…
I react on instinct, knowing I have literally three seconds before it explodes. I lunge forward, urging my legs to sprint as fast as they can into the main prison. Unfortunately, my body is moving faster than my legs seem to want to, and all I end up doing is lunging forward through the corridor and out into the prison.
In mid-air, I hear the explosion go off behind me. The roar of the flames is deafening, and the heat is intense. As I land, I cover my head with my arms, looking underneath me as best I can. The blast has ripped the metal door from its hinges, and it’s flying toward me, propelled by the explosion.
I scramble to my feet and try to dive away to the right, but I’m too slow. The door lands on me, smashing against my back and the back of my head. The force of the impact sends me flying forward and skidding across the floor.
I roll over on my back and lie still for a moment, assessing the damage. I feel like an eighteen-wheeler as ran me over. I have a pulsating ache across my back and my ears are ringing. My headache is beyond words but other than that, it seems like I’m in one piece — which is a goddamn miracle.
I prop myself up on my elbows and look around. My vision’s a little hazy, but there’s not much to make out anyway. I roll over and push myself up on all fours. My hands are resting in shallow puddles and the ground is uneven and muddy around me. The area I’m in looks small — maybe thirty square feet, max. There are large double doors to the left and right, with holding cells lining the wall in front of me, facing the corridor I just got blown out of. I try to stand, moving my left leg forward to take my weight, but I barely get my knees off the floor before I topple over, landing awkwardly on my right shoulder.
I groan and blink hard, trying to focus. I’m in so much pain; anything new doesn’t even register anymore. I tap the earpiece absently with my right hand.
“Josh, you there?” I manage to say.
I get no response and when I tap it again, I get feedback in my ear. Great… I guess I’m on my own. I take it out and throw it across the floor. I struggle to get on all fours again. I’m facing the corridor now, and I look to my right at the doors across the room and they’re open.
Wonderful… what now?
I’m sense that I’m not alone. I squint to focus, dealing with the onset of a concussion and the dim interior lighting that aren’t helping clear the haze. Three men rush toward me, all armed and approaching in a loose, wide arc. All three of them are dressed in nondescript black denim and combat boots, with black t-shirts on. They look military, so they must be with Pellaggio and not left over from Manhattan’s reign in charge of things. They’ve got me covered from every angle.
I push myself up further, so I’m kneeling back, resting against my heels. I’m breathing heavy, grimacing from the pain that’s shooting around my body after each breath. I hold my hands out to the sides with exhausted resignation.
“I don’t suppose… you boys wanna surrender now, do you?” I ask. “To save us all some time and effort later?”
The guy on my right steps toward me while the other two hang back. Without a word, he slams the butt of his rifle into the side of my head — hard enough to make me dizzy, but restrained enough to keep me conscious. My concussion doubles in severity almost instantly and I fall forward to the floor again, fighting the urge to vomit.
I push myself back up on all fours and shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs and stay conscious. I spit out a little blood to the side of me and look up at each of them in turn.
“Huh… guess not.”
The one in the middle steps forward now. “Mr. Pellaggio has been expecting you,” he says.
“Well, I hope he’s got a cold beer waiting for me,” I say as I struggle to get myself up on one knee.