MacNally joined his partner by the window, ready to pass him their kits once they broke through to the outside.
But a loud clang that sounded like it emanated from the basement made both of them stop and turn in its direction.
“Go!” MacNally said, knowing they were now committed. They were in the southernmost portion of the room, and the tank provided reasonable cover should the guard unexpectedly appear. If the hack ventured too close, they would have to deal with him: splitting up and rushing him from different directions would prevent the unarmed man from subduing them.
“Fucking thing isn’t giving!” Shoemacher said through clenched teeth as he pried against the bars with the wrench.
MacNally came up beside him and grabbed his partner’s hands and pulled, tensing his muscles and leaning into it with his entire body weight. The metal fatigued-the severed joint gave way-and two crossbars popped free.
But the wrench slipped and struck the window casement with a clunk.
They looked at one another, wide-eyed. Had anyone heard that?
MacNally couldn’t worry about it-he grabbed the wrench and leveraged it against the other two joints, and a second later had broken those free as well. They pulled open the window and then slammed the palms of their hands against the flat bars. Shoemacher had been able to do a more thorough job on these, and they surrendered more easily.
Shoemacher squeezed through the opening and reached down toward the wide sill on the outside of the cellhouse, but missed it and fell to the sidewalk below. He shook his head and rose slowly with a grimace and a bloody scrape on his forehead, but reached up and received their kits, which MacNally was pushing through the window.
MacNally then mimicked Shoemacher’s movements, but learned from his accomplice’s tumble and successfully righted himself before jumping to the ground seconds later.
With his back against the building, MacNally saw the Bay fading in the descending darkness. The carefree squeals of gulls emanated from somewhere down the hillside ahead of him, on the other side of a tall chain-link fence.
They could go right-away from their launch point-or left, alongside the building, headed toward it. There were advantages to both routes, but moving closer to their intended goal made more sense than taking a more circuitous course. The longer they remained on the island, the greater the odds their absence would be noticed and the officer corps would be mobilized.
They crouched down-passing other kitchen basement windows-and scampered along the building in the direction of the towering water tank that loomed a hundred yards ahead.
They reached the end of the cellhouse and stopped. Listened. Hearing nothing, MacNally peered around the edge. Directly to their left rose a staircase that led up to the hospital wing. They moved past it and stepped up to the sixteen-foot barbed-wire-topped cyclone fence.
MacNally slung his kit across his left shoulder, then began climbing. When he had reached the top, he tossed the sack across the spurred surface, then laid his body over it and pivoted to the other side.
Shoemacher followed, pulling their barbed-wire shield off the fence top and tossing it down to MacNally before beginning his descent. This time, his landing was more graceful than his clumsy exit from the kitchen’s basement window.
They ran down a short flight of cement steps, then turned right-and saw a much longer staircase-that was bisected partway down by a tall chain-link gate, topped by yet another row of barbed-wire. MacNally stopped and looked up. “C’mon, we’re going back. Over that wall-”
“Back?”
“Up. Faster and easier than trying to get over that gate.” He led Shoemacher back to a spot thirty feet from where they had traversed the sixteen-foot fence. In front of them stood a short, decorative cement wall. “Get the electrical cord.”
Shoemacher rooted through the sack and pulled out the knotted wire. MacNally tied it around an opening in the concrete barrier, then tossed the long end over the side. “Follow me.” He climbed over the edge and went hand-over-hand till he reached the stairs, on the other side of the chain-link gate, approximately twenty feet below. He waited for Shoemacher to reach his side, then headed down the steps.
He did not want to leave the electrical cord behind, if nothing else because it would provide an important clue as to which direction they were headed. But it couldn’t be helped.
They ran past the old Army morgue building, then two large fuel tanks. Above and over their left shoulder was the border of the recreation yard.
MacNally led the way forward, beneath the massive, iron-footed water tower, then down a short set of stairs to a long, sloping, narrow sidewalk. In the near darkness, they had to be careful not to go off the edge-to their right was a sharply inclined hillside, which abutted the main road that either led down to the dock, or up toward the south end of the Industries building.
Running faster than was advisable down the steep sidewalk, MacNally struggled to slow his pace as he approached its end. He stopped, his shoes slapping against the pavement, and peered right, down the wide roadway. Directly ahead stood the Quartermaster warehouse, abutted by the three-story Powerhouse building, which contained the generators that provided the island with electricity.
Seeing no patrols, MacNally crossed the road, with Shoemacher maintaining his flank, their escape kits cradled across their shoulders.
To the left of the building’s second floor entrance, a set of metal stairs rose to the flat rooftop. They quickly scaled the steps-the clanging causing MacNally to take two steps at a time to minimize the footfalls-then ran toward the back of the Powerhouse. He was hoping there was a way down, as they no longer had their makeshift rope.
MacNally stopped at the edge. Five feet below them, a metal vent led from the side of the Powerhouse building to the adjacent smokestack. He swung his legs over the side, then lowered his feet till they met the ductwork. The wind was aggressive and challenged his ability to maintain his balance. Not knowing how old or sturdy the six-foot horizontal structure was, he inched across it, arms extended at his sides as if traversing a high wire.
He reached the smokestack and hugged it, then stretched as far as he could around its right side, reaching for the metal grab bars that ran along its length from the ground as far up into the sky as he could see.
He climbed down, then removed the kit from his shoulder. As Shoemacher followed his partner’s movements, MacNally looked out at the dark water. He heard it crashing against the rocks more than saw it, but he knew it was there; he smelled the salt, felt the dampness on his raw cheeks.
They were standing atop a cement slab that sloped down, away from its center.
“This is it,” Shoemacher said. “The Caponier. Almost home.”
“We’re almost in the water. Home’s still a ways off,” MacNally said.
Ten feet or so below them lay the choppy waters of the Bay. To their left, the Powerhouse smokestack rose skyward, into the darkness. And to their right sat the short and narrow path that abutted the water’s edge-their entry point into the ocean.