Dead Man's Switch (23 page)

“Not going to happen,” Murdoch said.

Evans snapped at Murdoch. “No games, okay? This kid here showed me some interesting video this morning. Looks like you've
been sneaking trophy hunters onto the island. Now is not the time and place to argue this. I'm ordering you onto this chopper.”

Murdoch backed away slightly, toward his Jeep. He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt. He lifted it to his mouth. “We've got a situation here. I want ten men at the helipad. And a pilot for my chopper.”

“Better counter that order,” Evans said.

“No,” Murdoch said. “Like you made clear. No games. And you're right. I do have a private army.”

“You don't have time to organize a getaway,” Evans answered. “I'm sure you planned for a situation like this. You're thinking that all you need to do is get on the other chopper and make it to the mainland. But I planned for this too. You have until I get to three to counter the order you just gave.”

Murdoch reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol. “Wrong.”

Evans spoke calmly. Not to Murdoch, but to the pilot. “Take out the Jeep.”

King hadn't given much thought to armaments. Or the capability of the Huey. Or the fact that Evans would have foreseen a situation like this and given some contingency orders ahead of time. Until that moment, King didn't know that Hueys had weapons mounted on the sides.

After a small whirring of an electric motor, there was a crack from somewhere outside the chopper. Like a crack of thunder.

Almost instantly, the Jeep disappeared in a bright flashing roar that sent shock waves toward the helicopter.

Cool, King thought.

Murdoch spun his head to the diversion.

He spun his head back to Evans, lifting the pistol to chest level. “Are you nuts?” Murdoch shouted above the sound of flames.

“Just seriously angry.” Murdoch probably didn't hear Evans, but King did.

Evans ignored the pistol, raised his hand, and made a circular motion with his finger.

“I repeat,” Evans said. “You have to the count of three to put down that weapon.”

The commandos all stepped into sight at the bay of the helicopter. They moved forward, still standing inside, assault weapons raised and pointing down on Murdoch, forming a protective block of Kevlar vests in front of Evans and King.

“One,” Evans said, calling over the shoulders of his commandos. “These guys are good. They'll hunt down every one of your men.”

Murdoch hesitated.

“Two,” Evans said.

Murdoch staggered and looked at his shoulder. A couple darts had appeared. King had no idea which commando had fired the darts.

Murdoch coughed once. Twice. Then fell to his knees.

“Two?” King asked.

“They always wait for the three count,” Evans answered. “Get them on two, never on three. You'll note how well it works out that way.”

CHAPTER 49

Three of them. Walking through the prison corridors. King. Evans. And Mack.

King had never been inside the high-security perimeters of the prison. Of course, until an hour earlier, he had never seen a rocket launcher from a Huey gunship obliterate a Jeep Wrangler—or as Samantha would have said,
ovliterate
. Hard to believe why he was walking through the prison, just as it was hard to believe that elite commandos had been sent on a search and capture mission on the same terrain they'd used on different occasions for hunting down felons in total secrecy.

A skirmish was taking place on the island as the SOGs tracked down all of Murdoch's men. But that was just a cleanup operation. The renegade guards were outnumbered, out-armed, and out-trained. It was a formality.

Inside the prison, however, it was a different matter. There were still questions that needed answering. For example, was Blake Watt still alive?

The concrete floor had been painted gray and gleamed beneath florescent lights. The corridors were wide, the ceilings high. At first glance, there should have been nothing oppressive about it.

The silence, however, seemed heavy.

And with each successive security checkpoint, King felt as if they
were descending into the depths of a mine. Each checkpoint consisted of thick Plexiglas and locks that opened only at the computer commands of a guard who sat behind bulletproof glass at a bank of monitors.

King thought of Mack entering this oppressive environment and enduring it for eight to ten hours every day, and once again he realized how much his perspective needed to shift. King had always viewed his dad from a selfish perspective, seeing him as a protector and provider and rule maker and judge and enforcer of rules. This was another reminder that his dad was more than “Dad,” that Mack was someone like King, a person with struggles and hopes and dreams and doubts.

But thinking about that just reminded King of the secret money stashed in a bank account that he'd accessed on Mack's computer. And the knot in King's stomach seemed to grow like a malignant tumor.

None of them talked. It wasn't the place for chitchat, and Mack was leading them with the certainty of an experienced guide. The only sounds were their footsteps on the painted concrete.

They reached one more checkpoint. King glanced at yet another pane of bulletproof glass but saw no guard. Just the regular bank of monitors.

Mack stopped and pointed at a door, talking to Evans. “You're the only one authorized at this point.”

Evans nodded and held a card in front of a magnetic sensor, and the door slid open from left to right. It was at least six inches thick and moved slowly until it disappeared completely.

Like the other checkpoints, this guardroom was hardly larger than a walk-in closet. Unlike the other checkpoints, this one had no guard.

“Ten cells in this final corridor,” Mack said. “In theory, none are occupied. None of our shifts are assigned to this area.”

Inside the small guardroom, the monitors were dull black. Mack hit a few buttons, and one by one, the monitors appeared to wake.

The first two monitors showed an empty corridor from different perspectives, just like the one King had seen in the video on the Macbook Air. And the tumor in his stomach swelled to another level of pain. What was his dad's secret? How had he been involved? King had
no intention of betraying his father to Evans, but how could King ever trust his dad again?

The third monitor showed the interior of a cell. Steel bed with thin mattress along one wall. Steel sink on opposite wall. Steel toilet in a corner. An area smaller than a bedroom. No windows. No prisoner.

The fourth monitor was identical. As were the fifth and sixth and the remaining four after that. All the cells were empty.

Mack took a deep breath. “Rumors were wrong. We'd heard there was an off-limits prisoner back here.”

“Or,” Evans said, “Murdoch got a sense that something was going wrong and moved the kid before we landed with the Huey.”

Which would mean, King thought, either that Blake Watt had been dead all along or that he had been moved and was now dead.

“My vote?” Mack said. “We go back through the prison cell by cell and check each one until we know for sure.”

King asked a question. “How easy would it be to set up fake video feeds to one of these monitors? I mean, you could have one camera in cell five, for example, feeding two monitors at the same time. Because if I was Murdoch and I didn't want anyone to see someone in this wing, that's the first thing I'd do.”

“Smart,” Evans said. “Maybe someday you want to work for me?”

CHAPTER 50

King, Mack, and Evans moved into the final corridor of the prison and stopped at the first cell.

The door had a horizontal slot chest high. Like a place to drop mail. Not even big enough to slide a hand through the opening. It was shielded with clear plastic. Nothing could get through anyway.

Below it was another slot, this one wide enough to slide a tray.

“Normal procedure?” Evans asked. Holding up his EID.

King didn't understand the question, but Mack obviously did.

“First we check the video to learn the prisoner's location in the cell.”

A small monitor mounted near the ceiling showed what they had seen on the monitors at the checkpoint—an empty cell.

“Let's assume it's not empty,” Evans said. “If Murdoch was hiding a kid down here, maybe he had others as well. Convicts. Special punishment.”

“Anywhere else in the prison, we always give them 30 seconds to take the position on the far wall where we can see them. Facing the wall. On their knees. Hands locked behind their heads. Then we enter.”

Mack pressed a small button on the outside of the wall. A clear beeping sound reached them. Mack peered through the slot. “Nobody in position.”

“Could someone be hiding up against the wall on this side?” Evans asked.

“When it happens,” Mack said, “we see them on the video. That's
when we go for our gas masks and lob a canister of tear gas into the cell. Prisoners only try that once.”

“Except here, if the video is doctored and someone is inside.” Evans held up his EID pistol. “I spent ten years in SOG. You learned to assume the worst and protect against it. Or you didn't survive.”

“Then we slide the door open, and go in one at a time,” Mack said, holding up his own EID pistol. “I'll go in first. Keep some distance. Anything happens, make sure you don't hit the wrong target.”

“If you're trying to insult me, congratulations,” Evans said. “It's not my first rodeo.”

“And that's why you know you talk things out as a team before you make a move. Even if it means stating the obvious.”

“Fair enough,” Evans said. “Apologies. I'm ready.”

Seeing his dad in a new perspective wasn't getting old for King. He was proud of his dad's coolness and strength. Fully an equal to some guy from SOG with killer eyes.

Mack lifted his plastic card to the magnetic sensor, and the door slid open in the same way as the one at the checkpoint.

King was holding his breath, half expecting a prisoner to leap out in a surprise attack.

Nothing.

King drew air into his lungs.

They repeated this five more times, and each time, King felt his stress level build and then drop as each cell proved to be empty. And again, he realized he was getting a taste of what his dad had faced each day working at the prison.

At the seventh cell, after Mack pressed the buzzer and looked inside, he spoke with a flatness that King knew was just about Mack's only outward betrayal of fury.

“He's there,” Mack said. He backed away from the observation slot.

“The kid?” Evans asked.

Mack nodded. “Taking the position. Murdoch had him here the entire time. Taught him to behave like a con. And the kid is cuffed. Any idea how terrified this kid must be? And what it did to his parents, believing he'd drowned?”

“It's over now,” Evans said. “At least we have that.”

“Not quite,” King said. “Mr. Evans, you're going to remember your promise, right? Door closed and complete privacy. I get five minutes alone with Blake.”

CHAPTER 51

Blake maintained his position as the door slid open. He was wearing a con's uniform, far too large for him. He was on his knees, his face inches away from the wall. His hands were locked behind his neck. Handcuffed. And his ankles were hobbled too.

King had expected Blake to turn when the door opened but then realized that this must have been how Murdoch trained Blake. Food once a day? Occasional visits from Murdoch? In the brief time it took for King to wait for the door to slide back shut again, he imagined how horrible it would have been for Blake. He was just a kid. Locked away from the world. Solitude. Depending on the man who had captured him for something as simple as food or conversation.

“Blake,” King said. “It's over. We're taking you out. Back to your parents.”