No Man's Land (6 page)

With her free hand, Melanie, slid back the door in front of the TV
and grabbed the remote control, before returning to her seat. She sat
for a few moments sipping the scotch and looking out the window into
the darkness. She aimed the remote at the TV, then changed her mind,
pulling her cell phone from her jacket pocket instead, pushing the
button for memory one . . . home . . . the phone rang eight times
before her own voice came on the line and invited the caller to leave
a message. She sighed and dropped the phone back into her pocket.
Picked up the remote and turned on the TV. Moved up to forty-four,
CNN. She took another sip of her drink and turned up the volume.
Dateline . . . Musket, Arizona.

The helicopter pilot checked his watch. “You can usually see it
by now. They must have turned the lights out.”

“What time is it?” Corso asked.

“Four minutes to midnight.”

Corso craned his neck and looked upward, out through the plastic
roof at the glimmering carpet of stars overhead. The pilot, whose
monogrammed jacked proclaimed him to be Arnie, pointed with his free
hand. “Bingo,” he said. “That’s gotta be it right there.”

Corso squinted out into the darkness. All he could make out was a
dull line of oddly spaced lights in the distance. “You sure?”

The pilot checked his GPS. “Gotta be,” he said after a second.

“Ain’t nothin’ else out here but jackrabbits and that damn
prison.”

Corso had his nose pressed to the plastic when, as if on cue, an
area a mile in front of the helicopter lit up like a college football
game. From two thousand feet above the desert floor, the banks of
lights surrounding the prison yard formed a blazing bracelet of light
surrounding the unadorned buildings, lighting the rolls of razor wire
spiraling atop the chain-link fences like No Man’s Land curls of
steel smoke . . . making it possible to see the tiny figure in the
blue shirt, walking a crooked line out onto the concrete.

“They’re gonna shoot another one,” the pilot announced.

“Just like on the TV this morning. Goddamn.”

“Put it down in the yard,” Corso said.

“What?”

“Put it down in the yard.”

Arnie made a rude noise with his lips. “You gotta be crazy.”

“In between the guard and the building.”

The guy waved him off. “No friggin’ way. Maybe you got suicide
in mind, buddy, but I got me a wife and three boys I plan on seein’
again.” He cut the air with his rigid hand. “I done my tour in
’Nam. That’s the last chance anybody’s ever gonna get to shoot
up my ass.”

“Put her down just long enough for me to hop out. Maybe we can
save a life here.”

Arnie rocked his head back and forth. “Ain’t gonna happen.”

“That’s somebody’s boy down there, Arnie. Just as easily
could be one of yours.” Arnie kept shaking his head. Corso kept
talking. “That was your boy . . . what would you want us to do?
Just sort of fly around up here until he was dead? That what you’d
be expecting of us?”

“Aw, don’t start that shit with me,” Arnie whined. “You’re
startin’ to sound like my old woman with all that guilt trip crap
you’re throwing around.”

Corso kept his eyes on the ground, watching as the blue-clad
figure walked slowly across the pavement, then stopped. “Come on,
Arnie. Hurry up. Set this damn thing on the ground.”

“You’re one crazy bastard, you know that?” Corso made a
resigned face and nodded, but Arnie kept talking anyway. “First
some lunatic says he’s gonna keep shooting people until you show
your ass up at the worst goddamn prison in the country and you just
haul off and agree to come on down, then . . .” Arnie sputtered a
bit. “. . . and then you want me to put us down directly in the
line of fire.” He waved his free hand Corso’s way. “You’re
one sick puppy. You know that? One goddamned sick puppy.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to think so, Arnie,” Corso
allowed. Arnie looked his way. “What?” Corso raised an eyebrow.
“You want to live forever? I thought only women wanted to live
forever.”

Other than the slapping of the rotors, the cockpit was silent.
Corso had to smile. The question of his apparent lack of concern for
his own safety had been a major bone of contention in his
relationship with Meg Dougherty and had, in a roundabout way, been at
least partially responsible for her decision to end their often
tumultuous affair. In the months since her departure, he’d had
occasion to consider the possibility that she might have been correct
in her assessment.

What he’d concluded was that he had as much regard for survival
as anybody else. It was just that there were a number of other
factors which, in his mind, held equal sway. He wanted to endure,
just like everybody else, but it had to be on his own terms . . .
something he could live with when the smoke cleared.

“Aw goddammit,” Arnie shouted above the noise. The helicopter
started down with a lurch, spinning slowly as it descended, swooping
low over a vast strung-out collection of television trucks, lifting
every loose piece of dust and gravel from every nook and cranny as it
made its way to the center of the prison yard, where Arnie swung the
tail back toward the prison, offering as little target as possible to
the shooters.

“Pop that belt, buddy,” Arnie yelled as they approached the
ground. “I want your ass out of here in a heartbeat.”

Corso popped the harness and grabbed the door handle. In front of
the copter, the guard stumbled forward, out of the radius of the
rotor blades, shielding his face from the whirling collection of
desert debris filling the air.

“Watch your head,” Arnie yelled.

Corso gave Arnie the two-fingered salute, shouldered open the door
and dropped the three feet to the ground. Corso used his jacket to
shield his face as he bent low under the whirling rotors. Inside the
cockpit, Arnie reached over and latched the door, then began to ease
the helicopter back into the night sky. “Crazy bastard,” he
muttered under his breath.

On the ground, the fading sound of the engine was accompanied by
the insistent hiss of debris falling to the pavement. After another
moment, both Corso and the guard straightened up and looked around
through squinty eyes.

He was young. Not yet thirty. Skinny with an unruly shock of red
hair, and at some point he must have been crying. He had a runny nose
and a pair of telltale tracks running from his eyes to which the fine
desert dirt had clung, lending a clownlike quality to his otherwise
terrified face.

Corso wondered why a man with so much life in front of him would
choose to spend his days locked up with the scum of the earth.
Whether he was a sadist or a do-gooder or something in between, or
maybe just a guy who really needed a job. The air was cold and crisp.
As the sound of the chopper faded from the sky, Corso heard shouts
coming from over by the outer fence. He scanned the area until his
eyes came to rest on the area just north of the main gate, where a
camera crew waved their arms as they aimed their unblinking
electronic eye his way. He turned his head.

What had to be the administration building stood forty yards away.
An imposing three-story brick structure bisected by a round arch in
the center of the building. In the blackness of the yawning arch, a
flame flickered for long enough for somebody to light a cigarette.

The scrape of shoes pulled Corso’s attention around. The guard
had mustered a teaspoon of courage and was thinking about making a
run for it. Corso shook his head.

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “You’ll never even make it to the
fence.”

The guard opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“I . . . ,” he stammered.

“Stay behind me,” Corso said as he turned and started toward
the administration building. A third of the way there, Corso stopped.
The guard ran into the back of him. “Not quite that close, kid,”
Corso said before turning and walking away. At twenty yards, Corso
could make out the shapes of three figures standing within the dark
shadow of the arch. Corso adjusted course and aimed at the center of
the shadow. A dozen strides and he could make out Tim Driver standing
at the right, hands at his sides, watching in silence as Corso and
the guard approached.

On Driver’s right, a long-haired con pointed an assault rifle
directly at Corso’s chest. He dropped one eye to the sight and
closed the other. Corso lengthened his stride. Below the gaping
barrel, a thin smile worked its way across the guy’s lips. Corso
watched the finger tighten on the trigger. His throat began to close;
breathing became a chore in the final seconds before Driver pushed
the gun barrel aside, sending a three-shot burst of fire rocketing
off into the night. Still holding the barrel, Driver said, “I
didn’t think you’d come.”

The shooter snarled and jerked the barrel from Driver’s hand. He
was maybe six feet tall, with a full head of shoulder-length hair
surrounding a narrow, angular face. Looked like the kind of guy you’d
see panhandling on the beach. Except for the eyes. Corso had seen
eyes like that before. Secret policemen in Haiti, Kurdish insurgents
in Afghanistan and once in a while on the Nature Channel during Shark
Week. The kind of eyes you crossed the street to avoid, the kind you
hoped never to see staring out of a darkened doorway late at night.
Especially not holding an automatic weapon.

“You knew damn well I’d come,” Corso snapped. “What in
hell was I supposed to do? Keep fishing while you shot people?”

Driver nearly smiled. “Tight ethical squeeze wasn’t it? Sorry
I couldn’t leave you more wiggle room, Frank, but”—he aimed a
palm straight up—“time constraints . . . you know.”

The shooter moved the barrel and pointed the M16 at the guard, who
began to wring his hands and pray out loud. The sudden sound of
running water was soon explained by an expanding dark spot on the
front of the guard’s pants.

“Now look at what you made him do,” Corso said to the shooter.

“Make you do worse, pretty boy,” the man said with an air of
self-assurance. “Wanna try me out?”

A snappy rejoinder caught in Corso’s throat. Some deep-seated
survival sense told him it was not the time. This was not the guy.

“No,” he said in a soft voice. “Don’t believe I do.”

The guy’s voice dripped with disdain. “There’s always
later,”

he teased.

“Believe I’ll pass on that honor too.”

The air seemed suddenly still and wet.

“Honor eh? You think it’s an honor, do you?”

“Poor word choice,” Corso offered quickly.

“Maybe,” the guy said finally. “We’ll see.”

Driver nodded at the guard. “Bronko,” he called to the third
man, who now stepped sufficiently into the light to reveal a
barnsized specimen with what looked like a nine-millimeter handgun
jammed in his belt. “Take him back where you got him from,”

Driver said.

Bronko made eye contact with Kehoe, as if to ask if it was okay to
do as he was told. All he got in return was an insolent shrug, which
he somehow interpreted as a yes.

“What about this faggot?” he wanted to know, nodding at Corso.

“He’s part of the convergence,” Driver said.

Another series of puzzled looks were passed. Finally, Bronko
reached out a massive paw, grabbed the guard by the elbow and
propelled him back toward the cellblocks with such force that the
officer stumbled and nearly lost his footing.

Corso, Kehoe and Driver watched in silence as Bronko stiffarmed
the officer across the yard, through a propped-open gate and into the
darkness of an open doorway.

One floor above, the first level of the cellblock was alive with
activity. At least a dozen gun barrels protruded from broken windows.
With his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Corso could make out a
nearly constant promenade of bodies inside the building.

“Boys are getting restless,” Kehoe said.

Driver ignored him. “They get that semi full of groceries
unloaded?”

“Unloaded and damn near swallowed.”

“Who’d you leave in charge of the truck drivers?”

“Forger namea Haynes.”

“Have him let the semi driver go.”

“Like the others?”

“Yes. Just give him his keys and tell him he can go. Call me
when he’s ready to roll and I’ll open the front gate for him.”

“Boys wanna grease the rest of them pigs we got rounded up
downstairs.”

“How many trucks we got left?” Driver asked.

“Nothin’ but that tandem tanker rig.”

Driver nodded. “You get done with that, you meet us back at the
command pod.”

Kehoe rocked on the balls of his feet. “You listen to me,
Captainman. I ain’t onea your fucking crew.” He waved a hand
toward the cellblocks. “Ain’t none of these neither. Sometime
tomorrow we gonna run outta food and things gonna get outright nasty
around here. That happens you and your girlfriend here gonna sure as
hell wish you was someplace else. Not me or anybody else gonna be
able to keep ’em offa you.”

“We’ll be gone by then,” Driver said. Kehoe opened his mouth
to speak, but Driver cut him off. “The soldiers’ll be coming in
here after us just before dawn. They can’t let this go on for
another day.”

“The boys are ready for them,” Kehoe said. “Motherfuckers
gonna find themselves in a hell of a fight.”

Driver’s face was carved from stone. “We’ll see,” was all
he offered. “Let’s get that driver on his way.”

Governor James Blaine ran a hand halfway through his “presidential
hair,” then stopped. With his other index finger he pointed toward
. . . toward . . . toward . . . he couldn’t for the life of him
remember the damn guy’s name . . . so he freed his fingers from his
hair and used both hands to fumble in his pants pocket until he came
out with the guy’s business card. The Randall Corporation. Dallin
Asuega. Deputy Director of Security Operations.