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—
Benny was no longer nervous. Now he was scared shitless.
He’d been riding high, along with all the other guys who worked for Mr. Boniface. Big bad Bailey Stone had come with a small army, and they’d been waiting, ready. It hadn’t even been a contest. They’d come pouring into the tunnel from their boats, and they’d walked right into Mr. Boniface’s traps. It had been a turkey shoot. Bang, bang, bang, all fall down. It was almost mean, to knock off those poor bastards. They never had a chance.
Mercenaries are human, too, and when it was over, when they realized what an easy win it was, well, shit. Of course they wanted to celebrate a little. Most of the guys broke open a bottle or two, and Benny joined them. He even made a joke out of it, saying that he needed a drink or two—his trigger finger was sore from popping so many of Stone’s clowns.
So nobody was expecting it, and nobody was ready, when the Feds came pouring down from up top.
And it had been a turkey shoot again—but this time Benny and Mr. Boniface’s guys were on the wrong end of it. The guys started giving up, throwing down their weapons, flinging their hands up and shouting, “Ne tirez pas! Je me rends!” Don’t shoot! I surrender!
The mercs were professional soldiers. They knew when it was over, and they knew what kind of treatment they could expect as hired guns; nothing like as serious as what Mr. Boniface would get. Most of them had been in this situation before. All of them knew that a few years in the slammer was better than a nine millimeter between the eyes.
For Benny, it was a different story. He was right up there close to the top, one of Mr. Boniface’s top guys. Besides that, he had a rap sheet a mile long, and it included some very heavy shit. If Benny was captured, he had a real simple choice: do the stand-up thing and spend the rest of his life in prison, or rat out Mr. Boniface and die a whole lot sooner.
So he did what anybody in his position would have done. He panicked.
There were two possible escape routes out of this place. One was the shaft that led up top, to the island’s central plateau. But that was the way the Feds had come in, so that was out. The other way was down the tunnel to the docks, maybe grab a boat—but two steps down that way and he ran into a crowd of Feds. He ducked back before they saw him, but it didn’t matter. That way was out, too.
Which left nothing but give up or go down fighting.
There had to be another way. Thinking furiously, Benny retreated. But one passage after another was flooded with Feds. Slowly, step by step, he moved backward, deeper into the heart of the island, scrabbling for some kind of break, or an idea for how to make one. But finally, he was at the last tunnel, the one that led to the cells, and there was no way out of there.
And it hit him. Maybe there was.
He turned down this last passage and ran toward the end.
* * *
—
Giving up completely is not as easy as it sounds. Some dim-witted, thoughtless asshole always seems to come along and try to give you one more hope. I’d been sitting there trying to give up for hours, and it kept happening.
First, Bailey Stone’s stupid attack. I knew it would fail, but I hoped anyway. And when it was over and I tried to give up again, the second attack came. This one sounded different, and when it was over I thought maybe it had succeeded, so I hoped again. I mean, if it was who I thought it was, it meant I was only going to get stuck in another cell somewhere. But at least it would have better food, and a complete lack of Bernadette. And I’d found a way out of some pretty tough prisons in the past.
So I hoped again. I really didn’t want to, but that stupid little spark jumped up and I couldn’t snuff it out. I hoped, and when I heard somebody fumbling to open my cell, I was still hoping.
And then Benny slipped in. He closed the door behind him and turned toward me, a Glock 17 in his hand. I was pleased to see he had some purple marks on his neck from where I’d grabbed him. But it didn’t slow him down. He stepped right over and held it to my head. “You’re coming with me,” he said. “So shut the fuck up and don’t try any stupid shit.” For emphasis, he poked me with the pistol, hard, right on the great big goose egg I’d gotten from my beating the last time I saw him.
I shut up, and I didn’t try stupid shit, as he unlocked my shackles. He pulled me up to my feet, the pistol always right on the same tender spot. Even if I felt like trying stupid shit, he was a pro. He didn’t give me any openings.
“Hands on top of yer head,” he said. “Out the fuckin’ door.”
I did what he said. I mean, there wasn’t a lot of choice. But I knew that whatever he had in mind, somewhere along the way there would be a chance. Hope again. So I went along down the corridor, Benny right behind me, Glock on my head. With my knee swollen up, my right leg was almost useless, so walking was painful, and hard to do convincingly. So I didn’t move too fast. Benny didn’t like that, and he kept prodding me with the Glock, urging me to go faster. I did what I could, and we moved along in silence until we came to the main passageway, and there Benny stopped.
“How this works,” he said. “You’re my ticket outa here, awright?”
“Jesus, seriously?” I said. “Nobody gives a shit about me.”
Benny chuckled and jabbed my goose egg at the same time. “No, they don’t,” he said. “But I seen a coupla guys with FBI on their vests. And I got a hunch they want you alive.”
“More like dead or
alive,” I said.
He poked me again. “We’re gonna give it a shot, so shut the fuck up,” he said.
Riley’s Brand-New Law: Better to give it a shot than to get shot. I shrugged and took another painful step forward. Benny stayed behind me, poking me forward with the Glock.
