Jay crabbed over to the freedom key. He managed to grasp it with swollen fingers and, with difficulty, unlocked the handcuffs. His good hand braced against the floor and he rolled onto his knees. The adrenalin of escape forced his battered body to respond and he rose gingerly, staggering toward the table.
After dressing with care, he lifted his wallet and flipped it open. No credit cards, just twenty dollars and some change – not unusual for a soldier with his job description. Before pulling on his boots, he made sure his only credit card was still in one of the inner soles. His G-Shock watch told him it was half-past four on Monday morning – almost six hours since his last drink.
What had Primrose in store for his father? There was no way of knowing. But if it was along similar lines to what Jay had just endured, he could waste no time in getting to his dad first.
He tried the doorknob. Locked, of course. Why had he bothered trying? He searched for a way out. Grey brick walls, concrete floor, massive two-way mirror and a locked door. He tilted his head back. Like all defence establishments, the contract for the building had gone to the cheapest bidder. This state of the art facility was no different.
He climbed onto the table and dragged up the metal chair with his good hand. Standing on the chair, he pushed a piece of roof lining aside. An alarm sounded and he peered inside the roof. There was enough room. He threw the handcuffs into the roof space. Using his elbows and good hand, he lifted himself above the lining and propped his body over the crossbeams. Sweat dripped from his face and hands. His breathing quickened as he reached back down and pushed at the chair, knocking it from the table. He slid further back into the confined space and replaced the panel, leaving a small gap so he could observe the door. The siren continued to wail.
He checked his G-Shock and waited. Sixteen minutes after the alarm was set off, it stopped. The security response team had arrived. He kept an eye on his watch. Eight minutes later the door of the interrogation room opened.
'Nobody in here either,' one of the security guards said to his partner.
Jay watched through the small gap and willed them to hurry, praying they would leave the door ajar when they left.
The second security guard pointed to the far corner of the room. 'Is that blood?'
'Yeah, probably. Nothing unusual in this place. I've seen blood, vomit and even human crap left in these rooms. The interrogators are pigs. They make a mess and leave it to the cleaners.'
'What the hell do they do in here? I thought this was a training establishment.'
'Relax. They use props from the local butcher to make it look as though they gave the bloke in the last session a real going-over. Some of the younger ones they get in here break real quick when they see the blood and smell the stench.'
'What about the human crap?'
'Like I said, the interrogators are pigs. Let's get out of here. Leave the door open so it won't smell as bad for the cleaners.'
An exaggeration about the human crap, Jay thought. He'd never heard of an interrogator using it as a ploy. Even a sick bastard like Primrose. Although, after having just been urinated on, he wouldn't put it past him now. He mouthed a thank you as the security guards left and waited another few minutes, considering his options. Only two of the three levels of the Centre were visible from the outside. There were two entrances for the lower-level interrogation rooms. The first was via one flight of steps behind a concealed door on the main level, with entry gained using a palm scanner and pin number. The second entrance was via a tunnel through a nondescript shed on the outer perimeter of the facility. Again, that was equipped with a palm scanner that required pin number access. The second entrance allowed for discreet access to both prisoners and their interrogators. The guards would still be checking the building. It was time to move and the tunnel was his only option.
He left the nightmare of the interrogation room and made his way across a narrow corridor to the men's toilet. The tap water eased his dry throat. Blood flowed into the sink as he washed his face and hair with his good hand. Checking his face in the mirror, he was relieved to find that it didn't look as bad as it felt. His broken nose did not appear so – a lifetime of rugby ensured it was forever crooked. The red lines through his green eyes were probably a result of the drugged scotch, not the beatings. The four small scratches on his cheeks could be explained to the curious.
Jay looked at his bandaged arm and then across to the G-Shock. Time was precious. He had to get back to his room and call his father. The bandage looked clean and his curiosity about the tattoo could wait.
He jogged with heavy legs back through the tunnel. The hell he'd endured played in his mind. He wondered what Primrose wanted of him and why he had threatened his father. An unsettling fact was that he had slept with Catherine Primrose. Driven by his penis and not his brain. He clenched his jaw and shook his head in disgust, at Primrose and at himself. Primrose was going to pay.
His eyes adjusted to the dim tunnel lights. He took the two flights of steps that led to a heavy door. No need for the palm scanner or pin number to exit.
More dim lights greeted him from within the shed and cast shadows over various pieces of sporting equipment. He crossed to the steel sliding door and eased it open. A warm late spring breeze hit him and he breathed deeply, the fresh air reinvigorating his battered body. The security lights of the Centre illuminated the football field in front of him. A full moon cast its light on the Coomera River that snaked its way to the rear of the building. He started to his right where the bitumen climbed to the accommodation and administration blocks.
It didn't take him long to make it back to his room. He never locked his door; after all, he was on a secure army base. With a flick of a light switch, he realised just how secure the base was. Laptop gone. Television and stereo wrestled for space on the floor with his collection of Robert Ludlum novels. The Lee Child novels remained on the bookshelf. He guessed that the jerk who trashed the room wasn't a fan; or maybe he was.
He found his mobile phone wedged underneath the television and hurriedly dialled his father. The call went unanswered. He grabbed the keys to his '57 Chevy and headed to his father's house, an hour away in Brisbane.
Twenty minutes later, the purring V8 engine was carrying him along the highway. As he passed Movie World, he tried his father's number again, to no avail. The three-lane highway carved through a mix of bushland and new housing estates as the Gold Coast and Brisbane slowly crept together. The morning commute from the beaches to the thriving city had not yet begun. There were only work utilities and trucks getting a jump on the office workers. He stuck to the fast lane and stepped harder on the accelerator. No longer able to contain his curiosity about the tattoo, he started to remove the bandage, glancing from his hand back to the road.
His swollen hand throbbed as he unwound the wrapping. Although blood had soaked into the first few layers of bandage, there was only a small scab on his palm, just below the webbing of his middle fingers. He looked at the road ahead and winced as he remembered the nail driving into his flesh.
With his good hand, he reached across to pull the damaged hand closer to his eyes. He was hypnotised by the effect of the street lights on the abstraction on his wrist. Distracted, he didn't notice the Chevy drift toward the concrete barriers.