Normal sat in the back of the armored truck, staring blankly at the wall opposite, thinking nothing as Coop parked near the base of hills that surrounded the jail. As soon as the truck came to a stop, he got to his feet while still holding the Springfield, opened the back, and jumped out to the desert floor, the sun overhead shining down on him hot and bright. His left calf muscle throbbed with pain, and though he was aware of it on some level, it barely registered consciously.
He began his trek up the hill toward his shooting position, Emericas sliding through the sand, hearing but barely registering Bogart walking behind him. When they reached the large boulders near the crest of the hill, they got into place behind them, setting up their rifles, positioning their bodies for comfort.
Normal looked through his scope to the guard towers. It was five minutes to eleven and the guards were now in place, rifles in hand, though none of the prisoners were in the yard yet. He watched the guards standing there, moving his scope from one to the other, lining up their heads in his crosshairs, his index finger resting on his rifle’s trigger guard. In the Marines, he wasn’t a shooter but a spotter, but he had no doubt he’d be able to take them out—one, two, three, four—in only a few seconds. However, he didn’t want to take anyone out. He would if he had to, but these were not his enemies, and would only become his enemies when they threatened his friends.
Unfortunately, that would happen soon enough.
* * *
James walked with the other prisoners from his cell block, all of them in a single-file line, one guard leading the way and one guard behind. His makeshift pistol was tucked into his sock, and he felt it must be very conspicuous, felt the way the leg of his jumpsuit moved against it must be unnatural, but there’d been no other place to hide it. Anyway, nobody had said anything, which meant nobody had seen anything. If they did, he was fucked. But if he didn’t do this, he also was fucked, so it wasn’t really much of a risk.
The guards led them through the corridors, the only sounds the rhythmic thump of footsteps. It reminded James of marching with his company in boot camp, reminded him of drill instructors chanting cadence:
Left, left, left—right.
If I die in a combat zone, box me up and ship me home.
Issue my rifle to another Marine; it served me well and I know it’s clean.
Put me into my Dress Blues, comb my hair and shine my shoes.
Pin my medals upon my chest and tell my momma I done my best.
When I get to heaven, St. Pete will say, “How’d you earn your living, how’d you earn your pay?”
I’ll reply as I take my knife, “Get outta my way ’fore I take your life.”
He’ll open the gate and let me pass, and if God don’t like it I’ll whoop His ass.
Left, left, left—right.
The lead guard pushed through the door that led onto the yard. The inmates filtered out and headed to the free weights, the basketball court, and the naked ground where they played soccer. James himself walked to the back fence, kicking through the desert sand, wondering if he’d have an opportunity to make his move. Or if he’d have to create an opportunity.
He knew that doing what he intended to do would probably end in his death, but possibly dead was better than definitely dead, and if he didn’t get out of here, he was certain he’d be killed sooner or later. He stood with his back against the fence for a few minutes, watching the other inmates. He scanned the yard, looking at the guards who lined its perimeter. He watched as the inmates from one of the other cell blocks filtered out onto the yard. He reached down and scratched his ankle, palming his makeshift pistol, keeping it hidden as he stood up again.
His heart thudded in his chest. His mouth was dry. It was hard to swallow.
He looked toward the guard in the far left corner. That was the man he needed to get to. If he could put his pistol into the guard’s back and make him understand both that it was real and that he was willing to shoot it, he might lead James into the nearest building, and just on the other side of it was the employee parking lot. He’d get the man’s car keys and drive away. He’d have to crash straight through the gates to get off the compound, and as soon as he did, there’d be people after him, maybe people shooting, but that was something he could deal with when it happened. If it happened. The chances of getting even that far were minimal at best.
He was about to make his move—about to begin strolling over casually—when Pedro, the man who’d lost his daughter, leaned against the fence beside him.
“They’re coming for you. I heard talk earlier.”
“Who’s coming?”
Pedro nodded toward the basketball court. James looked and saw a group of five men walking toward him, their pace deliberate. Fulanito—the man with no name—was at the center of the group, clearly leading the others.
It looked like James might not have the opportunity to even attempt his breakout. He might have to use his single bullet on the leader of this group. In fact, he was almost certain of it. His grip on the makeshift pistol in his hand tightened. His heart rate increased, thudded against the wall of his chest. He could feel the pressure of his throbbing veins in his forehead.
“You should walk away, Pedro.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I’m not leaving you here to get murdered. I’m not a coward.” Pedro shook his right arm and when James glanced over, he saw a sharpened toothbrush slide into the man’s waiting palm. He gripped it not like someone would hold a knife, but as one might hold an ice pick, blade jutting from the pinky-side of his grip.
Fulanito and the others continued toward them, spreading out as they did, so that neither he nor Pedro could easily walk away, so that they couldn’t walk away at all without a confrontation. Fulanito smiled as he approached, his Ping-Pong ball eyes alight with dark humor.
“I told you I’d make certain that I was the one to kill you.”
“You did—and you were wrong.” James raised the makeshift pistol and aimed it at the nameless motherfucker’s face. He thumbed back his firing pin.
Fulanito actually laughed. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish with—”
James released the firing pin. It snapped forward.
The gun exploded, pieces of the barrel and shreds of paper suddenly falling around them like confetti. The shell shot out the back of the pistol and thwacked against James’s neck, burning it. But a hole appeared in Fulanito’s left cheek, and blood began to ooze from the hole. The smile was gone. The eyes were dazed.
“What—” The word left Fulanito’s mouth plaintively. He dropped to his knees. He collapsed forward. A cloud of dust exploded around him.
* * *
Coop shoved the transmission into gear, released the clutch, and footed the gas. He ground the gears as he shoved his way through them quickly, trying to gain speed. He honked his horn so the people standing in front of the fence would get out of the way. He aimed the truck at a gap between two of the vehicles parked in front of the fence, knowing he would hit them both but hoping they wouldn’t slow him down.
* * *
Bogart watched through his scope as one of the towered guards aimed his rifle at James, who had just—somehow—shot a man in the head with a toy gun that looked like it was made out of paper. He didn’t want to kill anybody today—he only wanted to make sure none of his friends died—so he lined the guard’s right hand up in his crosshairs even as the guard moved his finger from the trigger guard to the trigger.
Bogart fired off a round. For a full second—for what felt like a full second—nothing happened. Finally, the bullet finished its long journey. The hand exploded, a mist of blood hanging in the air. The guard dropped his rifle.
* * *
James looked at the four men coming at both him and Pedro, the four men left alive. Each of them held a shiv, and each of them was ready, body tense with muscle.
James threw down the remains of his gun, waited for someone to make a move. His back was against the fence—he had nowhere to go—which meant he’d have to fight. But that was fine because a large part of him wanted to fight. He had as much violence in him as any man, more than most, and the only thing that kept it from erupting was the thin membrane of conscience that held it in place, the thin membrane between urge and action, and that membrane had torn open.
“Let’s go, you fucks,” James said.
One of the four men, bald motherfucker with a face like a bulldog, lunged at James with his weapon.
James jumped aside, grabbed the wrist, and twisted it even as he punched the guy in the nose—one, two, three times—with quick but powerful jabs, the cartilage bending and snapping with the final blow. A sheet of blood poured down his face.
The man yanked his arm away and swung again.
James knocked the blow aside with the swipe of an arm and brought his foot up between the legs, lifting the motherfucker off the ground.
When the guy came back down, his knees buckled. He dropped to the ground, clenching at his groin, forgetting the weapon he’d left lying in the dust.
James stepped forward and swung down his fist as hard as he could, punching the temple and knocking the motherfucker out.
But in doing so, he felt a knuckle in his middle finger break.
He didn’t care. He leaned down to pick up the shiv.
Another of the men came at him, his mouth either grinning or grimacing, it was impossible to tell which. Missing teeth made him look like a building with broken windows. But Pedro brought down his fist like a sledgehammer, burying the sharpened toothbrush in the man’s throat, and blood gushed out around it to the rhythm of his heartbeat, a carotid geyser, and the man grabbed at his neck as he fell to the ground.
He’d be dead in a second. Good.
James swung back around to face the last two men who would kill him.
They stepped forward, weapons gripped in their fists.
* * *
Normal aimed his Springfield at the yard, panning the area. Guards were running toward James from all directions. He squeezed his trigger, leading one of the guard’s by a good distance, and almost a second later his round struck a foot. The guard he’d shot collapsed and his momentum flung him forward into the dirt. He rolled through a cloud of dust, silently screaming.
Normal yanked back the bolt. An empty shell arced through the air. He chambered a new round. He panned the yard, found a second guard, squeezed his trigger a second time.
He couldn’t let them reach James. If they managed to grab him, it would make getting him out close to impossible. If they managed to grab him, there’d be a tangle of movement, and it would be impossible to get shots off without the risk of killing James.
If they managed to grab him, it was over.
Normal panned across the yard, found a third guard. Guy was yanking a sap from his belt as he ran toward James.
Normal squeezed his trigger.
* * *
Coop cringed as the armored truck barreled toward the fences, aimed at the four-foot space between a Ford Pinto station wagon and a small Dodge truck. It slammed into both vehicles simultaneously, the sound like thunder. The armored truck pushed both aside, rolling over the front edge of the Ford and flipping the Dodge onto its side. It tore through the fences like tracing paper. He spun the wheel left and slammed his foot on the brake pedal. A large plume of dust drifted around them.
Guards aimed their weapons from their tower perches and fired, dotting the windshield glass with their bullets.
* * *
Bogart lined one of the guards up in his crosshairs, exhaled steadily, and in the space between breaths, the space between heartbeats, he squeezed his trigger. The rifle pulsed against the crook of his shoulder. Through his sight he saw a mist of blood hanging in the air. The guard fell to his knees, dropping his rifle to the ground below.
Bogart panned to another tower, to another guard.
* * *
Pilar ran to the back of the armored truck with a pistol in hand and swung open the doors. She looked out onto the yard and saw James and three Mexican men staring at her. For a moment, for what felt like a long moment, nobody moved. They only stared.
Finally Pilar shouted, “Come on, James! Let’s go! This isn’t a fucking picnic!”
* * *
James looked from Pilar to the yard surrounding him, taking everything in. Guards were shooting and being shot. Prisoners were screaming and rioting. One ran to the foot of a guard tower and picked up a dropped rifle and began shooting at the guards on the ground. One in the back. One in the face. He shot another prisoner in the abdomen. He fired into the air. He was screaming while he shot off rounds. Other prisoners tackled yet another guard and held him down while he was pummeled. James took this all in in less than a second, and then grabbed Pedro by the arm and said, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
He ran toward the armored truck, pulling Pedro with him.
They reached the truck and climbed into the back.
But one of the men who’d attacked him, one of the last two standing, grabbed him by the ankle and began pulling him back out.
Pilar shot him in the face.
James scrambled back into the truck.
Pilar slammed shut the doors.
Coop looked over his shoulder and shouted: “We good?”
“Go!” Pilar shouted back.
The transmission was slammed into gear. The engine roared as the truck barreled forward, turning in a half circle.
* * *
Coop glanced in his side-view mirror and saw several guards in bulletproof vests rushing from one of the buildings. They had rifles in their hands. They stuck them into the crooks of their shoulders and began firing at the truck. The bullets thwacked against its armored exterior. Prisoners began rushing them and they shot the prisoners.
Coop slammed the truck through the fences.
More prisoners began to run through the hole and out into the desert.
* * *
Normal got to his feet as the armored truck rolled toward him, a cloud of dust kicked up in its wake and drifting on the hot summer breeze. It was followed by running prisoners, looking over their shoulders, shouting.
“Let’s go,” Normal said.
He and Bogart began to make their way down the hill, feet sliding through the sand.
Guards down in the yard—wearing bulletproof vests, bearing rifles—shot at the truck and at the prisoners escaping on foot.
Chaos in the yard.
The armored truck came to a rumbling stop near the base of the hill, sliding sidewise in the sand. The doors swung open.
As Normal and Bogart ran toward it, guards began to shoot at them, their bullets kicking up chunks of earth at their feet.
Pilar, James, and some Mexican guy with James shot through the portholes in the side of the truck. Guards took rounds to their vests, were kicked off their feet.
Normal’s left calf was now screaming with pain.
He and Bogart jumped into the back of the truck. Bullets thwacked against it even as Pilar pulled shut the door and it roared away from the jail.