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The harsh rays threatened to beat most men into submission, but Elias Cobb gave the brutish sun no quarter as he deflected a bony fist aimed at his chin. The man opposite him was a moron with no form and no practice—no challenge.
Cobb caught his opponent’s wrist and wrenched his spindly arm behind him. He then threw his weight against the smaller man’s back, pinned his foe to the ground, and yanked outward. His victim plead for mercy, but he had no intention of granting a pardon.
“Your weakness is your shame,” said Cobb, soaking in the sweat of his victory. “Wear this pain as a badge of honor.”
He twisted the arm until he heard the distinctive sound of brittle bones snapping. When he finished, he brought the man to his feet and, with the heel of his boot, kicked him into the gathered crowd, knocking over orange jumpsuits like bowling pins.
Cobb turned to the other prisoners and yelled, “Anyone else want to tango? My dance card has an opening.”
No one took him up on his offer—disappointing, but expected. The posted guards had started paying attention again, but he’d paid them off knowing that any conflicts would be a short tussle and a sure victory.
He couldn’t remember what had triggered the fight. The man with no skill had said something about a beef with a gang member in D block. It didn’t matter and Cobb didn’t care. The unskilled slob wasn’t the first foolhardy initiate to pick a fight with the wrong man.
The hot air hung thick around him and his shirt clung to his skin. Gray clouds foretold a future wet with the promise of refreshment, but not for some time.
A large white oak tree had once stood in the center of the prison yard. The viridian leaves on the blessed tree’s overhanging branches would have provided ample protection from the sun.
That was before the warden deemed it a fire hazard. More likely it blocked the view of the tower guards. He’d ordered its relocation to the area outside of the perimeter fence, just out of the reach of potential escapees.
What dismal shade the tree cast on the grounds inside the fence beckoned. A group of prisoners basked in the cool shadow. He crossed the well-trodden dirt, ready to engage with any pretender who attempted to deny him this right.
Before he reached the end of the path, a runt of a man charged toward him, waving a phone in his hand. Fortunately for him, the guards saw nothing.
“Elias, there’s a call waiting for you,” said Frankie Two-Fingers.
His cellmate’s prison debts were known across every block. He’d lost the last three digits on his left hand in a bet, but no one had bothered Frankie after Cobb put him under his protection.
“I’ll take it in my office,” he replied, meaning his rather well-furnished cell.
They left the courtyard, and the guards escorted the two of them to their cell. A one-by-one Plexiglas square set into its pale frame offered the only glimpse inside.
After briefly nodding at the prisoner next door, Cobb entered and shut the hefty door behind him, as the guard just watched. Ashen brick walls—so familiar—surrounded his cushioned cot on three sides. A stainless-steel commode sat in the corner with several rolls of toilet paper stacked atop the lid. A spotless sheen, various amenities, and a customized collection of playing cards replaced the grime and dirt on the wrought iron bars of the window and the shelf above the sink.
His shaved dome shined with the slick of perspiration, so he grabbed a towel off the sink, sat on his covered cot, and wiped his face and the top of his head.
When he finished, Frankie handed him the phone and the deck of worn cards.
“This is Cobb,” he answered as his cellmate held a chipped mirror in front of him. No signs of injury. Not even a bloody lip. Pathetic.
“I’m in need of your services, Mr. Cobb,” said the voice on the other line.
He cut the deck and laid out a string of five cards facedown. “I’m listening. What’s the job?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. Too many ears, you know? But it pays well.”
Cobb considered the man’s proposal and his familiar voice, but couldn’t place where he’d heard him before.
“How much?” he asked, turning over the first card. Someone had sketched the image of a treasure chest on the jack of diamonds.
“A quarter of a million, up front,” said the voice. “Another one hundred thousand when the job’s done.”
He wasn’t about to be lowballed. “Make it five hundred altogether. I need the extra incentive.”
Cobb thought the man might push back. Five hundred grand was no small sum.
His new acquaintance didn’t hesitate. “Fine. Five hundred. Half now, half when it’s over. Do we have a deal, Mr. Cobb?”
He cracked his knuckles and said, “Maybe. I’ll check my schedule. What’s the competition?”
Confusion seeped into the buyer’s voice. “What do you mean?”
“Who are we up against?” asked Cobb, revealing the second card: an image of a prophet painted upon the king of spades. “You wouldn’t be calling me if you thought there was a path of least resistance.”
“There are certain alphabet organizations which may take interest. With what we’re doing and where we’re going, there are no guarantees.”
The third card showed him a wilting flower etched in the margins of the queen of hearts. He frowned.
No stranger to going hand-to-hand with the best of the American government, he said, “That’ll do.”
He heard the voice sigh in relief. “So, we have an agreement, Mr. Cobb?”
“I believe we do. My second-in-command is currently in the field. He’ll arrange the particulars.”
He signaled Frankie over and whispered in his ear as he flipped the fourth card. A scorned harlot fleeing her pursuers replaced the ace of clubs.
“Excellent. How can I get in contact with your lieutenant?”
Cobb gave him the convoluted and specific instructions. He’d learned to code messages from the best in the business. Neither the guards nor anyone listening in should be able to piece the information together.
“Do you need transport?” the client asked.
“No,” he said as Frankie knocked on the wall of the adjacent room. “We’ve already made our own arrangements.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch again soon.”
“It’s in the cards,” said Cobb, and he hung up the phone.
The guards screamed threats at the inmates as chaotic noise erupted in the hall outside.
Frankie approached him, gripping a shank between his remaining thumb and forefinger. “Is it time?” he asked, twirling the makeshift weapon.
Cobb overturned the last card. The manic joker, reimagined as a magician, gleefully danced atop a wall of stone, a fireball in the palm of his hand.
“Trash the phone,” he answered, gathering up the stack of cards, “and ready the men.”
Frankie pummeled the device against the floor, smashing it to bits of plastic, and relayed the news to the others.
Cobb closed his eyes and waited, but his ears were alert to the screams and howls of violence.
A short time later, the cell door opened. Eleven bloodied inmates and two crooked guards stepped inside. They kneeled before him. One of them presented him with a combat vest. A grim symbol above the left breast pocket depicted fearsome jaws clamped around the tattered flesh of a severed arm.
He accepted the gift, ripped off his white T-shirt, and donned the jacket. Reunited with an old and loyal friend, Cobb rose to his feet and made the announcement. “Today, we’re on the road to glory.”
The men stood and shouted their pleasure at the good news—excitable, undisciplined, impatient, but they would have to do.
“I’ll lead the way,” he told them. “You will maintain a wide spread at all times. In the event of armed confrontation, you will attack exactly who I designate. Understood?”
“Yes sir,” said Frankie, and the other men nodded their assent.
An alarm blared, meaning the luxury of time had just escaped them.
“Move out.”
The riot had spread across the prison. All manner of disreputable individuals leaped into the fray, eager to exact vengeance on their chosen victims. Officers and disagreeable cohabitants met grisly fates at the hands of the most brutal and calculated murderers, rapists, and thieves. Some would have called it a veritable hell on Earth, but Cobb saw it for what it truly was: the inevitable fruit of injustice borne of the loathsome, unwashed masses whose scruples were no better than those they imprisoned.
Three guards met his contingent outside the armory. They weren’t aware of him or his subjects, and they were unworthy.
“Shoot them,” Cobb told his followers.
The ignoble officers he’d converted to his cause loosened their grip on their shotguns. Perhaps they thought their hands would remain clean if they didn’t spill the blood of their comrades.
Cobb grabbed one of the guns, a specially-commissioned SPAS-15 variant, slid the foregrip into place, switched firing modes, and took aim.
He fired three times, each shot ringing in ears that had long become accustomed to the blasts and booms of close-quarters gunfire. Blood and brain matter peppered the walls and the three lifeless, shredded bodies fell to the floor.
“Hold this,” he said, handing the shotgun back to one of the corrupt guards, “in remembrance of the price of freedom and glory.”
The armory lock operated on a failsafe in case of emergencies. Only those with the appropriate identification were permitted entry. Engaging the mechanism required two simultaneously cleared users inputting the correct number.
He knelt down beside the guard corpses and foraged through their pockets, not caring that he stained his hands with their blood and bits of tissue. Seconds later, he emerged with twin chip-embedded keycards.
Cobb had all that he needed. He motioned to Frankie and handed him the second keycard. Together, they slid the cards into place. The indomitable red light on the electronic readout became yellow, awaiting the next step of verification.
“We require the code,” he said, turning to face the shell-shocked officers he’d recruited for this specific stage of the plan.
“F-five, two, three, seven, nine,” one of them stammered, as if they hadn’t known exactly what was going to happen to their brothers in arms.
Cobb punched in the code, and Frankie did the same on his end. The light didn’t change.
“Care to try again?” asked Cobb, glaring at the man holding the SPAS-15.
What a large weapon for such a little man.
The other corrupt guard answered for his buddy. “He misspoke. You have to put a zero on the front of any code in this complex or else it won’t work.”
Nodding, Cobb redialed the number: 0-5-2-3-7-9. The brilliant fluorescent light turned green. He heard a click and pushed the unsealed door ajar.
“Thank you,” he said to the more productive servant as they breached the room. “Frankie, you take that Mini-14. The rest of you should select your weapons and suit up. We make our way to Warden Carroll in four minutes.”
“Aren’t we using those?” asked a man with multiple facial tattoos, an offense worth the worst of prison sentences. He pointed to a set of gas grenades in the corner.
“No,” said Cobb. “The guards will have tested the components on themselves and built up a tolerance by now. The gas won’t be an effective deterrent. There aren’t enough masks to cover our men and the grenades will be hazardous to us as an unpredictable variable. We don’t need them.”
Their boots kicked up dust as they snuck across the courtyard. Exposing themselves to sniper fire was a risky move, but they couldn’t remain out of line of sight, as there was nowhere to hide their mass of warm, liberated bodies.
But there were no guards in the watchtowers, as the riot had drawn them away from their posts, as he’d anticipated. Cobb and his men pressed on.
Once they emerged inside the other half of the prison, he ordered his followers against the wall. They flattened along the surface of the ashen walls and crept to the managerial wing, skirting mangled bodies and boastful inmates.
Cobb stopped beside the warden’s door and drew his weapon. “We have you surrounded,” he said. “Surrender and we’ll grant you a quick death.”
Glass burst and an airborne shard slashed his cheek, opening up a gash below his left ear. Warden Carroll had chosen to go down fighting, and he had a SPAS-15 of his own.
Cobb ducked and rolled past the shattered window, while his men flanked right. He returned fire blind. The shotgun’s wide spread meant he didn’t need to poke his head up.
The others took that as their cue and stormed into the secretary’s office. He heard her scream in fright, then a loud and brutish bang overtook her shrill chords. Blissful silence ensued.
Her room connected to the other office. Their pincer maneuver would be more than enough to offset the warden’s positioning behind his desk.
Still hunkered underneath the window, Cobb fired three more shells as the men boxed Carroll in.
He heard low curses coming from the direction of the courtyard. Whether they were reinforcements or other inmates coming to collect their share, he needed to end this whole charade quickly.
He popped up and fired again. His shot pierced the velvet curtains behind the warden, forcing Carroll to squash his body to the floor as the others kicked down the side entrance.
Cobb propelled himself through the broken window. Outpacing his men, he skidded atop the overlarge desk and landed with his full body weight on the warden’s spine.
Carroll screamed and elbowed his shin.
He stepped down, gritted his teeth, and brought the warden to his feet.
Frankie took the warden’s gun away.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” said Cobb, rolling his neck. “That’s a problem for you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Carroll spat. Red foam bubbled from his busted lip.
Cobb socked him in the face, knocking the man silly.
The warden tried to return the blow, but lost his balance and swung wildly off the mark, knocking over a lamp.
Cobb hit him again, this time with the heel of his boot. The kick connected with a sickening crack, breaking Carroll’s nose and leaving him a crying, bloodied mess on the otherwise unblemished carpet.
“Now you will show me the treasure you have harbored so jealously.”
***
Rain drenched the quiet streets of the no-name town. Closed businesses, defunct gas stations, and a lackluster turnout at the general store prophesied the dire straits of a dying community. A smattering of pedestrians scurried about the town in desperation for relief from the storm, their soaked clothes about as helpful as a lampshade hung over a broken bulb.
Atop a bluff on the outskirts, Cobb peered through stolen high-grade binoculars—lightweight, prime magnification, night-vision capability. They weren’t his preferred brand, but the warden had good taste. It made watching for the police in this dreary weather less a tempest of uncertainty.
It had taken a few months of scouting the prison, mapping routes, and bribing a small contingent of guards, but he’d obtained his prize: the heirloom of his people. He wore the crow-shaped emblem around his neck with the pride it demanded of its owner. The wood carving was an ugly, gaudy thing, fashioned with a rope strap and adorned with beads, feathers, and common jewels.
He found the story behind the necklace’s creation fascinating, but all priceless artifacts had such mythological origins, legends woven into the fabric of a time long forgotten. He didn’t care to share the tale with these men; it belonged with him alone.
His fellow escapees rested their wearied legs on the cliff’s edge. They’d evaded the lockdown and reinforcements by any means necessary. They’d argued briefly with his decision to throw their weapons into the ravine, but acquiesced once he informed them the firearms were traceable.
Now they waited for his true men, his legion, to deliver them.
“Captain Davis, what’s your ETA?” he asked, lowering the binoculars and pressing the push-to-talk transmitter of the implant embedded near his vocal cords.
“Approximately four minutes, Commander,” his lieutenant responded, his voice a silent partner to the second implant residing in Cobb’s inner ear. “Is Operation Falling Eagle still our priority?”
Cobb cast a casual glance at the men beside him. Lightning flashed and struck the metal struts of a billboard a quarter mile away, and thunder boomed. The escapees flinched and dug their heels in the muck, caking their bruised feet with muddy red clay.
“Yes,” he said.
“Understood,” said Davis. “We’re approaching the road from the south. Per your request, we have two sets of uniforms. You’ll be dry as the desert sand in three minutes.”
“Good work, Captain. Over and out.”
Five unmarked beige Humvees and a semi-trailer arrived shortly thereafter. Each military vehicle had been retrofitted with the capacity to carry a squad of six—room enough for his present company.
As the wind whispered and the storm raged, Cobb’s soldiers exited the Humvees and stood in formation around their leader. He touched the palm of his hand to their chests and they turned about, facing in the direction of the former prisoners.
He walked alongside the lineup, studying the tight-lipped faces of his men. All accounted for. Their black tactical vests and camouflaged two-tone fatigues marked the Sons of Darkness as the best and brightest of the men he’d recruited throughout the years. Any would do for this task, but only one was best suited.
A beat past the stretch, he stopped. His men rooted themselves to their spot, firm and unyielding cedars in the face of a gale.
Frankie and the other escapees looked on in confusion.
“Regis,” said Cobb, singling out a man in the middle of the pack. “Has the raptor swept the skies?”
The man in question could have passed for his twin. “Yes, Commander.”
“Does he clutch the prey in his beak?”
“Affirmative.”
Pride surged within Cobb, but he didn’t smile. “And is he ready to land, to perch on the precipice for his final descent?”
“At your word,” said Regis, beating his chest twice and extending his palm outward into the pouring rain.
Cobb nodded. “Then spread your wings.”
At his command, they marched. One-by-one they took the arm of an escapee and led them to the Humvees. When the last man—aside from Frankie—was loaded into the trailer, Cobb asked for the uniforms.
“This is for you,” he said, handing his former cellmate a crisp pair of fatigues.
“What about them?” asked Frankie as they sat in the back of the rear car and changed.
“You are a valued commodity,” he answered, securing his dripping vest over the clean outfit. “I see great things in your future.”
Tires kicked up mud as they set in motion. Captain Davis led the procession around the bend, skirting the rim of the bluff, and halted at the beginning of the downward path as planned.
“You may take the plunge,” said Cobb, turning to the man who was his mirror image and handing him the soggy orange jumpsuit. “Your sacrifice will be remembered in the annals of our future paradise.”
“As you wish,” said Regis, switching out his own uniform for the prison clothes. “It has been an honor to serve you, Commander.”
“And mine to be your teacher,” he replied, gifting him the deck of modified playing cards. “These will be your guardian unto the end.”
His subordinate accepted the reward, again thumping his chest and reaching out his palm, and departed.
As the waters of the tumultuous torrent batted the freight trailer, Regis settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The truck roared.
Cobb watched from afar. He couldn’t hear the other escapees over the sounds of the storm, but they must have caught on when they saw the markings on the crates inside—not that it mattered.
When Regis plunged over the cliff and collided with the sharp rocks jutting out from the distant bottom, a massive fireball consumed the truck. A ruptured fuel line combined with explosive and highly pressurized cargo tended to have that effect.
Frankie, slack-jawed and frightened, recoiled.
Cobb seized him by the scruff of his shirt and explained the situation to him.
“They were not devoted to me,” he told the man with two-fingers and a penchant for betting on the wrong side. “Their loyalty ended the second we left the prison. But you, Frankie, are a man after my own heart.”
He knocked on the side of the door, and the Humvee convoy moved onward to the next destination. With a final look at the burning wreckage, Cobb returned the salute Regis had given him.
The road to glory loomed below the overcast horizon, paved with the intentions of men who knew the promise of their dreams.
