Chapter 24

Not once in his entire time in the U.S. Army had Connor been in the brig. Never had seen it, nor had he ever experienced the inside of a jail until he’d been falsely accused of receiving a quarter pound of weed via Fed Ex a few years back. Set up by an arrogant thug whose ego he’d damaged, and then was summarily released as soon as the matter had been cleared up and dismissed by the magistrate. With a little persuasion on the part of Jordan James.

In any event, the hole he now was in was far worse than what he’d ever envisioned a brig to be. Cold, damp, dark, except for a dim bulb glowing from an overhead socket. Mold growing on the walls, moisture seeping through seams in the ceiling where sheets of sheet metal had been riveted together. Dripping on his head, cold rivulets of water trickling through his hair and down his neck. It reminded him of an old cistern he’d been trapped in once, nothing but darkness and water up to his knees and living creatures slithering in the darkness that turned out to be frogs.

Whatever this shit box was, Connor felt a steady pounding at the base of his skull where he’d been cold-cocked with what felt like a tire iron. He couldn’t tell if he was bleeding, because his hands were bound together with zip-ties. Same thing with his ankles. And something sticky—he presumed it was duct tape—was pressed across his mouth.

His eyes had difficulty adjusting as he began to come around. Everything was fuzzy and out of focus, which he connected to the blow to his head. Or maybe some kind of drug he’d been given to keep him sedated. He kept blinking, hoping that maybe the flutter of his eyelids would reboot his vision, but it didn’t work.

His nose did, however, and it told him that wherever he was being held prisoner, sewage was nearby. His cell reeked of it. Urine and feces, enough to make him gag if his mouth hadn’t been taped shut.

He had no idea how long he’d been lying there. His watch had been stripped from his wrist, and he couldn’t feel his phone in his pocket. Same as the two guns he’d taken from his bedroom closet before leaving home. The only source of light was the overhead bulb, low wattage flickering as if it might change its mind and go dark any second.

Eventually Connor’s eyesight began to adjust, and he started to soak in some elements of his surroundings. First, he was in a bunk. Steel frame, thin mattress, soiled and thick with body odor. Another bunk was above him and, judging from his distance to the floor, one more was beneath him. A square of sheet metal had been welded to the wall next to him, and across a narrow aisle were three more bunks, and more steel.

As his throbbing brain processed these disparate elements, he began to realize where he was: An abandoned bus, stripped and refitted, just as he’d seen in the video Donna Ronson had sent him. Probably located in one of the earthen mounds where he’d been watching the workers load those large drums into the tour bus, just before someone had come up from behind and shellacked him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been attacked from behind and tossed in a dungeon, and he figured the odds of escaping this place were mind-bogglingly slim.

Someone notable—Connor couldn’t remember who—once said the baseline of optimism is sheer terror. Now, as he lay there on that stinky mattress in a bus that smelled like a pit toilet, every worst torture scene in every movie he’d ever seen came back all at once. So did memories from high school history involving Nazis and demented doctors experimenting on prisoners. None of those images imparted a sense of confidence, and when thoughts of Dr. Mengele began flashing through his mind, he knew he had to get out of there.

The big question was how?

Connor closed his eyes, tried to slow his breathing to a relaxed rate, as he’d learned to do during meditation classes at the VA. Hard to do, considering the spasms of pain ricocheting through his head. After a few minutes the pounding began to subside, and a comforting feeling of calm settled over him. So far so good, except part of his brain knew he was working against time. Whoever had brought him here and tied him up would be coming back, either hours from now or in mere seconds.

Keeping his respiration even and steady, he allowed his mind to drift to one of the hundreds of random YouTube videos he habitually wasted far too much time with. Clips that depicted everything from amazing football plays to scenes from The Sopranos to road rage drivers. One of them featured a young woman who had escaped from zip-cuffs after a stranger snatched her from the street and stashed her in a basement, presumably to be sexually assaulted. It was a real-time re-enactment that showed how she had removed a shoelace from one of her sneakers, then used her mouth to slip it around the tie that bound her wrist. After that she pulled it back and forth quickly, creating enough friction to soften the plastic. The strategy worked because her shoes had been left on her feet, and her hands hadn’t been bound to a pipe or a headboard.

Connor’s captors clearly hadn’t watched the video.

It took him several minutes to contort his twisted body far enough to remove a lace through the eyelets of his left shoe. Two more to then work it through the zip-tie that bound his wrists, then pull it back and forth quickly to create enough heat. Once his hands were clear it was easier to free his ankles and pull the tape from his mouth, but the clock was ticking. He had no idea how much time he had until his captors returned, and it didn’t take much imagination to figure out that, when they did, he wasn’t going to get out of there alive.

When he was done, he quickly re-laced his shoe, then pushed off the bunk and stood up on wobbly legs. His head was pounding, and a lump the size and texture of a peach had formed at the base of his skull, causing him to wince when he touched it. Lesson: don’t touch it. His vision had gradually returned, and now it was the vile stench that dominated his senses as he glanced around the bus.

“Holy Christ,” he swore, trying not to gag. “What the fuck is this place?”

When he’d watched the second of Ronson’s videos, he’d seen the men enter through the rear emergency exit, then shuffle up the aisle and exit through the right front door. He had no idea how many buses might be entangled in this underground warren, but logic suggested the way out was via the rear, through whatever rusted vehicles were connected behind it.

He started to move in that direction, when he heard a feeble voice call out. Tired, scared, and seemingly at death’s doorstep. A woman’s voice, the thinnest thread of hope seeming to separate her from life and whatever was on the other side.

“Please…help me—”

It was coming from the other direction, probably the next bus forward in this crazy underground labyrinth. Connor’s impulse was to get out of there before his captors returned, but his instinct told him to help whoever was crying out to him. He also intuitively suspected who it was before he was able to get to her.

He followed her cries and found her at the front of the next bus, bound in the fetal position in the space where the driver’s seat should have been. It had been removed, as were the gas and brake pedals, and two sets of heavy-duty rings had been bolted to the steel frame. A withered and terrified woman was shackled to them, her wrists and ankles raw from where she had pulled and strained against tempered chains secured with padlocks. She shrank back when she saw him, eyes wide with fear, not knowing if Connor was friend or foe.

“Don’t be afraid,” he assured her. “I’m here to help you.”

She didn’t say a word, her body shaking as if she were experiencing a seizure.

“Hang in there,” he told her. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

She stared at Connor as if death were just seconds away. Her face was battered and bruised, and blood had dried where it had streamed from her nose and mouth. A large welt had been opened up along her cheek, and she had a pair of black contusions, one under each eye. Even in her cramped position he could see that one of her ankles was twisted into a pretzel position, and several of her fingers appeared to be dislocated.

“Liz Morgan?” he asked her. “Or should I say, Brenda Buckner?”

She dropped her head in the slightest of nods, then whispered, “They’re going to kill me.”

“Who has the key?” he asked as he knelt down beside her. His head was thumping like a jackhammer, but he knew her own pain had to be considerably worse.

“Guards.”

“Let me see those locks,” Connor said.

All she could do was tremble as he leaned forward to see what kind of security he was up against. Not good news. They both said Arbus Titanium, which meant they would hold tight against anything except the proper key. Definitely not a bolt-cutter or hacksaw, neither of which just happened to be lying around, anyway.

Connor grabbed one of the steel rings, taking care not to twist her bloodied wrist any more than it already was. He gave it a firm pull, felt not a micron of give. He tried the same thing with her ankle shackles, this time felt a little more play. They were fastened tight, but enough strength and patience might give him a shot at working them free from the wall.

But that was going to have to wait, because just then he heard a faint clang echo through the maze of buses, near where he imagined the exit to be.

“Gotta go,” he told her. “I’ll be back to get you when I can.”

Not something she wanted to hear. “Don’t leave me—”

“Just stay quiet,” he said, keeping his voice to a whisper.

“But—”

He touched a finger to her scabbed lips and said, “Shhh.” Then he hobbled back the way he’d come, pulling himself back up onto his bunk just seconds before a guard burst through the rear exit and climbed up into the bus.

Connor had stretched out in the same position as when he’d awakened a few minutes ago, his hands and feet positioned as if the zip-cuffs still tightly bound them. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, but cracked one slightly as he sensed the man coming closer.

“Wakey-wakey,” the approaching guard taunted him. Camo jeans, camo T-shirt, military grade cap embroidered with the 2AM emblem. “Time for a little fun.”

Connor remained silent and mentally assessed his situation. He was no former Navy SEAL, no boxing champ, no barroom brawler. It had been years since he’d been in a real fight, and even longer since his hand-to-hand combat training in boot camp. Over the last few years, he’d let a lot of his muscle mass go slack, although on a good day he could pound out three miles on the sand with little effort. Five, if he really pushed it.

Trouble was, this was not a good day. He’d just been beat to shit and bound to a bunk. Every inch of his body ached, and his head was jackhammering. He was at a clear disadvantage, and had no idea what this ass-wipe had in mind—at least not until he noticed the electric chainsaw in his left hand.

“That’s right, fucker,” the guy said, a broad grin showing a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Time to lose a few pounds the quick way.”

With that he flicked the button that started the motor. It came to life with an unnerving whir, not the loud roar Connor remembered from the Texas massacre movies. Then, from one bus over, Brenda Buckner screamed, “No—”

Her voice could barely be heard over the noise of the electric motor, but that single word probably saved Connor’s life. The guard instinctively glanced in the direction of the noise and, as he did, Connor shot out a foot that struck him in the chest. Not particularly hard, just enough to catch him by surprise. He momentarily lost his balance and the hand holding the saw swung up, the chain clattering off a metal support for one of the bunks. In the same instant his finger slipped off the throttle, and the engine cut out.

Connor leaped out of the bunk as fast as he could, catching the guy in the chin with his other foot. Again, not a hard kick, but it caused the guy to crack his head on the bunk behind him. For a second he was stunned, and Connor slammed him with the full force of his body. The bus aisle was narrow, no more than eighteen inches across, not enough space to get in more than a couple quick rabbit punches. He went for his nose, while the guard aimed a bit lower and tried to land a blow to Connor’s gut. His fist flailed wide, and Connor followed through with an uppercut to the chin. He felt the wound on the back of his right hand rip open, but he could deal with that later.

If there was a later.

The guard was in much better physical condition, but Connor had the element of surprise on his side. He landed another right and a left, and the guard did the same in return. Connor rammed his head into the guy’s skull, then spun around with as much of a roundhouse as he could manage. It landed squarely on the guy’s ear and he yelped, so Connor did it again, then pivoted and cracked him with an elbow in the nose. Blood erupted from both nostrils, spraying across the bus wall and the nearby bunks. Connor took the opportunity to seize the guy’s head in both hands and crunch it against the bunk frame. Hard.

The guard sank to his knees, whereupon Connor kicked him in the teeth. His head flew back, causing him to crumple to the floor. Connor kicked him one more time in the jaw, then rummaged through the guy’s pockets, where he found a small ring of keys—including one that read Arbus. He also confiscated a cell phone and a pistol that said Ruger on the grip. Then he grabbed the chainsaw and made his way back to where Liz Morgan—Brenda Buckner—was huddled against the bus wall, wrists and ankles strained against her shackles.

He had her loose in thirty seconds, but her trouble didn’t end there. She’d been bound in that position for so long—evidently set free only long enough to eat and to use the compost toilet—that her arms and legs were stiff and weak. She could barely move when he released her, and it took most of a minute just to get her on her feet.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she said at one point.

“You can’t not do this,” Connor urged her. He pulled one of her arms around his shoulder and gently hoisted her up, then grabbed the electric saw and slowly assisted her down the aisle to the rear exit.

In the next bus the security guard was blinking his eyes open. Connor took care of that with another vicious kick, then tore a length of sheet from one of the bunks and hogtied him. He wrapped another length around his own hand to stanch the blood. “Time to go,” he said.

“Nazi pigs,” Brenda said, getting her own feeble kick in, as well.

Turned out there were four buses between them and the start of the maze, where a doorway led to what Connor presumed was the opening in the mound he’d seen in the video. “This way,” he said.

“How do you know?” she asked as they climbed out of the last bus through the rear exit.

“Later.”

“At least tell me who you are—”

“Jack Connor.”

She shook her head; the name meant nothing to her.

“I’m the bond runner who tracked down Willis Ronson,” he explained. “I was transporting him back to jail when we were ambushed.”

She pinched her eyes shut for a moment; when she opened them she said, “Oh my God. How is he?”

“Dead. Never had a chance.”

“Oh, Christ. I had no idea—”

“Like I said, later,” Connor interrupted her.

“Shit.” She clamped her eyes shut, either from pain or anguish. When she opened them again she said, “He was down here…he shot video—”

“I know. What is this place, anyway?”

“Pure hell. I think it’s where they keep the numb nuts who lose during their daily battlefield drills. They’re pretty beat up when they get back. And angry.”

Connor thought on that, said, “We really need to move.”

“They’re heavily armed out there—”

“That’s how I ended up down here.”

Liz Morgan looked momentarily confused, then said, “I don’t think there’s any cavalry coming.”

“I was the cavalry.”

“So what are you doing in here?” she asked him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Connor replied.

“They were waiting for me when I went to see Willis.”

“At the motel?”

“Nearby,” Buckner/Morgan replied.

“He was your C.I.?”

“Something like that. But can we do this later, like you said?”

“Sure.” Connor peered through the doorway, saw it opened onto what appeared to be a large metal room. A box of some kind, with corrugated walls. Then it hit him: a shipping container, illuminated at the ceiling by yet another single bulb in a cage. “Looks like we’re almost there.”

“Where?” she wanted to know.

“Out of here.”

“Then what?”

Good question. He edged into the metal box ahead of her, the Ruger in one hand, the chain saw in the other. The wood floor was smeared with muddy footprints and droplets of what appeared to be blood. The air was stagnant and quiet, and Connor helped ease the ATF agent against the wall as her lungs struggled for air.

The steel door that led outdoors was ajar, just enough to let in a line of sunlight from floor to ceiling. Which made sense if the guard had let himself in. Connor tried to sneak a peek through the crack, but didn’t dare push it open any further. He had no idea what awaited them out there, although he suspected he was at the entrance of one of the half-dozen mounds he’d spotted earlier. Beyond that stretched a good hundred yards of clearing, all enclosed by a hurricane fence with razor wire on top, and patrolled by armed guards. How many of them, he didn’t know, nor did he want to find out the hard way.

An image of Steve McQueen jumping a prison camp fence on a motorcycle flashed through his head.

“How are you holding up?” he asked Brenda.

“I need about a hundred Advil,” she said. “Or a bottle of Scotch.”

“As soon as we’re out of here.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Not to die, was the first quip that came to mind. But it actually was a good question, since someone else eventually would come to check on where his buddy was. They could wait here for that to happen, and Connor actually considered that option, figuring he could pick them off one by one as they entered. At some point, however, someone would get wise, and then the troops would converge in force.

Or he would run out of bullets.

He didn’t answer her question, instead pushed the door just enough until the thin slice of light had expanded to about an inch. The narrow angle limited his field of vision, although he knew there had to be several guards patrolling the premises. Possibly one positioned just outside the door. He had no idea what time it was, or how many hours had passed since he’d been tossed in the hole. Nor did he hear any voices, although a dozen armed men were probably out there, wandering the perimeter or watching from some sort of guard post he hadn’t noticed last night.

“You’re sure you’re up for this?” he asked Morgan/Buckner.

“Define this,” she replied.

“We stay as calm—and low—as possible, and go for the trees.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“Ask me when we get there.”

He slowly pushed the door open a few more inches, and immediately caught movement to his left. A guard was approaching, just twenty yards away, wandering across the compound while staring at his phone. Probably not the same dumbass who’d been patrolling the perimeter last night, but it suggested these guys were bored. Nothing ever happened here, so they played games or chatted with girlfriends. Which this one seemed to be doing, until he got to the door and found it unlocked.

Connor gently pulled it closed, then moved Brenda as far to one side of it as he could. He didn’t know what the security protocol in this camp was, hoped maybe the guy would just assume the other guard had left it unlocked when he’d entered a few minutes ago. Or maybe wondered why he hadn’t already dragged Connor out in pieces.

Either way, the guy pulled the door open and called out “Earl,” providing a name to the shit-kicked guard deep within the bowels of the bus maze. “You in there?”

When he got no response, he hesitated. The warren of buses didn’t allow sound to carry very far, and he had no idea where Earl might be in the depths below. Maybe using his chainsaw on their new prisoner, or torturing the ATF bitch. Connor saw the fear in her eyes, and again touched a finger to her lips. She responded with a slight nod, but her entire body was trembling.

The guard did what any guard would do. He stepped into the steel container, far enough for Connor to see him. Far enough for him to see Connor, too, and in that instant he drew his gun.

But Connor already had Earl’s Ruger out, and had the drop on him. He’d killed two men in Iraq, and had dispatched a few more in self-defense here at home. He tightened his finger across the trigger and gave it a firm pull.

The guard was blown back against the steel wall, then slid to the floor. Brenda screamed. Connor hesitated just a second, then approached the dead guard and bent down into a crouch. Felt for a nonexistent pulse, then shifted his gaze and looked him square in the eyes.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“What?”

“I know this guy. Name’s Joey Barber.”

“Seriously?” Morgan said. “He’s the sonofabitch who set up Willis Ronson, got him into Two A.M.”

That caught Connor’s attention and he asked, “Two A.M.? What do you know about that?”

“More than I’d like to,” she replied. “Stands for Second Amendment Militia. Some homegrown terrorist group trying to liberate America from tyranny and remake it in their own sorry-ass image.”

“That’s what this is all about?” Connor asked.

“Yeah. Mass casualties and blood in the streets. They’ve been stealing weapons from military bases all over, and we’ve been trying to nail ‘em for months.”

“Well, it looks like we found them.” Connor picked up Barber’s gun—well-scuffed, with the word Springfield on the side—and wedged it into his waistband.

“Someone had to have heard the shot,” she said, when she regained her composure.

“Probably.”

“Think they’ll come for us?”

“No doubt.”

“Can I have a gun?”

“Can you shoot?”

She cast him a peculiar look and said, “I’m fucking ATF. What do you think?”