Hunter's Games (33 page)

The door just broke it…

I react on instinct, knowing I have literally three seconds before it explodes. I lunge forward, urging my legs to sprint as fast as they can into the main prison. Unfortunately, my body is moving faster than my legs seem to want to, and all I end up doing is lunging forward through the corridor and out into the prison.

In mid-air, I hear the explosion go off behind me. The roar of the flames is deafening, and the heat is intense. As I land, I cover my head with my arms, looking underneath me as best I can. The blast has ripped the metal door from its hinges, and it’s flying toward me, propelled by the explosion.

I scramble to my feet and try to dive away to the right, but I’m too slow. The door lands on me, smashing against my back and the back of my head. The force of the impact sends me flying forward and skidding across the floor.

I roll over on my back and lie still for a moment, assessing the damage. I feel like an eighteen-wheeler as ran me over. I have a pulsating ache across my back and my ears are ringing. My headache is beyond words but other than that, it seems like I’m in one piece—which is a goddamn miracle.

I prop myself up on my elbows and look around. My vision’s a little hazy, but there’s not much to make out anyway. I roll over and push myself up on all fours. My hands are resting in shallow puddles and the ground is uneven and muddy around me. The area I’m in looks small—maybe thirty square feet, max. There are large double doors to the left and right, with holding cells lining the wall in front of me, facing the corridor I just got blown out of. I try to stand, moving my left leg forward to take my weight, but I barely get my knees off the floor before I topple over, landing awkwardly on my right shoulder.

I groan and blink hard, trying to focus. I’m in so much pain; anything new doesn’t even register anymore. I tap the earpiece absently with my right hand.

“Josh, you there?” I manage to say.

I get no response and when I tap it again, I get feedback in my ear. Great… I guess I’m on my own. I take it out and throw it across the floor. I struggle to get on all fours again. I’m facing the corridor now, and I look to my right at the doors across the room and they’re open.

Wonderful… what now?

I’m sense that I’m not alone. I squint to focus, dealing with the onset of a concussion and the dim interior lighting that aren’t helping clear the haze. Three men rush toward me, all armed and approaching in a loose, wide arc. All three of them are dressed in nondescript black denim and combat boots, with black t-shirts on. They look military, so they must be with Pellaggio and not left over from Manhattan’s reign in charge of things. They’ve got me covered from every angle.

I push myself up further, so I’m kneeling back, resting against my heels. I’m breathing heavy, grimacing from the pain that’s shooting around my body after each breath. I hold my hands out to the sides with exhausted resignation.

“I don’t suppose… you boys wanna surrender now, do you?” I ask. “To save us all some time and effort later?”

The guy on my right steps toward me while the other two hang back. Without a word, he slams the butt of his rifle into the side of my head—hard enough to make me dizzy, but restrained enough to keep me conscious. My concussion doubles in severity almost instantly and I fall forward to the floor again, fighting the urge to vomit.

I push myself back up on all fours and shake my head, trying to clear the cobwebs and stay conscious. I spit out a little blood to the side of me and look up at each of them in turn.

“Huh… guess not.”

The one in the middle steps forward now. “Mr. Pellaggio has been expecting you,” he says.

“Well, I hope he’s got a cold beer waiting for me,” I say as I struggle to get myself up on one knee.

“Get up!” yells the guy on the right.

I ignore him and spit a little more blood out on the floor next to me. I feel inside my mouth with my finger for a cut. I can’t find anything, which I’m assuming means I’ve got some internal bleeding. I can breathe okay, so I’ve not got a punctured lung or anything.

“Hey!” he shouts again. “Get your ass up!”

“I’m doing my best, asshole,” I reply, slightly irritated. “How about you get yourself blown up then hit in the face—see how quickly
you
can move afterward?”

He steps forward and raises the butt of his rifle once again, but the guy in the middle stops him.

“Jones, enough,” he says. “Pellaggio wants him in one piece. It’s not our job to beat the shit out of him, remember?”

I look up at him. “Thanks,” I say, chuckling weakly.

He smiles back. “I wouldn’t thank me if I were you,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “You’ve not met the guy who
will
be beating the shit outta you!”

I look back down at the floor, grimacing through another deep breath. “Great…”

The guy on the left and the one in the middle steps toward me, letting their rifles hang loose as they each grab me underneath an arm and heave me up, holding me steady so Jones can frisk me. He takes my phone out of my pocket, tosses it to the floor and drives the heel of his boot down hard on it, smashing it beyond repair. He then unfastens the harness, along with my back holster and the strap of the MP5, letting them all drop to the floor at my feet.

“Pritchard, pick his shit up,” he says to the guy standing on my left. He looks at me. “You, move.”

I sigh and let them lead me over to the open door on the left, breathing slowly and painfully. High above, the hanging fluorescent lights buzz and crackle away, doing nothing for the earth-shattering headache I have. There’s no natural light inside here, and I imagine there’s very little outside by now, either. I think about the Jeremiah and realize I’m running out of time to stop Pellaggio.

“What time is it?” I ask, generally.

“Time you shut the fuck up,” replies Jones.

I shrug. “Wow… helpful, thanks.”

Josh would be so proud at how well I'm doing with my sarcasm.

They push me again, making me stumble forward and almost fall over. I’m definitely not firing on all cylinders. It’s too risky to attempt to take them all out now, although not impossible. I need to bide my time, mess with their heads as much as possible and get them good and pissed for when it
is
time to kill them. The madder they are, the more mistakes they’ll make and, as much as I hate to admit it, right now I need all the help I can get.

We walk through the doors and into a long corridor with old, empty offices either side. Turning right, we walk to the end where it becomes a crossroads. I stop, looking both ways. To the right I can see the corridor to the prison cells. Left looks to be the old dining hall. The guy behind me nudges me in the back with the barrel of his rifle, which I take as a sign to go straight on. After a short walk, the corridor opens up into a reception area, with two large doors ahead.

I wish Josh were still in my ear, telling me where I’m going and what’s coming. I hate flying blind, especially when I’m out-numbered and barely conscious.

Pritchard moves ahead and opens the doors, stepping through and holding them open for the rest of us. He’s carrying the harness, my holster, and the MP5 by its strap, all in his left hand. We emerge outside of the main prison block, on a pathway that seems to wind down the front of the island, all the way to the main docks.

We make our way down it, along the outside of the prison and dining hall. Pritchard is ahead of us, with Jones to my right and the remaining guy on my left. The sun is low on the horizon, its orange glow silhouetted against the shadowed skyline of the San Francisco Bay as dusk settles in. I can just about make out the shape of the Jeremiah in the distance. The Secretary of Defense will be on board by now, I suspect. It has to be close to seven p.m. by now, so they’ll be making their final preparations before the service begins. My money’s on Pellaggio waiting until the end, so he can be sure Schultz will be on the stage giving his speech. He’ll want to make certain he kills
him
, if nothing else.

Tick tock, Adrian.

I sigh, clenching my jaw muscles as I silently fight the headache and the pain in my neck and back, that’s starting to throb more prominently now.

After a few minutes, the path turns sharply to the right and works its way down a slope as we gradually head toward the East Road. It starts out with relatively new, well-maintained concrete underfoot, but the further we walk the worse the path gets, slowly becoming gravel with patches of old, stained concrete dotted around.

I try to walk a little faster—no use to me going downhill, because essentially they’re above me, giving them any physical advantage there is over me. Once we get back on level ground, I need to take these monkeys out before we get too close to Pellaggio. The guy before made it sound like I’m in for some serious punishment when I get to where we’re going. I imagine from either Pellaggio himself or Gregovski.

I can hardly wait...

The path turns left, going back on itself yet again. Looking down to my right, I can see the main East Road not far below. Further away to my right is the main dock. I can just about see one boat, and what looks like the back of another that’s partly blocked from view. Must be what Pellaggio and his crew came over in.

A few minutes later, we come out on the East Road at a junction, of sorts, just before the old Officer’s Club building, which is off to the right. The road doglegs slightly to the left, which is the way we’re going, apparently. The guy with my stuff takes point and the rest of us follow him, with one of them either side of me. A few hundred meters along and I can see the Quartermaster building up ahead on the right.

I’m running out of time.

“So,” I say, looking at Jones. “What’s Pellaggio planning on doing once he’s fired his Stinger missile at the S.S. Jeremiah?”

He frowns and looks somewhat nervously at his colleagues.

“Oh, sorry—was that meant to be some sort of secret?”

“Quit talkin’, asshole,” says Pritchard.

“I’m just curious,” I persist. “I figured if you guys told me now, it’d save him doing it later—he could use the time more effectively, like for torturing me or something instead. I’m just thinking of him, really.”

“You really don’t know when to keep your mouth shut, do you?”

“Not usually,” I shrug.

The guy on the left takes two quick steps forward and stops in front of me, gun raised and aimed at my chest. The guy on the right takes a step back and looks on. I glance over my shoulder at him, then at the remaining guy at the front, who’s stepped to his right and is slowly raising his rifle at me. They’ve got me covered, forming a loose triangle around me.

“We can have a little fun with this prick, can’t we?” he asks Pritchard.

“We could say he tried to get away, and had to stop him?” he replies, setting my equipment down at the side of him and holding his rifle loose in front of him.

Perfect!

“Hey, c’mon guys,” I say. “There are three of you, one of me—I’m concussed and can barely walk... surely you don’t need the guns? What say you put them down and we settle this the old-fashioned way? Give me a sporting chance, huh?”

Come on… take the bait, assholes, take the bait…

They all exchange glances and smile at each other, their grins filled with bad intentions. One by one, they rest their guns on the ground.

Bingo!

I know I have to be careful, as I’m still a bit unsteady on my feet and have limited maneuverability after the blast. I can’t afford for any confrontation to get dragged out.

I take a step back to my left, turning the loose triangle surrounding me into a square, with me in the bottom left corner. The guy called Pritchard is in the opposite corner to me. I figure he’ll make the first move, because the other two seem to be running things by him, so he might be more senior.

I’m right—Pritchard edges forward, one step at a time, his hands up in an amateurish boxing guard. I stand loose, turning slightly side on, with my arms by my sides. Even on my worst day, I’m twice as fast as any of these idiots. And today is definitely not one of my better days.

He’s approaching with all his weight on his back foot. He’s in an orthodox stance, meaning he’s right-handed; his weaker left hand is out in front. He’s going get close and immediately swing a big, lazy right haymaker and try to knock my head off straight away. It’s so obvious, I almost feel sorry for the guy.

I let him get two paces closer before reacting to the punch he’s about to throw. I move forward as fast as I can, bringing my right arm up across my chest. As his right haymaker comes up from his hip and swings slowly around, my right hand snaps to meet it and pushes it away, sending him off-balance to his right. I got to it before his momentum could get going, which made deflecting it easier.

As he’s leaning to my left, I take a step forward, raising my right foot and kicking his front leg at the knee. I step through, pushing my foot through his kneecap, instantly breaking his leg. The snap is sickening, and sounds loud on the near-deserted island, but is quickly drowned out by his agonizing screams.

I bring my leg back, waiting for him to fall toward me. As he inevitably does, I bring my right knee up to meet him, catching him flush on the nose. I feel the thin bone and cartilage give way under the impact, sounding like a wet explosion as blood splatters across his face.