the fucks two weeks to figure out what it was.”
“You got twenty-four hours to figure out what I got for you today.”
Captain Seven’s eyes glistened. “’Nother locked room murder?”
“Better. Mass escape from the MAX-SEC wing at The Locks.”
“How many?”
“Eighty-four.”
“Leeds?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, fuck.”
Captain Seven bounced off the bed and dashed to the black clothes chest. The top drawer yielded a plastic bag that he opened to reveal a pile of finely milled, greenish-black marijuana.
“Hawaiian lava bed,” he pronounced. “World’s finest.”
“I thought you quit.”
Seven began packing the pot into the proper chamber. “Yeah, that was this morning. But I need my wits about me now.”
Captain Seven sucked in on one of the chambers. The water pulsed and bubbled, and suddenly smoke was everywhere, churning through the labyrinth of passages en route ultimately to his lungs. The captain moved his mouth away and held the smoke in with his eyes squeezed closed.
“Ahhhhhhh,” he exulted seconds later, eyes coming open. “That’s better. I’m ready now. Talk.”
Kimberlain told him the story as Vogelhut had related it, describing the physical logistics in detail and stressing the time constraints involved.
“Fucks sure pulled off a lot in six minutes of darkness.”
“Head man is certain that’s all they had. So what we got is a highly fortified installation on an island in the middle of a raging storm. Even if the inmates had walked out of their cells, where the hell did they go? How did they get off the island?”
Captain Seven took another long hit off the bong. When he spoke again, his voice sounded nasal, hoarse from the happy fire in his throat.
“Go home and get some sleep, Ferryman. Leave the impossible to me.”
“Twenty-four hours, Captain.”
Seven reached over for a battered jean jacket planted on a hook. “Get there by dawn if I hit the road now. See you for breakfast the day after.”
Kimberlain headed back for his cabin in the woods of Vermont as soon as his business with Captain Seven was completed. He hated long drives, because they left him with only his thoughts to keep him alert. Tonight those thoughts had trudged backward to the origin of the Ferryman.
He had finished training with the Special Forces and been accepted for a tour with the antiterrorist commandos composing Delta Force, when word of his parents’ death reached him. He was granted an emergency leave to attend the funeral. He would be the only relative there, the only one left besides a sister who had fled the strict Kimberlain home and had never returned. To his father she had no longer existed. His mother had cried a lot over it. Kimberlain, only a boy at the time, barely remembered her.
The base commander at Fort Bragg had hinted that unusual circumstances were behind the deaths of his parents, and Kimberlain found out the truth in the hours before the funeral. Apparently they had been touring California in their recently purchased RV when mechanical problems forced them to pull over. His father must have stubbornly insisted he could fix it himself, and the problems had dragged on past nightfall when the aging couple became prey for a gang of bikers. The gang decided to expropriate the RV for themselves. Shots were exchanged, and by all accounts, his father put up an incredible fight. But in the end the sheer number of the bikers won out, and both his parents were killed.
Kimberlain had been given the day of the funeral plus two additional days leave from the base. At the grave site he ignored the clichéd phrases of the unknown minister, his mind on other things. He had smuggled a .45 off Bragg in his duffel, and if he needed more than a single clip to finish the job, he deserved whatever fate awaited him.
The plan he would use developed quickly. He remained in the civilian suit he had worn to the funeral and pulled a cap over his standard army haircut. He rented a huge Lincoln
“You got twenty-four hours to figure out what I got for you today.”
Captain Seven’s eyes glistened. “’Nother locked room murder?”
“Better. Mass escape from the MAX-SEC wing at The Locks.”
“How many?”
“Eighty-four.”
“Leeds?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, fuck.”
Captain Seven bounced off the bed and dashed to the black clothes chest. The top drawer yielded a plastic bag that he opened to reveal a pile of finely milled, greenish-black marijuana.
“Hawaiian lava bed,” he pronounced. “World’s finest.”
“I thought you quit.”
Seven began packing the pot into the proper chamber. “Yeah, that was this morning. But I need my wits about me now.”
Captain Seven sucked in on one of the chambers. The water pulsed and bubbled, and suddenly smoke was everywhere, churning through the labyrinth of passages en route ultimately to his lungs. The captain moved his mouth away and held the smoke in with his eyes squeezed closed.
“Ahhhhhhh,” he exulted seconds later, eyes coming open. “That’s better. I’m ready now. Talk.”
Kimberlain told him the story as Vogelhut had related it, describing the physical logistics in detail and stressing the time constraints involved.
“Fucks sure pulled off a lot in six minutes of darkness.”
“Head man is certain that’s all they had. So what we got is a highly fortified installation on an island in the middle of a raging storm. Even if the inmates had walked out of their cells, where the hell did they go? How did they get off the island?”
Captain Seven took another long hit off the bong. When he spoke again, his voice sounded nasal, hoarse from the happy fire in his throat.
“Go home and get some sleep, Ferryman. Leave the impossible to me.”
“Twenty-four hours, Captain.”
Seven reached over for a battered jean jacket planted on a hook. “Get there by dawn if I hit the road now. See you for breakfast the day after.”
Kimberlain headed back for his cabin in the woods of Vermont as soon as his business with Captain Seven was completed. He hated long drives, because they left him with only his thoughts to keep him alert. Tonight those thoughts had trudged backward to the origin of the Ferryman.
He had finished training with the Special Forces and been accepted for a tour with the antiterrorist commandos composing Delta Force, when word of his parents’ death reached him. He was granted an emergency leave to attend the funeral. He would be the only relative there, the only one left besides a sister who had fled the strict Kimberlain home and had never returned. To his father she had no longer existed. His mother had cried a lot over it. Kimberlain, only a boy at the time, barely remembered her.
The base commander at Fort Bragg had hinted that unusual circumstances were behind the deaths of his parents, and Kimberlain found out the truth in the hours before the funeral. Apparently they had been touring California in their recently purchased RV when mechanical problems forced them to pull over. His father must have stubbornly insisted he could fix it himself, and the problems had dragged on past nightfall when the aging couple became prey for a gang of bikers. The gang decided to expropriate the RV for themselves. Shots were exchanged, and by all accounts, his father put up an incredible fight. But in the end the sheer number of the bikers won out, and both his parents were killed.
Kimberlain had been given the day of the funeral plus two additional days leave from the base. At the grave site he ignored the clichéd phrases of the unknown minister, his mind on other things. He had smuggled a .45 off Bragg in his duffel, and if he needed more than a single clip to finish the job, he deserved whatever fate awaited him.
The plan he would use developed quickly. He remained in the civilian suit he had worn to the funeral and pulled a cap over his standard army haircut. He rented a huge Lincoln
Similar Books
