Into the Fire(93)

Evan closed his eyes. In two minutes Joey would black out the cameras. That would give him a limited window in which to get it all done.

He took a few deep breaths.

Either it would work.

Or any recognizable version of his life would be over.

One minute.

Keeping his eyes shut, he felt the firmness of the concrete underfoot, the pressure of the soles in his shoes, the weight of the air. A coolness at his nostrils with each inhalation. The rise of his chest, his stomach moving as well, every breath expanding ribs and belly, reminding him that right now he was alive and safe, standing on a planet with seven and a half billion souls, many of whom had bigger challenges even than what he was about to face.

He keyed to the snow-globe swirl of his thoughts and emotions and waited for the sediment to settle.

Once the water cleared, he opened his eyes.

He felt neither stress nor trepidation. Neither weakness nor concussion symptoms. He’d consigned all emotion to the future. Right now he was a pulse and a weapon heated to 98.6 degrees. He was muscle and bone that if deployed properly would produce predictable results.

And he was moving.

A broken third of his soap bar rested atop his sheet. The staple he’d smuggled in was embedded in the chunk, curved out like a horseshoe and padded with the foil gum wrapper.

Plucking it up, he crouched by the electrical outlet. Careful to grip only the soap, he jammed the small piece of curved metal into the outlet. An arc ran through the center of the horseshoe.

He’d placed the dead plant, dried further by the day’s relentless sunlight, on the floor beside his knee. He plucked up a stick of it now and touched it to the arc.

It caught, a makeshift match.

Scattered around him lay tufts of stuffing from his mattress.

Kindling.

He lit a tuft on fire. And then another. And then another. And then one more.

When the flames reached a sufficient pitch, he dropped one tuft atop each of the four mattresses in the cell, mini bonfires with fresh fuel.

Fire burned down into the heart of each mattress.

He picked one up by the edge, ran to the cell door to get up his momentum, and flung it over the edge of the catwalk. The inmates below scattered a moment before it struck a table, spraying sparks.

He hurled another mattress to a different part of the bay, spreading out the diversions so they’d be harder to source. Confusion reigned, inmates hollering, running to their cells, toward the sealed exit. He spotted Teardrop below, bolting from the dayroom, grabbing fleeing inmates and shouting questions at them. Across at Cell 37, Bedrosov’s lieutenants leaned over the catwalk, staring down, also trying to assemble the picture.

Evan dragged a third mattress around into the neighboring cell. Four sets of eyes stared at him in alarm. He stood, wielding a raft of flame.

“Excuse me,” he said, and they bolted.

He slung the sheet of fire into the center of that cell and pulled the other mattresses down around it.

As he reemerged onto the catwalk, mayhem spread below, brawls breaking out. Evan ran back into his cell, the heat as thick as paste. Safe from the flames, tilted in the corner near the door, was the result of his toil.

The papier-maché newspaper, ten pages meticulously rolled, dried, and hardened into a single solid object.

A spear.

Not only was it too brittle to be used as a bat, it wouldn’t survive a stabbing intact. It was designed for onetime use. He had to protect it until he got to Bedrosov. And he had to hit the mark on the first try.

Evan grabbed it, careful to keep his unsheathed pinkie lifted from the surface, and turned to go.

One of Bedrosov’s lieutenants filled the doorway. “I saw what you did, you stupid—”

A single thought loomed, lit in neon on the inside of Evan’s mind: Protect your head.

Curling the spear defensively to his chest, Evan whipped around in a spin kick, striking the guy with the edge of his foot, hitting him on the rise just beneath the sternum. The man flew up across the catwalk, landing on the rail with a backbreaking crunch. He slid forward onto his knees, puddling onto the mesh metal as Evan passed.

The other lieutenant remained in guard position in front of 37, fists raised, eyes darting from the floor to the various cells. He spotted Evan when Evan was twenty yards out, sprinting up the catwalk at him.

The man squared to fight, his left foot sliding back, which meant either a jab would come from the right or a cross from the left. His eyes bulged, veins squiggling in his neck. An overadrenalized fighter tended to lead with a power cross, and sure enough, as Evan closed in, the guy wound up for a haymaker.

Hurtling forward, Evan hugged the spear and ducked the powerful swing, his speed carrying him inside the man’s span. The punch whistled past Evan’s ear, missing by inches. A half squat set Evan’s base, and then he erupted up into the man, crushing his ribs with his shoulder and lifting him up, up, and over the rail.

Given all the commotion, Evan didn’t hear him hit the floor below.

His shoulder had done all the heavy lifting, his head keeping clear of the impact, his hair not so much as ruffled.

He turned.

Bedrosov had backed to the rear of his cell. Even from there he would have clearly seen Evan put his man over the railing. He was on his feet, the characteristic calmness washed from his face along with all color. His gaze dropped to the spear in Evan’s hand.

“You’re the one who phoned me,” he said. “About Grant Merriweather’s cousin. The Nowhere Man.” He looked at Evan and did not seem to like what he saw. One hand lifted, patting the air, a we’re-all-adults-here gesture betrayed by a tremor. “Let’s be reasonable.”