The Chameleon Factor. Don PendletonЧитать онлайн книгу.
move along,” the voice commanded.
Circling widely past the four men, a guard lifted his face mask and passed over a sheaf of papers to the colonel from the waiting bus. Blue smoke puffed from the double tailpipes under the chassis and the two additional exhaust vents on the roof, every opening covered with a steel grille to prevent the insertion of an item to clog the exhaust and choke the engine. The windows were double sheets of Plexiglas separated by a lattice of steel bars, and the only door was three inches thick.
“Here are their papers,” the lieutenant said, offering a file folder. “Transport orders for prisoners 49724, 97841 and 66782.”
The USP colonel holding a clipboard scowled at the four men standing quietly in the evening chill. The cool night wind was ruffling the thin cloth of their loose jumpsuits. In the clear overhead lights, the four were haggard and thin faced. Heavy scarring marred their faces from constant fighting in the yard of their previous prison. Their long hair was slicked down, their pointy beards oily with liquid soap. The bright lights seemed to be bothering their eyes, but then they may not have seen sunlight for months.
Then one of them looked the colonel in the face and he felt a chill run down his spine. If the rumors were even half-true, these guys were actually too dangerous to let loose in the general population of even a level-five-security penitentiary. The transfer papers on his clipboard said that in their previous place of incarceration they had beaten another prisoner to death and eaten parts of the corpse before the guards could get into their cell. They had jimmied the lock somehow to give them enough time. Some bleeding-heart liberal lawyers wanted them sent to an insane asylum for treatment, which was exactly what they’d been hoping for. But these men would blow out of any hospital in about an hour, leaving a trail of dead doctors and nurses behind. Thank God somebody in the Justice Department was paying attention for once and was moving these psychopaths to the new supermax in Florence, Colorado, the brand-new level-seven facility. A prisoner escaping from that underground facility would face a fifty-mile trek through scored earth and bare rock with helicopter gunships on him every step of the way. It was as close to being thrown off the planet as anybody would ever get. The new Devil’s Island, and these bastards would be the reigning devils once they arrived.
“So this is them, huh?” he said in disdain. “So this is the last remaining members of the terrible Black Vipers. Big deal.”
The Cassatt lieutenant stared at the shivering men in frank hatred. “Don’t be fooled, pal. Give them an inch and you die. It’s that fucking simple. You know that movie about the cannibal guy who escapes wearing a guard’s face as a mask?”
“Sure. Good flick.”
He gave a thumb jerk. “It was based on these men.”
“Yeah? Well, Manson looked tougher,” the colonel muttered, checking over the paperwork.
Suddenly the first prisoner started to slump to the ground, and the lieutenant jumped away just in time as the fourth prisoner swung his boxed hands at the guard’s head. The steel trap passed by so close he felt the breeze of its passage and knew that he missed having his skull crushed by a fraction of a second. Christ, they were fast!
Without pause, the guards converged on the men with the stun shields and rib-spreader batons, the electric sparks crackling over the terrorists as they were driven to the ground into submission. Nobody made any move to stop the beating.
“Been wanting to do that for quite a while,” a guard snarled, panting from the exertion.
A man alongside hawked juicily and then spit on the sprawled bodies. “Damn Feds should have blown their heads off when they were captured. Keeping these assholes alive is like sticking your dick in a working blender.”
“The chair ain’t good enough for them,” another snarled. “I got a brother in the Navy. Ya know how many of our guys these bastards aced with their trick bombs?”
“Don’t let the warden hear you say that,” another warned, glancing at the wall guards hidden behind their bright lights and stone walls. “Or you’re out on your ass. This state doesn’t execute prisoners anymore. It’s not cost effective.”
“Cost effective? And what about justice?”
The smaller man shrugged. “So move to Texas.”
“Check the shackles before removing the black boxes,” the lieutenant directed.
“And you,” he added to the colonel, “constantly keep your weapons on these prisoners. If they make another move, kill them.”
Loosening the flap covering his holstered 10 mm Falcon, the colonel nodded.
Weakened by the stun shields, the prisoners didn’t make a second try for freedom and submitted meekly to being herded onto the armored transport and chained in place. This fooled nobody, and the bus guards were dripping sweat from the tension until the four were shackled into different chairs of bare steel bolted and welded directly to the armored floor of the transport vehicle.
“Good luck,” the lieutenant said as the armored door closed.
The colonel flipped the prison guard a salute as the armored door cycled shut and locked tight.
“And good riddance,” another prison guard muttered softly, removing his protective helmet. “I hope the bus crashes and the prisoners burn alive.”
“Wishful thinking,” the lieutenant said coldly. “Damn the politicians and lawyers. Men like that should just be hung. Cost effective or not, it sure as hell makes it hard for them to kill again once their neck is stretched.”
“Amen to that, chief,” another man agreed.
“I wonder why the government kept them alive,” another muttered. “It’s not like they could be used for anything.”
Throwing back his head, the lieutenant laughed for the first time in days. “And who the hell would have enough balls to try and use the goddamn Black Vipers for anything?”
“Come on,” a corporal said on a sigh, running a gloved across his sweaty face. “Let’s get out of this gear and go have a beer.”
Turning to face the prison, the guards tested their equipment once more to make sure everything was in proper working condition, then marched back into the sterilized confines of Cassatt Federal Penitentiary. High on the walls overhead, the unseen guards watched their every move purely out of habit. The rifle marksmen watched everything and trusted nobody. That was the job, and they were damn good at it.
OVER TWO MILES away, far outside the circle of light around the supermax facility, three men with Starlite scopes stood alongside a battered gray SUV, the license plates obscured with mud permanently glued into place.
In unison, Able Team tracked the progress of the USP transport along Highway 37 as it headed due south away from the supermax facility. The man in front was blond, with a crew cut and ice-blue eyes. The next was stocky with wavy salt-and-pepper hair, and the third had dark brown hair and a full mustache. Swaying slightly in the evening breeze so that they wouldn’t stand out from the rustling forest, all three of the men were wearing camouflage-colored jumpsuits designed for urban warfare.
“Stony One to Stone Two,” Carl “Ironman” Lyons said into his throat mike, Starlite still pressed to his face. “We are in position. Copy?”
“Roger that, Stony One,” a gruff voice replied in the earphone. “We rendezvous at Point Charlie in one hour. Over.”
“Ten-four,” Lyons replied. “See you there. Over and out.”
“Don’t be late,” Rosario “The Politician” Blancanales said in the background.
Climbing into the SUV, Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz grimly added, “If they are, then we’re dead, chum.”
AFTER AN HOUR of driving, the countryside of South Carolina began to change from gray grassland into a plush forest of tall trees and countless small brooks. Shackled to their