No Ordinary Day | Book 2 | No Ordinary Getaway Tate, Harley (the reader ebook .TXT) 📖

He clicked it on and adjusted the beam until it shined a tight spotlight across the road. He panned across what appeared to be chain-link fencing, slowing as a sign came into view.

Emma craned her neck toward the open door to read the embossed letters:

Floyd County Jail.

Chapter Thirteen

John

The second the Explorer shimmied, John knew Raymond hadn’t run over a nail or hit a sudden pothole. He turned to Emma and tried to impart the gravity of the situation. “The blowout was intentional. We don’t have much time.”

She cast a frantic glance about her. “What are you saying?”

“No one pops a tire across the street from a jail five days after all hell breaks loose on accident.”

“When you put it like that—”

Two short whistles sounded from in front of the Jeep. One responded from in the rear. John cursed and turned to Holly and Emma. “Get down, both of you. Right now. Lock the doors and stay here until I get back.” He paused. “If I’m not back in an hour, or if it seems like things are going sideways, drive.”

“What? No! We’re not—” Holly began to protest, but John shut the door on her and took off for the Explorer.

Somewhere in the distance, a pump action shotgun racked. Floyd County Jail. From the size of the building looming out of the dark, John guessed it housed a few hundred men, maybe more. How many lurked out there beyond his limited line of sight?

He hoped the place housed low-level, petty criminals and not a gang of murderers. Crouching low, he hurried to the Explorer and knocked on the driver’s window. As soon as it rolled down, John began to explain, dispensing with any pleasantries. “I don’t know how many there are, but I’ll take them out.”

Raymond reached for the door handle, but John grabbed his hand. “You stay here, keep Gloria safe.”

“Are you sure?”

John nodded once in affirmation. “Don’t get out of the vehicle until I either give the all clear or it’s obvious I’m compromised.” He didn’t wait for a reply, sprinting past the hood of the Explorer toward the trees before Raymond had a chance to respond.

John sucked in a breath as he leaned against the tree trunk and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It would take twenty minutes for the full effect, but every second that ticked by without him staring into artificial light, the clearer his surroundings became. No visible moon graced his presence, but the sky was clear. It could be worse.

He held the pistol in his right hand, the heft of the Beretta comfortable in his grip. He preferred his Sig Sauer, but he’d take an M9 as a substitute any day.

John eased around the tree as the lumbering shape of an inmate still clad in an orange jumpsuit separated from the darkness. John let out a snort. The night did nothing to conceal the garish hue. John looked down at his all-black gear. Might be a bit dirty, and smelly to boot, but the men who staged this ambush would never see him coming.

He stayed low, running from the safety of the tree to the road, keeping well behind the big guy’s back. Ten feet away and he slowed, rolling his feet on the asphalt, one step at a time until the barrel of the Beretta hung an inch away from the meaty roll of fat lining the back of the inmate’s neck.

He pressed the barrel in close, digging into the pale flesh. “One move and you’re paraplegic.” The man’s whole body shook, oversized belly jiggling as he twisted to get a look at John.

John pressed the gun harder into his skin. “Don’t even think about it. Now hand me the weapon.” The man held up a police-issued shotgun.

John plucked the weapon from thick, stubby fingers. “How many?”

“W-wh-what?”

John exhaled in frustration and enunciated each syllable in slow motion. “How many men in your group?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. Maybe eight. Yeah, yeah eight... or maybe nine.”

“Including you.”

“Oh, uh that’d be ten. I think. I didn’t count.”

John grew impatient and shoved the Beretta beneath his waistband before grabbing the shotgun with both hands. “For your sake, let’s hope it’s not too many more.” He slammed the butt of the shotgun into the back of the man’s head in one fast-paced, but effective blow. The big boy went down, landing in a crumpled heap before flopping on his back, spread-eagled on the pavement.

As John turned, an arm wrapped around his neck. Prison cotton rubbed across his skin and he grabbed the forearm threatening his oxygen supply and yanked to no avail. He shrugged and ducked, trying to shove the man off, but his assailant outweighed him by a good margin. John ran his hand up the man’s arm until he found skin. Bingo.

He wedged his fingers beneath the other man’s hand, gripping a knobby finger and pulling until he heard a snap. The other man cried out as first one, and then another, finger broke. As he screamed, John whipped the man’s arm off his chest.

A second prisoner materialized out of the dark, punching too early to do more than graze John’s chin.

John dropped the man with broken fingers to the ground and reached for the new assailant, a thinner man, taller than John, but lacking muscle. He grabbed the man’s arm and twisted violently, not stopping until the man’s shoulder dislocated. Another anguished scream, another enemy down.

Adrenaline spurred John on, and he knocked each man out with a swift kick to the head before rummaging around their persons for any weapons. As he shoved his hand in a jumpsuit pocket, a shot rang out. John pancaked himself against the asphalt.

From the sound of the shot, he guessed a rifle, maybe an M-16. Police departments were flush with used military gear these days. Everything from tactical vests to military rifles and even MRAPs.

It was one of the dirty little secrets of the military-industrial complex. If