Breakout Paul Herron (books to read in your 20s female .TXT) 📖

As we walk, I can’t help thinking about Kincaid’s words. Can’t help wondering if I did the wrong thing. I took away a husband and wife’s last moments together. Kincaid has every right to be pissed at me.

But… come on. No. Not my problem. Kincaid is a piece of shit. He’s a murderer. Why the hell am I even feeling sorry for him?

Because you know what it feels like to lose someone you love without getting a chance to say good-bye.

I push the thought away. I’m not wasting my sympathy on him.

The storm is much louder now. The wind shrieks and howls around the old building, whistling through gaps in the brickwork. I glance out the windows as we pass, but I can’t see anything. The rain batters and streams across the glass in twisting rivulets.

“What category is she?” someone calls out.

Evans doesn’t answer.

“Have they named her?” asks Felix.

“Josephine,” says Evans eventually. He hesitates. “Category Four.”

Questions are instantly thrown at him, voices raised in fear and panic.

“Four?” shouts Murphy. “Are you fucking serious? Shouldn’t people be evacuated?”

“The whole of Florida’s already been evacuated.”

“What about us?” asks Felix.

“State figures Ravenhill has a solid chance of making it through the hurricane. This place was built to last. Plus, it’s high enough above sea level to avoid the flooding.”

Nobody seems convinced. I don’t blame them. Category 4 is high up on the Saffir–Simpson scale. It means winds of up to 156 miles an hour. A Cat 5 is anything above 157. You get to know these things if you live in Florida.

“What was Hurricane Irma?” I ask Felix, who’s walking beside me.

“Category Five. Hundred and eighty miles an hour. Katrina was one seventy-five.”

A few of the inmates overhear and exchange worried looks.

Evans senses the mood changing and quickens his step. He pushes through a set of swing doors, leading us into a large tiled room. It looks like it was the Glasshouse’s receiving and release area. It isn’t like the new R&R over at Ravenhill. There’s no sheltered depot here. Just a door opening into an outside area that might have once been fenced off. I peer through the windows. There are a couple of buses out there, but I barely notice them. My gaze is fixed on the sky. The clouds have become so dark and heavy that it looks like the middle of the night.

The outside door suddenly bursts open, slamming hard against the wall. The wind surges in, knocking Perez and Deacon off their feet. They push themselves up as a dark figure sprints and slips over the threshold, followed by a line of drenched inmates in orange jumpsuits, all chained together.

“Shut the door!” screams Evans.

But they can’t. More inmates are coming in, ten, then twenty, then thirty, then even more, all of them barging into R&R until everyone is standing shoulder to shoulder.

This is a CO’s worst nightmare. Prisoners in close proximity to each other usually means trouble. It’s the perfect time to settle scores.

I look nervously around for Kincaid as more officers rush in, pushing the inmates forward so they can close the door behind them.

There’s chaos everywhere. Inmates and officers are swearing, snapping at each other as they try to shake the rain off. Evans is still shouting, ordering the prisoners to line up around the walls and give the guards room to move.

And that’s when I see them.

Two faces.

Two faces that haunt my dreams. Every. Single. Night.

Marcus Tully and Luther Wright.

Two of the three men who murdered my wife.

I can’t believe it. A hurricane is smashing through the Eastern Seaboard. People are losing their homes, their lives. Cities and towns are being evacuated. The hurricane is taking from everyone it touches. But it’s giving me something it’s not giving anyone else.

A second chance. A single moment in time when I can get justice.

They’re fifteen feet away. Too far for me to reach. I feel my pulse thudding in my throat. Blood surges in my ears as I stare at those faces, the last thing my wife ever saw. A hatred deep and pure fans to life inside my soul. The same anger that got me through the weeks after Amy’s death.

The COs are screaming for quiet. Some have their day sticks out and are shoving a few of the louder inmates into orderly lines so they can be taken to the cells.

My attention is wholly focused on Tully and Wright. Three years in prison has aged them. Tully is thinner, his wrinkles more pronounced, a road map of his time behind bars. Wright has picked up a lot of weight.

I have to be careful. I’ll never get another chance like this. All I need to do is be patient. Wait for them to walk by. Evans is keeping me and the others to the side while the evacuees move through the room. I’m standing by the door. They’ll walk right past me.

I’ll have to take them both at the same time. I can’t let either one get away. Not again.

“Okay, move it!” shouts one of the new COs. “Single file. Keep it slow!”

The inmates start to file past me as they head into the Glasshouse. Tully and Wright are ten feet away now. Felix is talking to me, muttering about inhumane conditions. I ignore him and he gives me a shove in the back.

“Hey. You hearin’ me?”

I don’t answer. Tully is first. I stare at his scrawny neck. Like a bird’s. I can snap it quick, then turn on Wright.

Six feet…

Tully looks in my direction. I quickly bow my head, but I know it’s too late. I look up again. His eyes are wide, his mouth open as if to say something.

I lunge forward, barging past the other inmates. Cries and shouts of protest ring out. I ignore them. I grab Tully’s wrist. He tries to pull away. I can feel him slipping through my grasp. I knee him in the stomach and he doubles over, coming within reach of my cuffed hands. I grab