The Cure Page 11

  The guard made eye contact with Gracie for the briefest of moments, then shut the cell door as a smile slowly spread across his face.

  36

  Bic looked at the ADX facility through binoculars from about a mile away, lying on his belly next to Hawk, tucked between some large bushes on the mountainous terrain. The prison campus was framed against a backdrop of pure blue and sunshine, which gleamed off the guard towers on the cloudless mid-morning. But then there were the guards themselves, armed men with high-powered rifles, and the fencing laced with razor-edged barbed wire. The living postcard held violence within its perimeter.

  “What do you think, partner?” Hawk asked.

  “We can’t wait any longer. If Tony’s right, they’re coming for her—if they’re already not in there right now.”

  “There’s been some crazy plans, but this one—man, a lot of things got to go right, if you know what I mean.”

  Bic looked right at the entrance of the prison. “You cause enough commotion, no one’s even going to notice me coming right through the front door.” He turned and looked at Hawk, “You sure you can handle that chopper?”

  “Now’s a little late to ask. The answer’s yes, by the way.”

  “Just making sure.”

  “Come on brother, that’s the way we do it, money for nothin’ and your chicks for free.”

  “Checks.”

  “What?”

  “Checks for free.”

  Hawk looked at him. “You sure about that?”

  “Maybe you’re right, you are the 80’s expert,” Bic shook his head and pulled out a map with the schematics of the prison. “You send the rocket right here—”

  "Man, we went over this a million times.”

  Bic shot him a glare. “Humor me. You take out these two guard towers—”

  “Right, and by the time I finish that up, you’ll be coming out this door from cell block D with Gracie. Then I snatch you up there in this area. Then we go play our guitars.”

  “I’ll take my swat helmet off so you know it’s me.”

  “You worried I’m gonna shoot ya by mistake?”

  “Make sure to tell your gunner not to either.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “We can’t fail her.”

  "We won’t, my brother.”

  The men stood and embraced.

  “I don’t deserve a friend like you,” Bic said.

  “Hold that sentiment until after the extraction and I don’t shoot you.”

  Bic cracked a quick smile. “Will do.”

  Hawk handed Bic a duffle bag full of Swat gear. “Good luck, Bic. Catch you on the flip side.” Then he grabbed one of the dirt bikes and left.

  37

  In the back seat of the Uber coming from the airport, Mack took a deep breath, mentally exhausted. He had texted his dad about 20 times over the last hour, asking if Caroline had woken up, but she had not.

  He thought about texting his in-laws about how Sam was behaving, then thought better of it. The last thing he and Sam needed was passive-aggressive in-law action. Accusation had been the subtext of every conversation he’d had with them since Caroline had gotten sick. If he hadn’t gotten her pregnant, then she would have been able to start the treatment when the cancer was discovered instead of having to wait almost seven months to begin, or so their narrative went. He knew without it being said that his mother-in-law would try to get full custody of Sam if Caroline died. And he was equally sure that his father-in-law, one of the highest-powered attorneys in LA, would use what Mack was doing right know as one of the reasons to deny him custody.

  The thought of losing Caroline and Sam at virtually the same time terrified him.

  As he cursed his in-laws in his head, the Prius came to a stop at a six-unit building in Wicker Park, Chicago. The neighborhood block was littered with mostly three and six-flat buildings, predominately red brick with some variances. Anna had lived on the third floor of a newer-looking three-flat, probably built in 2006 or 2007, right before the real estate crash.

  Mack stepped out of the vehicle. He looked around, but didn’t notice anything or anyone to be concerned about. He entered through the gated black wrought-iron fence and up to the common door. He cased his surroundings one last time before pulling out his lock-picking set and getting down to business on the front door.

  After three flights of stairs, Mack opened Anna’s door and ducked under the crime scene tape across it.

  The apartment was neat and clean and looked like a page out of a Pottery Barn catalog—gray painted walls, furniture with clean lines, and all accessories in properly accented colors. The back-kitchen window showed a view of the downtown Chicago skyline.

  Mack wasted no time as he went to all the obvious places someone might secret away a safe deposit key. In the kitchen, he rifled through the drawers and cabinets. He moved on to the work desk in the corner and looked through those drawers. Spotting a journal on top, he picked it up and rifled through it. A personal journal. He figured he’d save it for later and tossed it onto the kitchen counter.

  He then went into the bedroom and looked through the jewelry box, the bedside drawer, and Anna’s colorful underwear drawer. Lastly, he went into the bathroom and started rifling through the excess clutter of beauty supplies.

  Mack looked at his phone. No text from his father. It had been a day since Caroline was conscious. This was his Super Bowl, and it was the final seconds of the game. He had to find that key. The obvious places had yielded nothing. It was time to dig deep.

  In the bathroom, he went through everything, emptying the contents of every beauty item into the tub. After every container was emptied, he went into the bedroom. There was a picture of Anna and Diana on the nightstand. He grabbed it and pulled it out of the frame—nothing. About 20 books were on her dresser. No hollowed-out compartments. Nothing taped inside the covers. He checked all pictures on the wall—nothing. After searching through all the drawers, her clothes, pillows and mattresses and every container or shoe in her entire closet, he looked under all rugs. Next the trashcans for false bottoms.

  Nothing.

  He walked into the open living space with the kitchen and living room areas. He stared at a bamboo palm houseplant in the corner. How had he missed this? The four-foot-tall plant was in too large a pot relative to its size.

  He rushed over and yanked the plant out. Dirt littered the floor. He stuck his hands in up to the wrists and dug around. When he was done, there was a pile of dirt on the floor and an empty pot.

  It was just a plant.

  Three hours later, as dusk began to darken the apartment, Mack flicked on the light, exhausted. His hands were just about frozen as he had unwrapped every single item in Anna’s freezer. He looked at his phone. 7:27 PM Central.

  He shot his dad a text. “Anything?”

  His dad texted back, “Nothing. Sorry.”

  He grabbed Anna’s journal from the kitchen counter and sat down on the couch to read it. From his quick glance, it appeared to be on Diana’s cancer. He wanted to continue and flicked on the lamp that stood on the end table. It was dead. He tried it two more times. He unscrewed the bulb and shook it. Re-screwed it, then went over and flipped the light switch on the nearest wall. Nothing. He unplugged the lamp and took it to the kitchen. There was an outlet directly behind the coffee machine. He stuck the light plug into the outlet, and it didn’t turn on. He then tried the bottom plug of the outlet, with the same result.

  Hold on. Why was the coffee pot plugged into another outlet two feet away?

  His nerves began to tingle.

  He opened the kitchen junk drawer and fished out a screwdriver. He unscrewed the outlet cover. Once it had come loose, Mack felt the hair on the back of his neck raise up as he looked at the inside of a false wall outlet. Inside was a safe deposit key and a bottle of pills.

  He laughed out loud and fished the items from their snug spot. He put the key in
his pocket then opened the bottle of pills—a mixture of red and blue pills.

  His eyes welled up as he stared at them.

  That’s when something smashed through the kitchen window and landed at his feet.

  A moment later, the flash grenade exploded.

  38

  The pills had gone flying, scattering everywhere.

  Mack dropped to the ground. His vision had collapsed into shattered webs of light with black dots of randomness, while his ears rung at a numbing pitch.

  “No,” he said as he scrambled on his hands and knees to grope for the pills.

  He felt the vibrations of at least two men storming into the room. In desperation he pulled the key out of his pocket and put it in his mouth.

  He took a breath, shut his eyes, and swallowed hard.

  The thing grated miserably against his throat. His gag reflex fought it. He swallowed again, hard, and then again. He had almost no spit left. He got up and groped his way to the sink, blindly turned on the tap, and stuck his head under, lapping at a trickle of cool water. The key grated against his esophagus. He felt it enter his stomach.

  Two men grabbed him. One reached inside Mack’s jacket, snatching his gun and credentials.

  “Hold on,” the man said, his words muffled by a gas mask. “FBI.”

  “Call it in, see if we should still proceed as planned,” said the other.

  Blurrily, Mack could see the man emptying a large container all around them. The stink of gasoline was unmistakable. As his vision began to clear—he saw the pills were lying on the floor, soaked.

  “Kill him,” said one of the thugs, his finger on his earpiece.

  Earpiece?

  He finally was able to see these men. They were well dressed.

  The other struck Mack in the stomach, sending him to his knees. He fought the urge to vomit.

  The man with the gun pointed it at Mack’s chest. “Sorry, Agent. Wrong place, wrong time,”

  A spark and a glow. The other man had lit a small flare. “In the head,” he said. “Guy’s got a vest on.”

  The man raised his gun and took dead aim.

  “I know where the formula is hidden,” Mack rasped.

  The man with the gun smiled. “So do we.”

  With only the speed of near-death adrenaline, Mack sprang from his knees as the man pulled the trigger. The bullet struck him in the vest, vicious as a punch from a heavyweight. He flew backwards onto the kitchen counter, spinning a half turn onto it. As if guided, his hand went to the knife rack. He grabbed a big one, spun around, and chucked it. It was just enough to jar the would-be killer and send the next bullet into the kitchen wall. Mack lunged forward and grabbed the man’s wrist with one hand, driving his other fist square into the man’s jaw.

  The man dropped to the floor.

  There was a gunshot and the second man’s brains were splattered on the light gray wall behind him. The flare struck the ground and the floor burst into flames, Mack attempted to run, but the man who he’d been grappling with grabbed hold of his ankle. He clutched at Mack like a doomed man and began to scream as the lower half of his body was consumed by fire.

  As Mack tried to shake free, he finally saw his guardian angel who took the shot off the fire escape deck. With dead aim, the angel shot the flaming devil holding onto Mack.

  Freed, Mack outsprinted the spreading flames and made it out the sliding glass doors.

  “This way,” the angel said. Mack followed the young, suited man down the fire escape stairs and into his car, parked a couple of houses down.

  As the driver put the car in gear he held out his hand, “Agent Quinn, FBI. Sorry, I’ll show you my badge later.”

  Mack shook the hand. “Agent Maddox, FBI. Nice timing back there.”

  Quinn pulled out and accelerated quickly. “Hang on. I don’t think it’s a good idea to hang around here.”

  “I quite agree,” said Mack. “Any idea who those two goons were?”

  “Not yet, but they’re probably way above our pay grade.”

  “So close,” Mack said suddenly. His face in his hands.

  Quinn looked over at Mack, saw the bullet holes in Mack’s shirt. “You okay?”

  “I had the pills! For a second time I had them and I—”

  “What pills?” Quinn asked.

  “Hang on. Who the hell are you?”

  Quinn fumbled in his coat pocket. “Don’t believe me?”

  “Yeah, I know. FBI. But why are you here?”

  “Following up on a lead.”

  “A lead from who?”

  “Gracie Green.”

  “She’s innocent, you know.”

  Quinn looked over at him. “How do you know that?”

  “Anna’s mom, Diana. Gracie cured her.”

  Quinn nodded slowly.

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “On the contrary. I knew Gracie wasn’t lying.” Quinn looked over at him again. “You know, my niece is sick.”

  “Cancer’s the devil. My wife only has days.”

  “Agent Maddox, what do you say we find more of those pills?”

  “Now you’re speaking my language,” said Mack.

  39

  A sharp metallic snap grabbed Gracie’s attention, then the door of her cell ponderously swung open.

  “Finally,” she said as she popped up from her bed. She’d been promised some paper and a writing instrument. She had nothing but time here. If she could recreate a significant portion of her formulas, she could maybe get them to Quinn.

  “Hurry up, our shift’s ending in 10,” the guard waiting outside the cell said as the other walked through the outer doorway into the isolated secure area in the cell.

  The guard held a stack of printer paper and some type of clear rubber-looking crayon. Gracie reached through the bars for the handoff. The guard pulled the paper out of Gracie’s reach.

  The guard called out to the outer guard, “Entering inside main cell.”

  “Come on, McNally, let’s hurry it up,” the second guard said out of Gracie’s view. “I’d like a warm dinner tonight for a change. You know my old lady doesn’t like me to be late. She gets downright hateful with her cold food.”

  “Step back,” the guard called McNally said to Gracie. He kept his head tilted at an awkward angle, downward, making it difficult for Gracie to see much of his face behind the bill of his hat and thick beard.

  Gracie stepped to the back of the cell against the wall. McNally unlocked the door and slid it open to the right. He entered and placed the paper and writing instrument on the concrete desk slab sticking out of the wall.

  Gracie looked anxiously at the guard, waiting for the okay to move. McNally stepped back and motioned with his hand. “It’s all yours.”

  Gracie took a couple of cautious steps forward and sat on the immovable round concrete stool. She already knew exactly what formula she was going to write down first as she grabbed the weird writing instrument.

  She put the rubber pen to the paper and attempted to write, but nothing was happening. She looked at it, shook it, tried it again.

  She looked up at McNally. “This doesn’t write.”

  “I’m here to break you out,” the guard whispered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Bic sent me.”

  A flood of terrified relief went through her.

  “Just relax and do as I say,” McNally said, then turned toward the door. “Hey Garrison, you have another crayon on you?”

  Garrison entered the cell. “These crap rubber pens—you just have to push down hard to get the ink started.”

  Both guards looked on as Gracie tried again. She wrote the capital letter A, but nothing was happening.

  “Try again, push harder,” Garrison said as he leaned in to take a closer look. “Hang on. McNally, you dunce, that’s not the right pen.”

  There was a crack and a spatter of blood. Gracie gasped and
jumped back as Garrison’s body hit the table before spilling over onto the floor.

  McNally stood poised with his nightstick. Then reached into his pocket and took out a packet of something, offering it to Gracie.

  “Chew these,” he said.

  She turned the packet over in her hand. “Alka Seltzer?”

  “You’re gonna fake a seizure.”

  “I don’t want to make things worse,” she said, and looked at his face. Really looked at it now. There was something odd about it. Behind the beard was somewhat creepy and unreal.

  “They’re going to kill you,” said McNally, who turned to heft Garrison’s body off the floor by the shoulders. He grunted as he lifted the body onto the bed, took a breath, then covered the corpse with the bed sheet. He looked back at Gracie.

  “You’re on. Chew those. We’re not playing here. They are going to kill you. Do you understand?”

  Gracie chewed the two pills. Her mouth filled with white foam, so much that it started to spill out over her lips and run down her chin.

  “Hide in the corner, I’ll be right back,” McNally said, then rushed out of her cell.

  Gracie, with white foam oozing from her mouth, stayed still as she could, fighting the urge to spit the nasty things out. Her limbs were trembling uncontrollably. Still, there was something about that face. A mask? What the hell was Uncle Bic up to?

  After a couple of long minutes of not hearing so much as a peep, the silence was broken with several buzzing sounds of cell doors opening. In the brief time she had been here she’d come to learn one thing—you never heard more than one of these sounds at a time. Prisoners here were let out of their cells with a two-guard escort, and never together.

  Shouting and cheers followed.

  “Freedom!”

  The cheers grew in direct proportion to the increase in frequency of the door buzzes. Deep, aggressive voices. Screams. An alarm. This was a prison riot.

  A prisoner entered her cell.

  The man spotted Gracie. In his fifties, about six feet, narrow face with thinning gray hair he silently stared for a long moment.