Breakout, Paul Herron [chrome ebook reader .txt] 📗

I’m positioned at the top of a rise above a deserted logging mill outside Overtown. It’s perfect for what I need. Far enough from town that no one will hear the gunfire, and it only has one road in and out, so I don’t have to cover multiple escape routes.

I stare through the rifle scope, moving it slowly across the abandoned mill. It was built in the thirties, a series of old wooden buildings with portable office cabins dumped at one end. The place shut down around two years ago when three employees died. I was part of the investigation into their deaths. It was the owner’s fault. No safety protocols. No upkeep of the saws or equipment. One of the belts was so worn it flew off, took a guy’s head off, sliced through the second guy’s stomach right to the spine, and got stuck in the last guy’s throat.

The mill itself and the road leading through the trees lie below me in a shallow valley. At the top of the opposite valley wall is an open-sided shed holding a large pile of tied-together tree trunks, obviously stored there in preparation for the mill. I placed two propane tanks against the tree trunks earlier, one on either side, right against the wire lashing them together. I checked the wood while I was placing the tanks. A lot of the trunks are rotten and damp, but that’s fine for my needs. I might not even use the tanks, but preparation is key.

An hour before dawn is the perfect time for a shock attack. The target is usually deep in sleep, his or her body totally shut down. The victim doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

You already know that the drug dealer—Elias Finch—lives alone. You go in hard with a bright flashlight shining in his face, grabbing him and throwing him to the floor. Finch lets out an unearthly moan of terror. You’ve heard it before on raids. Nine out of ten people you’ve come at like this make the same sound. Animalistic, terrified, primeval.

You hit Finch with the butt of your gun and knock him out cold. You wait, listening, controlling your breathing. A dog barks in the distance. You hear a car drive past the dingy house. The headlights shine through the curtains and swing on past.

Satisfied, you drag Finch to the living room. If you can even call it that. You’ve seen the same room a hundred times before. Usually bare floorboards, but sometimes a stained carpet. A couch with cigarette holes burned into it, unknown stains forming a map of spilled drink and bodily fluids. An old table, this one covered in used syringes, overflowing ashtrays, empty beer bottles, and, surprisingly, a few novels. That’s a first for you. You don’t think you’ve ever been in a drug dealer’s house that had books. A TV, sure. A game console, definitely. Something to mindlessly zone out in front of while they wait for the high to kick in. But books? No.

There’s a rickety table and chairs in the kitchen. You drag one of the chairs into the living room and haul Finch into it, using the rope you brought to tie him in place.

Then you wait.

He wakes up half an hour later. Sees you sitting on the couch with your gun resting on your lap. He opens his mouth to scream, but you just raise a finger to your lips.

He’s not as stupid as he looks. His mouth snaps shut. He stares at you with wide, terrified eyes.

You’ve planned everything for today. It’s Friday, and you know this is when Tully phones Finch to organize drugs for himself, Wright, and Novak.

“When Tully calls,” you say to Finch, “tell him not to come here. Tell him you think the cops have been watching. Tell him you’ll bring his drugs to the lumberyard tonight at seven. The abandoned one about two miles outside of town. Nod if you understand.”

Finch nods.

“If you try to warn them, I’ll shoot you in the eye. Understand?”

Finch nods again, more frantically this time.

You sit there for most of the day before Tully finally calls Finch’s cell phone.

You hold the gun to Finch’s eye and the phone to his ear. He tells Tully everything you want him to.

Tully’s not happy. He’s used to getting the drugs as soon as he calls, taking them to Novak’s house and shooting up there before heading out to a dive bar on the outskirts of Overtown called Double Down Tavern. You’ve already followed them there a few times as you considered your plan. It’s got blacked-out windows and plastic seats out front for when it’s too crowded inside. A neon sign hangs above the door—a purple pool cue that’s supposed to move back and forth. But it’s broken, so all it does is flicker on and off, buzzing loudly.

Finch tells them he has no choice. It’s either meet at the lumberyard or they go without. Tully reluctantly agrees.

You hang up the phone. Then you sit and stare at Finch, wondering what to do about him. You could just kill him. You’d be doing everyone a favor. You want to. You want to raze everything to the ground. Anyone and anything connected with the men who killed your family.

You stare at him. He doesn’t say anything. He knows what you’re thinking, is aware that the slightest move from him could push you either way.

You check your watch. It’s 3 p.m. Four hours till the meet-up. You don’t want to risk leaving him like this. He could get loose. Could warn Tully and the others.

You check his room, find some sleeping pills. Strong ones. One of them would knock a healthy adult out. You crush seven and put them into water. You do it in front of Finch, let him see what you’re doing.

“You’re going to drink this,” you say. He starts to shake his head. “You either drink this or I