ballistic gelatin.
She went on, “And the thing about the Glock is it’s got a really sensitive trigger. Nobody here wants me nervous, okay? I say that to you, Ryan, because you know why?”
The boy continued to stare.
“Because you look like you’re thinking about being a hero. Even though you probably don’t like your mom all the time-what teenager does?-I’m sure you don’t want me to blow her brains out.”
Christyne gasped at the words and nearly drove off the road.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Colleen said. “Stay in your lane, Christyne. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she said. An obvious lie.
“Good. I need you to be okay, and I need you to listen carefully, because this is the kind of thing that could get everybody killed.” Colleen paused to make sure she had their attention. “If I were in your position-driving a car with your child at risk-I might think about driving crazy just to attract a cop’s attention. Ryan, if I were you, looking at a bad situation and wondering how to fix it, I might think about opening the door and just diving out into traffic. You were thinking about that, weren’t you?”
Mother and son looked at each other.
“I thought so,” Colleen said. “It’s only natural, but you need to know that it would be a huge mistake. See, I just killed a dozen people-maybe more, maybe less, but a lot of people. I don’t want to kill you, too, but don’t think that I wouldn’t. I’m even prepared to kill myself if it comes to that.”
“You sound desperate,” Christyne said.
“Committed,” Colleen corrected. “To a cause that’s way bigger than any of us. If you do as I say, you’ll see tomorrow. I can’t guarantee the day after, but you’ll be here tomorrow. That’s worth not being stupid, isn’t it?”
Mother and son conferred with their eyes, and then Christyne spoke for them both. “Yes.”
“Thank you,” Colleen said. “Do you know how to get to Sixty-Six West?” She was referring to the primary east-west highway across Virginia and beyond.
“Yes.”
“Good. So do I. For the time being, that’s where we’re going.”
“What happens after that?” Ryan asked.
Colleen gave him a hard look. “After that is tomorrow. I think you need to look at that as a gift.”
CHAPTER THREE
Jonathan hadn’t realized that Maryland owned the entire Potomac River. Thus, he was surprised that that state had jurisdiction over his arrest, even though he’d been much closer to the Virginia shore when Agent Clark took him down.
They transported him to the Prince George’s County jail, notorious throughout the greater Washington Metropolitan Area as the place where prisoners occasionally died in their cells of blunt trauma that was caused by no one, despite the presence of deputies within shouting distance.
Jonathan hadn’t spent much time on the wrong side of prison bars, but by his estimation, this was one tough place. Even more cheerless than other facilities of its kind, the jail was inexcusably filthy, and it reeked of shit and vomit. Jonathan imagined that someone had plugged a toilet, and no one with the power to fix it was inclined to do so. Peeling gray paint absorbed the yellow light cast from the stained and occasionally opaque wire-reinforced overhead light fixtures, casting a pall over the place that made most city morgues seem bright by comparison.
By habit, Jonathan made note of the weaknesses as a rail-thin deputy named Engelhardt walked him through the various security airlocks on the way back to the cellblock. More advanced than some of the third-world rattraps from which he’d liberated a few clients over the years, the PG County jail was nowhere near as advanced as the staff seemed to think it was. With a properly trained team, Jonathan figured he could make a breach and be in and out with precious cargo in under six minutes. Exfiltration would prove to be a bitch once they got clear of the exterior walls, but that was a phase-two issue, and this was strictly an academic exercise.
A breakout here would undoubtedly cost lives, and Jonathan had ironclad rules against harming American law- enforcement personnel.
Engelhardt put him in a cell with three gangbangers likewise accused of murder. Jonathan hadn’t been arraigned yet, but he figured that that would be the charge if things went that far. “Thought we’d keep the killers together,” Engelhardt mumbled for his own amusement.
What separated Jonathan from his cellies, of course, was the fact that they were guilty. He knew this because when he arrived, the young men were proudly recounting the efficiency with which they’d “capped that mother’s ass.” People really ought to listen to the lyrics when cops sing the Miranda song.
The arrival of a middle-aged white guy seemed to lighten the mood of the cell. “Fresh meat!” one of the bangers yelled. The others laughed.
Jonathan ignored them. The cell sported four bunks, two each on opposing walls, none of which appeared to have been claimed. The mattresses were still rolled, and the squatty cubes of linens remained untouched. Figuring that the top bunk closest to the toilet constituted the least desirable chunk of real estate, Jonathan targeted that one as his own. Without saying a word, he started to make up the bunk.
A banger grabbed the fabric of Jonathan’s shirt and pulled him back. “Yo, asshole, what do you think you’re doing? You in our crib, you need our permission.”
Jonathan locked eyes and swallowed the flash of anger. What he saw in the banger’s face made his heart bleed. Here was a guy in the prime of his life facing forever in a concrete cage because he killed somebody as part of what likely was a meaningless grudge match. He steadied himself with a deep breath.
“I’m sorry,” Jonathan said. “That was rude of me. May I please have that bunk?”
The thug gaped for a moment, then exploded with a laugh. “Hell no, you can’t have it.”
“Are you using it?”
“I might.” The guy was at least three inches taller than Jonathan, and outweighed him by a hundred pounds. Now he was mugging for his buddies.
And Jonathan was getting pissed. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t you think about it, talk it over with your friends, and then let me know what you decide. Meanwhile, step aside and save us all a lot of heartache.” He turned back to the bunk. There were only a couple of ways the rest of this could go, and he didn’t anticipate a happy outcome.
The banger made his choice, grabbing Jonathan by the arm and pulling him back again. Hard. Jonathan found himself whirling toward the concrete wall. He had to get his hands up fast to keep from kissing it. By the time he turned, the banger was six inches away, spouting threats and doing that arm-flapping thing that gangbangers do when they get blustery.
Jonathan struck like a snake. He grabbed the guy’s balls with his left hand, his larynx with his right, and squeezed. Hard. The banger’s knees sagged, allowing Jonathan to pivot him so the wall would take some of the weight.
He noted that the banger’s buddies did not rush to lend aid. If they had, Jonathan was ready to handle them; but as it was, he sensed that they were willing to let this assault run its course.
“What’s his name?” Jonathan asked the buddies.
“Hey, man, let him go. He can’t breathe.”
“He’s going to be infertile, too. Name, please.”
“Dion,” one of them said.
“Thank you.” He burned his gaze through Dion’s skull. “Hi, Dion. My name’s Jonathan. My friends call me Digger. You can call me ‘sir.’” He squeezed harder with his left hand, and pain shot through Dion like a seizure.
Jonathan let go with both hands and let the banger drop. He didn’t look tough anymore. Then again, it’s hard to look tough when you’re on the floor cradling your junk with both hands, gasping for air. That little whimpering sound didn’t help. Nor the piss stain.
Crap. Jonathan looked at his soiled hand as if it might be covered with cockroaches. As he moved to the sink to
