“You can toast any of the sandwiches,” Kiwi said. “There’re a couple of toasting machines over by the coffeepot. Tastes better that way. Probably kills some of the bacteria as well.”
Sam looked at the flat slices of meat in his sandwich and felt less hungry, but he took a bite anyway.
“When’s pizza night?” he asked.
“That’s Thursday,” Kiwi said. “Right after barbecued fillet steak Wednesday and before pigs-might-fly Friday.”
Sam nodded. “I figured as much. I’m gonna miss pizza, I think.”
“Pancakes,” Kiwi said. “I miss pancakes.”
“Yeah, with maple syrup and whipped butter,” Sam agreed.
“Nah, drizzled with lemon juice and a light sprinkle of sugar,” Kiwi said.
“Lemon juice?”
“That’s the way we do it back home.”
“Sounds disgusting.” Sam screwed up his face.
“Well, your way just sounds like fat and sugar with extra fat and sugar,” Kiwi said.
“Mmmm.” Sam licked his lips. “Fat and sugar!” Kiwi laughed.
Sam toyed with his sandwich for a moment, then said, “Kiwi, I’m going to need your help.”
“No worries,” Kiwi said. “What do you need?”
“You’re not going to like it,” Sam said.
The trees shivered a little in a late-afternoon breeze, and a few loose leaves twirled like butterflies down over the razor-wire fence. One leaf caught for a moment on a spike before a stronger gust dislodged it.
A trio of Asian inmates were playing some complicated card game, sitting on the grass near the boundary, just a few yards away. Sam tried to figure out the rules without staring. It involved a lot of picture cards, and the queens seemed especially important, and every few moments one of them would reach over and slap one of the others hard across the face; then they would all fall about laughing.
It made no sense to Sam at all.
He looked back at the fence. So thin, so delicate, yet so vicious with its shark’s teeth of jagged metal.
The idea had been in his mind from the moment he had found the codes for the electronic doors, but actually making the decision to escape was another thing.
On one hand, there was an unspecified amount of time in jail. (They’d throw away the key, according to Kiwi.) On the other hand was a life of running and hiding, constantly looking over his shoulder. An outlaw, an outcast, a fugitive.
Would he ever be able to see his mother again? Or Fargas? Would he have to leave the country, sneak over the border into Canada or Mexico and live the rest of his life in some foreign land?
But then he looked around at the razor-topped fences and tried to imagine spending month after month of his life in this one small patch of land, constantly under watch by armed guards.
And worse. In a few months’ time, on his eighteenth birthday, the transfer to an adult prison. What kind of horrors would that hold, amidst the burglars, murderers, and gangsters?
Recton was scary enough. The thought of some unknown adult prison “upstate” was simply terrifying.
Sam saw Kiwi walking toward him and stood up.
Together they strolled along the exercise track that ran around the circumference of Recton, a yard or two inside the white picket fence.
He counted his paces, although he was careful not to look like someone who was counting his paces.
It had been two weeks now since he had arrived. Two weeks of limp, flavorless food, communal showers (which he hated), and a horrible claustrophobic feeling every night as the electronic door beeped and locked itself at nine o’clock.
He had put that time to good use, though. Noting the routines of the guards. Where their rounds were. Who was scrupulous, who was punctual, who was lazy and did the barest minimum to fulfill their duties.
He had drawn a map of the fences and sketched in the sensors and other hidden alarms that he located on the security system on the admin computer. He had measured distances on the ground and compared those with the information online, working out times and distances.
He had full run of the computer network, and there was nothing he couldn’t find out if he wanted to.
Two weeks of researching, planning, and finally he was ready to go.
11 | PRISON BREAK
Sam was ready at ten to ten, standing just inside the door of his bedroom, waiting for the fire alarm.
He had accessed the fire-control system and scheduled a fire drill for ten o’clock, then disabled the line of code in the program that knew it was only a drill.
As far as the computer was concerned, the fire would be real, and it would react accordingly.
His few belongings were shoved into the pockets of his warm jacket.
Everything now relied on Kiwi. He had agreed, a little reluctantly, to Sam’s request. If caught, he could wave goodbye to his hopes of serving out his sentence in New Zealand. But he’d agreed anyway.
Seconds ticked away on his watch, and the minutes slowly dripped away as well.
Was he prepared for this? he wondered. A life of constantly hiding. A life without his family and friends. A life underground.
The fire alarm sounded just outside the door to his room. A long bell that went on and on.
When a fire alarm went off at Recton, the computers that controlled the facility would automatically unlock all the cell doors to make sure no inmates were trapped inside.
The door in front of him unlocked itself with a beep and the clunk of the electronic latch. Sam was through it and running down the hallway the moment the handle came free in his hand.
He had counted every step between the dormitory and the admin block and knew exactly how much time he had.
He’d make it, as long as he didn’t stumble or trip over something.
He was already flying out of the hallway door into the courtyard as other doors were opening into the corridor behind him. Frightened, confused voices followed him out of the door.
He made it to the admin block just in time, flattening himself against the sidewall as the door opened and three guards came out at a trot.
He waited a moment longer to be safe, but no one else emerged.
He keyed in the security code and yanked on the door handle. The door opened without question and pulled itself shut behind him.
The guards would have fun trying to get back in. As of right now, the codes had all changed, and only Sam knew the new ones.
He had never been in this part of the admin block before but knew his way around as if he worked there, from the floor plans he had found on the central server.
He raced up two flights of stairs, past the guards’ showers and changing rooms and down a short corridor with doors to the armory and records room, and then keyed the code for the door at the far end: the storeroom.
In here were all the belongings of the guests, in numbered cardboard boxes. His number was 5143, and he scanned along the shelves until he found it.
His wallet and cell phone went into his jacket pockets along with a few other odds and ends that he had been carrying when he’d been arrested.
He left the storeroom door open and ran up another flight of stairs to the watchhouse.
The first thing he had learned from studying the security plans for Recton was that the main gates that formed the outside wall of the cage were not under any kind of computer control. Nor could they be opened manually from within the cage. They could only be opened from the watchhouse.
The button for the gates was clearly marked. It was large and black and fitted with a plastic cover so it
