Following the escape of Breida and Rourke, chaos reigned. The entire Nevada penitentiary system’s computers had failed, and it had taken two days to get them back online. Breida and Rourke had disappeared, having been given a couple of hours’ head start thanks to the shitshow outside the gates. The fake UFO had made the news worldwide. Blake had to admit that as covers for a prison break went, it was novel. Despite roadblocks and a statewide search, the two men were ghosts and, two months later, they were still trying to figure out exactly how the whole thing had gone down. That was all bad enough, but what followed was far worse.
Warden Hanzus had gone to the police and started to sing like a canary. He’d told them everything. How he and Blake had taken money from the Ratenda Cartel to guarantee Breida’s unique living arrangement. The authorities had hushed it up, but they were headed for a grand jury and it looked bad. Hanzus had dumped the whole thing on him, claiming that Blake was the one who had initiated the arrangement, and that he’d been subsequently blackmailed to go along with it.
Hanzus was under federal protection now. It wasn’t much of a story, but getting yours in first always worked best in these situations. Worse than that, an investigation had been launched into the deaths of a few prisoners after an anonymous tip. Blake knew their names well. Suddenly, everything he had done in his career was being viewed in a very different context.
He’d been let out on bail, fired from his job and told not to leave the state. An early estimate of the legal fees involved made it pretty clear he was going to be flat broke long before the end of this, and it still looked as if he would end up facing serious prison time. James Blake was not going to find himself on the other side of the bars. That much he had decided for certain.
His options were limited. He patted the Glock again. Comforting.
He picked it up and pointed it at the treeline, where he could see the silhouette of a figure standing about twenty feet from him. “Do you really think that I can’t see you there?”
The voice that answered sounded refined and in no way alarmed. “No, I felt reasonably sure you would.”
Blake nodded. “I’m going to guess that you’re …”
“Yes,” said the man. “I am a representative of your former employers. Needless to say, not your official employers – the other ones.”
“Well,” said Blake, “judging from a couple of emails I received, I don’t think they’re much less upset with me than you are.”
“That may be true, but we are much more willing to be forceful in how we express our displeasure.”
Blake laughed. “You have picked the wrong man to threaten. You’d want to be quick on the draw, amigo.”
“I really don’t,” said the voice. “I suggest you look down.”
Blake did. Two red dots were dancing across his chest. He laughed.
“And,” continued the voice, “I am not here to threaten you. I have been tasked with the recovery of my employer’s property. To do so, I need to get a better read on who has taken it.”
Blake laughed. “What the hell do you expect me to tell you that you don’t know? Some Irish dude moved in, and five days later they were gone.”
As part of the investigation, it had emerged that whoever the Irishman was, he wasn’t Anthony Rourke. Investigators suspected the real Anthony Rourke had died in a bar fight in Florida over a decade ago. They’d had to do an artist’s sketch of the man who had disappeared with Breida, his mugshot having magically disappeared off all systems.
“Still,” said the voice. “We wish to go over everything again with you in great detail.”
Blake nodded. “While I’m sure that would be a lot of fun, no, thanks. Goodbye.”
He turned the gun fast but not fast enough. Blake screamed as the blade sliced into him. Blood spurted from the remains of his arm. He looked down at the porch where his hand lay, still holding the Glock.
Reflexively, he held the remnants of his arm close to his chest and looked up. An extremely pretty woman had appeared from behind him, holding the sword that had just severed his hand clean off.
“This is Lola,” said the voice. “She will be assisting in asking you some questions.”
The last thing Blake saw before he passed out from shock was her smiling face.
Many hours later, after some extensive and thorough questioning, she was also the last thing he ever saw.
Epilogue Two
Arthur Faser tried to keep his breathing steady.
Martin Fitz. Your name is Martin Fitz.
He was nervous – terrified, in fact. While he’d broken out of prison more times than was advisable, and quite possibly more times than any living individual in North America (a couple of the guards had speculated about that, but it turned out to be tricky to verify conclusively, prisons not being overly keen on advertising failure), he had never broken out of a country before.
He was standing in line at the border crossing to Mexico. On the other side of it lay a whole new life. In his sweaty hand he held what he had been assured was a one hundred percent legit passport stating his identity to be Martin Fitz. Mr Fitz also had a bank account with ten grand in it. The Sisters of the Saint, as weird as they’d been, had stayed true to their word and fulfilled their side of the deal. At least, he hoped they had. He was about to find out for definite.
His plan was simple. He’d get set up in Mexico and then he would contact June and see if she wanted to join him. He was aware that she’d turned him down multiple times now, but that had been Arthur Faser, escaped felon. Martin Fitz was a good guy with a clean record. Maybe she would give
