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Authors: William W. Johnstone
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wasnât supposed to show up at the prison until 11:30, he decided to drive out there now. He suspected that the demonstration, if there was one, would take place here in town, but it might move out to the prison later.
Stark had already planned to warn his old friend that trouble might be on the way. Now he was more sure than ever that George needed to know something was up.
CHAPTER 9
Fuego was small enough that it had just one of numerous things. The townâs lone apartment complex sat on the western edge of town. Kincaid had rented an efficiency there when he arrived some eight months earlier, paid for with money some of his friends had gotten to him.
Men who lived and worked in the shadows knew that there might come a day when they would need to disappear with little or no warning. Untraceable funds were stashed all over the world for just such emergencies. They had access to all sorts of well-documented false identities as well.
Officially, Lucas Kincaid was not one of those shadow warriors, but he had worked with many of themâSpecial Forces operators, SEALS, Company men. When the incident at Warraz al-Sidar occurred, Kincaid had known that his military career was over. He had gone too far off-book. If he turned himself in, he would be court-martialed, and he knew that getting off with just a dishonorable discharge would be an incredible stroke of luck.
It was more likely he would have wound up in some deep, dark hole nobody even knew about, spending the rest of his life in the most secret of top-secret, black-site prisons.
So he had reached outâinto the shadowsâand wound up with a new name, a new life, a new job.
âLucas Kincaidâ had the background to get him hired at the Baldwin Correctional Facility. It hadnât occurred to him that he might wind up in charge of the prison library, but Kincaid had surprised himself by finding that he liked it. He had always been a big reader, and he had organizational skills.
The best part about it was that nobody ever got killed over an overdue book. At least they hadnât so far.
And nobody at the prison or in Fuego had a clue who he really was. Things might stay that way indefinitely if he was just smart enough not to call attention to himself.
On Sunday morning he slept late. When he got up he worked out for an hour. The fight a couple of nights earlier had told him that he needed to get back into better shape. Then he fixed himself an egg-white omelet, washed it down with a couple cups of coffee, and felt pretty darned good. He didnât feel like sitting around all day and watching TV, that was for sure.
There was always work to do at the prison. The library was closed on Sunday, but he could go in and update the circulation statistics. Of course, he could get one of his assistants to do thatâbut not Simon Winslow, who wasnât allowed on computers even if they werenât connected to the Internet. One of the other guys could handle the job, though.
But in that case, what would he do today, Kincaid asked himself, and with that thought in his head he got dressed, piled into his Jeep, and headed for Hellâs Gate.
Not for the first timeânot hardly for the first timeâhe felt uneasy because he wasnât armed. He could have gotten a CHL using his new identity, but that was one more digital trail. He could have carried illegally, or at least had a knife in his pocket.
But he would have had to leave any weapons in the Jeep when he got to the prison, in order to get through the metal detectors, and it didnât seem worth the trouble. He had a tire iron that was easy to grab if he needed to, and it wasnât illegal anywhere.
The Jeep had satellite radio. That was necessary out here in far West Texas, where regular radio signals could be few and far between. It was tuned to a news station, and as Kincaid drove toward the prison he heard a breaking story about how the body of a United States senator had
Stark had already planned to warn his old friend that trouble might be on the way. Now he was more sure than ever that George needed to know something was up.
CHAPTER 9
Fuego was small enough that it had just one of numerous things. The townâs lone apartment complex sat on the western edge of town. Kincaid had rented an efficiency there when he arrived some eight months earlier, paid for with money some of his friends had gotten to him.
Men who lived and worked in the shadows knew that there might come a day when they would need to disappear with little or no warning. Untraceable funds were stashed all over the world for just such emergencies. They had access to all sorts of well-documented false identities as well.
Officially, Lucas Kincaid was not one of those shadow warriors, but he had worked with many of themâSpecial Forces operators, SEALS, Company men. When the incident at Warraz al-Sidar occurred, Kincaid had known that his military career was over. He had gone too far off-book. If he turned himself in, he would be court-martialed, and he knew that getting off with just a dishonorable discharge would be an incredible stroke of luck.
It was more likely he would have wound up in some deep, dark hole nobody even knew about, spending the rest of his life in the most secret of top-secret, black-site prisons.
So he had reached outâinto the shadowsâand wound up with a new name, a new life, a new job.
âLucas Kincaidâ had the background to get him hired at the Baldwin Correctional Facility. It hadnât occurred to him that he might wind up in charge of the prison library, but Kincaid had surprised himself by finding that he liked it. He had always been a big reader, and he had organizational skills.
The best part about it was that nobody ever got killed over an overdue book. At least they hadnât so far.
And nobody at the prison or in Fuego had a clue who he really was. Things might stay that way indefinitely if he was just smart enough not to call attention to himself.
On Sunday morning he slept late. When he got up he worked out for an hour. The fight a couple of nights earlier had told him that he needed to get back into better shape. Then he fixed himself an egg-white omelet, washed it down with a couple cups of coffee, and felt pretty darned good. He didnât feel like sitting around all day and watching TV, that was for sure.
There was always work to do at the prison. The library was closed on Sunday, but he could go in and update the circulation statistics. Of course, he could get one of his assistants to do thatâbut not Simon Winslow, who wasnât allowed on computers even if they werenât connected to the Internet. One of the other guys could handle the job, though.
But in that case, what would he do today, Kincaid asked himself, and with that thought in his head he got dressed, piled into his Jeep, and headed for Hellâs Gate.
Not for the first timeânot hardly for the first timeâhe felt uneasy because he wasnât armed. He could have gotten a CHL using his new identity, but that was one more digital trail. He could have carried illegally, or at least had a knife in his pocket.
But he would have had to leave any weapons in the Jeep when he got to the prison, in order to get through the metal detectors, and it didnât seem worth the trouble. He had a tire iron that was easy to grab if he needed to, and it wasnât illegal anywhere.
The Jeep had satellite radio. That was necessary out here in far West Texas, where regular radio signals could be few and far between. It was tuned to a news station, and as Kincaid drove toward the prison he heard a breaking story about how the body of a United States senator had
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