“How do I get to the Block?”
“There is a door at the end of the corridor.”
Jamie glanced round, at the same letting out a groan of pain for the sake of the camera. It was true. There was a single door just past the two clinics. And – of course – he should have been able to tell from the layout of the building that the corridor was a sort of tunnel, running directly through the outer wall.
Meanwhile, Joe Feather had gone over to the telephone and tapped out a number. Somewhere inside the prison complex, other supervisors would be watching his every move. The first rule of prison life was that there should be no surprises. Every minute of the day had to be exactly the same as the day before. The fact that a boy had been hurt and needed medical aid was a break from routine and the other guards would be on full alert. Feather was pretending to talk to the nurse at the end of the line but in fact he hadn’t been connected. He was actually talking to Jamie.
“I’ve fixed the generator,” Joe continued. “The electric generator in the yard. It has an override system. Sometimes we have to shut it down for repair. It will cut out very soon now and it will take them time to bring the emergency generator on-line. That will give us at least a minute with no cameras, no lights and all the prison doors automatically set to manual. That is when you will deal with your friend. He’s in cell fourteen.”
“Won’t there be guards?”
“There’s only one supervisor on duty during the graveyard shift. Leave him to me.”
“Why are you doing all this?” Jamie asked.
Joe looked up from the telephone and allowed himself a brief smile. “I already told you. You’re one of the Five.”
“Yes. But one of the five what? What does it mean?”
Without any warning, the lights blinked out.
“Move!” Joe commanded.
He had a torch and flicked it on. Jamie followed him down the corridor and waited as he unlocked the door at the end with a key of his own. Everything was pitch black but the beam of the torch picked up a few details as Joe swung it from side to side: a unit almost identical to his own; a corridor lined with cell doors; a table bolted into the floor; a bank of monitors; a supervisor already rising to his feet, reaching for the canister of CS gas attached to his belt.
“What-?” the man began.
Joe hit him with his torch. The light beam threw crazy shadows across the far wall. Jamie heard the supervisor grunt. He folded forward and collapsed.
“Go!” Joe was already dragging the unconscious man back into his seat. There was a paperback book on the desk in front of him and Joe was arranging him so that when the lights came back on, it would look as if he was leaning forward, reading a page. Jamie looked around him, trying to find his way. Joe threw him the torch. He caught it and ran forward.
The cell numbers were clearly printed beside each door. He had to move quickly. As soon as the emergency generator kicked in, he would be seen and – worse – the doors would be sealed electronically. He could hear shouting. It was coming from behind the locked doors. Some of the kids must have been awake and now found themselves in total darkness… a new experience for them. They were pounding their fists against the doors. He wondered if the same thing was happening in the units on the other side of the wall.
He reached number fourteen and, using the torchlight, eased the key into the lock and turned it. With a sense of relief, he felt the lock open. He slid the door aside and stepped inside.
There was an eleven-year-old black boy lying on a bunk, wearing a T-shirt and shorts. He was small for his age but strong and wiry. He had short, curly hair and round, white eyes. There was a plaster on his wrist, just over the vein, and he was very thin. But otherwise he seemed unhurt. He was already awake and staring at the figure who had burst into his room. Jamie slid the door shut again – but not quite the whole way. He turned the torch on himself.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. “I’m a friend.”
“Scott?” The boy on the bunk thought he’d recognized him and for a moment Jamie was thrown. But, of course, he wasn’t wearing the glasses. And in the half-light it would have been easy to mistake him for his brother, even with his short hair.
“I’m not Scott. I’m his brother.”
“Jamie!”
“Yes.” Jamie felt a whirl of emotions. Scott had been here. This boy had met him. Perhaps he might know where he had gone. “You’re Daniel… is that right?” he asked.
“I’m Danny.”
“I met your mother. She’s been looking for you. She sent me to find you.”
“You saw my mum?”
The lights came back on. Danny gasped, seeing the red stains all over Jamie’s face. “You’re hurt!” he said.
“No. Don’t worry. It’s fake…”
Jamie wasn’t sure what was meant to happen next. He was inside the cell with Daniel McGuire, inside the Block. The other prisoners were still hammering at their doors, shouting for attention. The lights were back on. The security cameras were in operation. The entire prison was in a state of maximum alert. What exactly had they achieved?
Colton Banes had seen the lights come on too.
He was in a jeep, being driven from the airstrip where he had landed in the four-seater Cessna that had carried him from Las Vegas. Max Koring was behind the wheel. He had known at once that something was wrong. Silent Creek could usually be seen for miles around, and darkness in this part of the desert was simply impossible – it was like some sort of enormous magic trick. As the two of them drove along the track, the lights flickered on and the prison reappeared.
Koring turned to him. “A power failure,” he muttered. “It happens. Sometimes the generator cuts out.”
“An accident?” Banes shook his head slowly. “Not tonight, I think…” He reached under his jacket and took out a gun. “Put your foot down,” he snapped. “We need to raise the alarm.”
But he was too late. The jeep was still a hundred metres from the main gates when the first shots were fired.
EAGLE CRY
They had come from nowhere, riding out of the desert in dusty pick-up trucks, open-top cars and jeeps. If this had been an old Western, Silent Creek would have been a fort and they would have been wearing war paint and feathers – for they were all American Indians, at least thirty of them from different tribes, firing with guns and rifles as they approached the perimeter fence.
They were aiming at the arc lamps. One after another the lamps shattered and darkness took hold once again. But more lights had come on inside the buildings. The supervisors knew they were under attack and they had weapons too. The alarm had been raised in the outlying houses and more guards were pouring out, some of them halfdressed, roused from their sleep.
One of the jeeps hurtled towards the fence then swerved away at the last minute. There was a man standing in the back, clinging onto the side bars, and as he drew near, he threw something: a home-made grenade. It landed on the sand, bounced, then exploded – a ball of flame that tore a gaping hole in the perimeter fence. At once, a siren went off, howling uselessly into the darkness. On the other side of the prison there was a second explosion as another part of the fence was ripped open. Now one of the cars roared into the inner compound, the last strands of razor wire ripping apart as it burst through. Four men, almost invisible in the shadows, tumbled out and took up positions around the football pitch. Another explosion. This time it was one of the satellite dishes behind the teaching wing. The attackers had made sure there would be no more communications tonight.
Not that they needed to have bothered. Colton Banes was watching the attack with amazement and already he had realized something that the attackers must have known from the start. Silent Creek was a maximum-security youth correctional centre: it had been built to remove the slightest chance of anyone breaking out. But nobody had considered the possibility of a well-armed force trying to break in. Worse than that, its position, in the middle of the Mojave Desert, had become its Achilles’ heel. There was nobody for miles around. By the time anyone arrived to help, it would be far too late.