He Came Back to Collect

At sunset, a helicopter skimmed over the waters surrounding the Veymoor Islands, in the waters of the Republic of Aldovia. The sea was unusually calm, its surface catching the aircraft's reflection as it passed.

A woman in military uniform leaned out of the open door, her hair streaming in the wind. She was beautiful, with fine features and a figure the uniform did little to hide, but her eyes discouraged a second look. There was something in that cool, searching gaze that made people straighten up and look elsewhere.

As the prison island came into view, she curled her hands into fists. For the first time during the flight, she looked uncertain.

Three years since she'd seen him. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering what those years had done to him.

Grimholt Island Prison had been built in 1994 to hold the most dangerous criminals on the continent of Edrath. Laser sensors and pressure pads covered the perimeter, backed by patrols with attack dogs. It was the continent's most secure prison, and its inmates knew better than to waste their time planning an escape.

In a cell roughly thirteen feet across, a shirtless man was doing handstand push-ups on one finger.

“Thirteen thousand, three hundred and twenty-one...”

He lowered himself, then rose again, his body held perfectly straight. Sweat ran down his chest.

“Thirteen thousand, three hundred and twenty-two.”

Cornell Bateman had once been the military's finest soldier, a man known simply as the Reaper. Then he'd killed five senior officers from the Republic of Vaskora and found himself facing a court-martial. A few powerful men had intervened to keep him from being shot.

Their help had only gone so far. He was serving life.

There were plenty of rules at Grimholt Island Prison, but every inmate knew which one mattered most.

Better to face the devil than cross him.

Nobody ever needed to ask who “him” was.

Footsteps echoed along the corridor, drawing prisoners to their cell doors. A blue-uniformed official approached with his hands behind his back, followed by ten armed guards carrying riot shields.

“Cornell Bateman. You've got a visitor.”

Cornell pushed off the floor and came lightly to his feet. He was about five foot seven, with short hair and a face that might have looked boyish if not for the eyes. Prison hadn't taken the edge off them.

Then he smiled, and the impression changed completely. It was the sort of grin that usually meant trouble for somebody.

“A visitor? Didn't think anyone still remembered me.”

He let them lead him away without argument.

The escort took him down a dark corridor to an interrogation room. When he stepped inside, he found himself looking into a pair of eyes he knew very well.

For a moment, the woman staring back at him forgot to hide what she felt. Relief, excitement, and nerves showed plainly on her face.

His gaze moved to her shoulder insignia, and his smile returned.

A lieutenant colonel. The rookie who'd once followed him everywhere had come a long way in three years.

“Look at you, Hannah. You've changed.”

His voice was deeper than she remembered. Hearing it again made her throat tighten, and she was annoyed to discover how close she was to tears.

Then his eyes dropped.

“What were you before, a 34B? Now you're a 34D. That's some impressive progress.”

The moment was over.

Hannah Beatty stared at him. Three years in prison, and he was still the same shameless bastard.

“Can you be serious for once? I had to pull a lot of strings to get in here.” She took a breath. “It's Austin Sten, commander of the Special Operations Group in the third dictrict. He's dying, and he's asking for you.”

Cornell's smile faded. He looked down at the floor.

Early in his career, he'd crossed the son of a senior official. After that, every assignment and promotion had become another opportunity for someone to make him pay. Austin Sten had put a stop to it. He'd seen what Cornell could do and used his influence to make sure the younger man had a chance to prove himself.

Cornell hadn't wasted it. He'd worked his way into Task Force Reaper, the most secretive special forces unit in the Republic of Aldovia, and become its best soldier.

With his own family long dead, he'd come to think of General Sten as a grandfather.

Now all he wanted was to get to the old man's bedside.

His hands closed into fists, but he said nothing.

Hannah leaned forward.

“He doesn't have much time, Cornell. The doctors can't explain why he's still alive. They think he's holding on because he hasn't seen you yet.” Her voice softened. “He calls you his grandson. You know that, don't you? Please don't let him die wondering why you never came.”

He shook his head, struggling for an answer.

“I know you're in prison,” she continued. “But I also know that if you decide to go, you'll find a way.”

“I...”

The door slammed open under a kick.

A man in a suit stood in the doorway, his long hair neatly parted down the middle. Cornell recognized the new warden.

“Ms. Beatty.” His smile was cold. “Is this a social visit, or are you helping him plan an escape? Either way, it's over. Leave.”

Cornell looked at him for a moment, then made his decision.

After everything General Sten had done for him, he couldn't refuse the old man's last request.

“Warden, I need to get out of here for a little while. There's something I have to do.” He spoke without a trace of his earlier humor. “Make this happen for me, and I give you my word I'll come back as soon as it's done.”

The warden laughed.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Cornell Bateman? This is a prison. You don't get to let yourself out whenever you've got somewhere to be.”

He gestured to the guards.

“I run this place. Take him back.”

Two guards grabbed Cornell by the arms and pulled. When he didn't move, they tried harder, boots scraping against the floor.

He glanced down at their hands, then back at the warden.

“You're new, so I'll let that slide. But you might want to ask around before you start telling people who runs Grimholt Island Prison.” A faint smile returned. “Let me walk out, and you won't have to explain to your men why you couldn't stop me.”

For a second, the warden could only stare. Then he laughed again.

He had nearly a thousand guards under his command, and this convict was threatening him? The man was standing there in composite-metal cuffs and leg irons.

The warden stepped closer and gave Cornell a few patronizing pats on the cheek.

“Apparently three years wasn't long enough to teach you how prison works. Let's try this again: I give the orders. You obey them.”

He turned to his men.

“And if he won't walk, work on his legs until he does.”

Ten guards advanced behind their shields, electric batons raised.

Cornell flexed his arms. The veins in his forearms stood out, and with a sharp grunt, he tore his restraints apart.

He bent his knees slightly and punched the first shield.

It shattered.

The warden's mouth fell open, but he forced himself to stay where he was. One good punch didn't mean anything. There were still nine other men, and no one could dodge that many batons in a room this small.

They'd beat him down. They had to.

Hannah drew a sharp breath as the guards closed in.

Cornell jumped, caught the overhead light fitting, and swung clear of their batons. As he dropped, he hooked his foot around one man's neck and twisted, putting the force of his descent behind the throw.

The guard weighed over two hundred pounds. He flew into the men behind him and brought them crashing down in a heap.

Cornell landed, stepped over the groaning guards, and headed for the door.

“There are forty-two steel security doors between you and the outside!” the warden shouted. His voice was no longer steady. “Motion sensors everywhere. You're not getting out!”

Cornell turned, raised his middle finger, and gave it a little wag.

“I gave you a chance to handle this quietly. Remember that.”

He planted his feet beside the wall, drew back his fist, and drove it into the concrete.

The wall was nearly twenty inches thick.

A section of it burst outward, leaving a hole large enough for a man to walk through. Late sunlight poured into the room and caught the grin on Cornell's face.

“Don't miss me too much, Warden. I'll be back when I'm done.”

He looked at Hannah, blew her a kiss, and stepped backward through the hole.

“Catch you later, babe.”

Then he was gone.

Hannah stood there with her cheeks burning. She'd been certain he could get out if he wanted to. It hadn't occurred to her that his plan would involve punching through the nearest wall.

Being called “babe” in front of the guards hadn't helped.

The warden hurried to the opening and looked out. He could already imagine the report: a prisoner had escaped in front of him, minutes after he'd refused to cooperate.

He might as well start clearing out his office.

The thought only made him angrier. He snatched up a phone and jabbed at the keypad.

“Escaped prisoner! Cornell Bateman!” he barked. “Send out a nationwide alert. I want every cop in the country looking for him!”

By the time Cornell was walking through streets full of traffic, he still knew nothing about the alert.

He'd found a cheap, half-smoked cigarette somewhere. He took a drag, coughed, and tried again, watching people hurry past him.

Everything felt unfamiliar.

He'd once been the Reaper. Men had trusted him with their lives, and he'd had every reason to believe he deserved that trust.

Then someone had set him up.

The deaths of those five senior officers from the Republic of Vaskora had outraged the national leadership. Most of his twelve teammates in Task Force Reaper had been discharged and sent home to fend for themselves.

He didn't even know where they were now.

As their captain, he should have looked after them. Instead, he'd acted without thinking and taken them down with him.

That was why he'd spent three years pushing his body until he could barely stand. Exhaustion helped. If he trained hard enough, sometimes he could fall asleep before the memories caught up.

But on the nights when he couldn't, he lay awake thinking about the men who'd paid for his mistake.

“I'm going to kill the bastard who set me up,” he muttered. “I'll do it myself.”

He took one last look down the street and put out the cigarette.

“But first, General Sten.”

He dropped the butt and headed into the crowd.