Pathway to peace

He leaned against the bare concrete wall, composing himself for the first steps of the routine he'd planned in his mind.  The minutes slid by but they were barely noticed by the man.  Now the stillness was broken by a strident voice calling “Food, my boys” accompanied by the clang of shutter gates in the cell doors.  Footsteps approached and the shutter was thrown noisily open.  “C'mon ya bastard, get your food!”  The man went to the door and moved the food tray away from it, leaving the food untouched.  He crouched by the door listening to the voices and footsteps continuing down the corridor.  A metal plate that had recently covered the wooden door's lock mechanism lay neatly on the ground.  The man lifted his notched metal file and completed his earlier handiwork on the inside of the bolt.  Eight nights of filing were rewarded with a faint clinking noise as the bolt was severed in two.  The wood enclosing the bolt had long since been added to his mattress stuffing, and the metal plate that concealed the damage had been kept in place with wooden splinters. Within moments, the detached end of the bolt had been prised from its housing and the door was loose.

The sound of the footsteps was growing louder again and the man crouched behind the door, focused intently.  Two steps after the attendent and the guard had passed his cell, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor in one fluid motion.  The guard let out an oath and lept backwards but not quickly enough to stop the prisoner closing with him.  A sharp hand-thrust to the throat dropped the guard like a stone, his windpipe crushed.  The attendent had thrown his trolley to one side and was six metres down the corridor before he was clasped from behind and his neck broken in one ruthless movement.

Without pausing beyond a quick glance up and down the corridor, the man went quickly back to the guard and retrieved a heavy set of keys and a pistol from his belt, and a knife from his ankle sheath.  The pistol was thrust in the back of his combat pants, and he picked up the guard's com unit.  Going along the corridor he stopped at cell 23.  “Angus!” he whispered, pushing the fourth bronze key on the ring into the lock.  It opened the door as he knew it would and Angus stared wide-eyed at him from the darkness.  Standing six and half foot tall with shoulders almost three foot across, Angus would have been a sight to intimidate any man but Jackson leaned closer.
“Unlock the rest...I've got something to see to.  Keep them silent if you can” he said in a low voice.  Jackson strode quickly up the corridor to the main doors, after detaching the the bronze key and placing it in Angus's huge fist. 

The first bronze key on the ring opened the lock and Jackson went through.  He walked three short corridors with silent haste and came to the laundry room.  A brief moment of waiting in silence confirmed that no one was around and he climbed up on the wash basin in the corner.  The trapdoor in the ceiling took a jarring blow from his palm to loosen it, after which he was able to slide it to one side.  Stretched on tip-toes he was just able to reach the second trapdoor.  He paused a moment, ears straining to hear any sound.  He could hear running footsteps in the distance, but nothing else.  Well, here was the first gamble in his mission.  Edging the trapdoor up slightly, he slid the guards knife through the gap.  It took all his strength to keep the trapdoor ajar while sliding the knife around the rim.  He stopped and listened.  There was no sound from above so he continued his knife cutting through the carpet until suddenly there was a ripping sound and the weight on the trapdoor was gone.  Sliding his fingers onto the frame, Jackson pulled himself smoothly upwards and through the square opening.

The room he was in now served as a pantry adjoining the kitchen and the laundry chute had been carpeted over and forgotten long ago.  A box of bread lay tipped over beside the trapdoor where it had fallen over from Jackson's entrance.  He crept to the doorway of the pantry and listened to the hub-bub of noise coming from the kitchen.  The two cooks would most likely be washing up at this time, and it sounded as though they were having a lively argument.  After assuring himself there were only the two of them in the room, Jackson pushed the pantry door open and stepped towards the cooks with the pistol raised.
“Make no sound or you are dead!” Jackson said.  “Turn around and get on your knees.  Don't make me shoot you!”
The fat cook doing the washing up sank heavily to the floor, whimpering and shaking like a leaf. 
“Don't kill us, don't kill us” he moaned hoarsely, gulping for breath, “we were forced to stay here, we would have helped you if we could have, you know that right, Storm Strike?!”  His eyes were turned pleadingly up at Jackson, searching for some indication of Jackson's intentions.
Jackson stared icily at him “Do it now!  Get on your knees, face the wall.  Hurry up!”
They both did as he said, moaning with terror.  Gripping the pistol tightly in his hand, Jackson swung it violently down against the closest neck in front of him.  There was a crack and the cook pitched forward, lifeless before his head hit the floor.  The second cook turned his head quickly and tried to push himself away but the pistol barrel caught him just below his ear.  His body  slumped awkwardly to the ground.  Jackson cocked his head to one side, listening for  moment and suddenly the silence was broken by the strident klaxon of a siren.  Voices started to yell immediately, calling out, and Jackson knew he had to move fast if he was to fulfil his plan.

He strode to the door, and looked out into the eating hall beyond.  It was empty and he decided that most of the guards would be in the common room as he had anticipated.  They would be heading to block off the corridors and exits, trying to keep the prisoners contained in as small an area as possible.  The prisoners may well have made it to the common room already, but their actions were not Jackson's concern.  They were a necessary diversion, allowing him the freedom to carry out his plan.

Less then two minutes later, he was standing outside a door he'd only ever entered once.  It seemed so long ago, like a distant memory although it was in fact only eighteen months ago.  He'd been scared then, not knowing what was happening to him, scarcely able to believe that he was a prisoner.  Well who would believe that a typical tourist in America could be snatched off the street like that?  Anyway, that day was long past and today was a new day.  A day of reckoning, when evils would be atoned for.  No, not atoned for... never atoned for, but the perpetrators would be executed...this earth should not have to bear them any longer.  The body of the guard lying at his feet that he had taken down ruthlessly was mute testimony to the lengths he would go to.

He pushed the handle down and shoved himself hard against the door, splintering the lock and forcing himself into the room.  With his gun levelled in front of him, Jackson surveyed the man who had jerked to his feet behind the desk.  The man who was synonymous with all evil in Jackson's mind.

...to be continued...