The Killing Hour (An Alexa Chase Suspense Thriller—Book 3)

PROLOGUE Interstate 40, near the Arizona State Prison Complex at Kingman, northwest Arizona 9 a.m. Robby Tyson could not believe his luck. There, in the dry desert soil at his feet, lay a key. It was the kind of key he knew all too well. It was a key to unlock his ankle restraints. Tyson glanced around at the other orange-suited men on the work crew, and the armed prison guards who stood by watching them. Each convict, himself included, had a rake or a hoe in order to work on the landscaping at the edge of the highway. Crappy tools, every one of them. They made them flimsy so they didn’t make good weapons. Not that it mattered. Every convict had a length of chain between their ankles that kept them from moving at anything faster than a shuffle. Even so, the guards gripped their pump action shotguns and watched them carefully, standing well back. Who could have dropped this? They kept the keys on a heavy keychain on their belt. It didn’t seem possible that one could have fallen off. The grip on the key wasn’t broken or anything. But Tyson wasn’t going to second-guess the first bit of luck he had had in five years. He scraped at the ground near the key with his hoe, then bent over to pat the earth in place around one of the cacti the state had planted here. As he did, he palmed the key. Knowing that watchful eyes were upon him, he held the hoe normally with both hands, continuing to work the gritty soil with the key jammed between his palm and the handle. He waited, working for a full fifteen minutes before palming the key into the top of his sock on the pretext of sitting down and pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. Believable enough. It must be ninety degrees already. It would top a hundred today for sure. Tyson’s mind raced. None of the screws had dropped that key. He was sure of it. So who had? Mike, who had bragged he would bust out of here soon? Carlos, who never said a word but watched everything like a man with a plan? Someone else? Didn’t matter. The important thing was that he could get out of here. Trouble was, he’d have to get out of here now, this morning, because when you came back from an outdoor work crew there were random strip searches. If they found that key on him he’d get another three years for sure. If he told the warden “I just found it in the dirt,” that dried up old turd would laugh his a*s off. So when would he do it? He’d have to time it just right. All through that long, hot morning he thought about it. Through the first two-hour block of work, through his fifteen-minute break when they sat under a tarp out of the hard Arizona sun, and through the next two-hour work period all the way to lunch. By then he had decided. He played it cool. Drank extra water to keep himself hydrated. Watched the guards out of the corners of his eyes. Saw which ones were bored, which ones couldn’t take the heat. Through all the afternoon he worked, head down, eyes open. He must have tended a hundred of those damn cacti the state planted by the roaring highway just a hundred yards away, as if there weren’t enough cacti in the state. Maybe the tourists liked them. Yeah, that’s what he needed. One of those cars speeding by. Some happy family from California or Oregon. Innocent and helpless. If he could get one of their cars he’d be home free. Easy now. First things first. Get those leg chains off. Get them off at exactly the right time. This kind of chance comes once in a lifetime. Hell, once in a prison’s history. Do this just right, and he’d be a prison hero for generations. Mess up, and he’d be dog meat. “Quitting time!” Officer Hanson shouted. At last. It was always a bit slack at five o’clock, when the screws had been standing in the sun all day and were hot and tired and thirsty no matter how much water they had drunk. They all just wanted to get to some air-conditioned bar and down a cold one. “Grab your gear and get in the bus!” one of the other screws ordered. The prisoners, tired and hot too, moved slowly. Some stopped for a cigarette or a final glug from the big plastic jug of water they shared. Others sat down. The guards didn’t hurry them too much. Tyson moved closer to the prison bus, where a few prisoners were already filing in and getting their leg chains locked to the metal seats, and sat down on the dirt. He rubbed his ankle and grimaced as if he was hurt. “What’s the matter, Tyson?” one of the guards asked, his eyes wary. “Scraped my ankle earlier today. The shackle has been rubbing on it.” “Should have said something earlier.” “Didn’t think it would get this bad.” Another prisoner shuffled by and the guard’s attention was distracted. As quick as he could, Tyson pulled the key from where he had tucked it in his sock and, pretending he was rubbing his ankle again, unlocked the shackle around it. The soft click sounded like Santa Claus letting out a “ho ho ho” at Christmas. “What are you smiling about?” Lavon, another prisoner, grumbled as he shuffled by. “No more work today, what else?” Tyson replied, holding the shackle closed with his hand but taking care not to snap it shut again. He had already put the key back in his sock. That miraculous key. Until he had used it he couldn’t believe it actually existed, that it must have been a mirage brought on by the searing heat. Now for the risky part. Tyson’s heart hammered in his chest as he stood, holding the ankle shackle and wincing. He limped over to the prison bus. “Go see the doc once we get back,” a guard said. “Good idea,” Tyson replied. But I got a better idea. He sat down at a seat right next to the door. Officer Hanson was going through the bus locking the leg shackles to the seats. He was one of the younger, tougher screws, with a buzzcut and a mean stare, although he said very little. Tyson noticed that the clasp on the utility knife he kept on his belt was unclipped. Just a quick pull and he’d have it. It would be nice to have a knife again. He had had a lot of fun with one before he got caught. Tyson tried to slow his breathing, clearing his mind. Pretend this is one of your murders. Be calm. Move in for the quick kill. Get away clean. They never did stick but one on you. Take it easy and do it right. Control yourself, time it just right, and you’ll be free. Free to start living again. Officer Hanson was moving down the bus, having started from the back. After a few moments he got to the man opposite Tyson, and by then the serial killer, charged and found guilty of only one case of manslaughter, was as serene as a Buddhist monk. He didn’t even tense as Officer Hanson turned toward him, key ring in hand. Tyson shook his ankle free and kicked him right in the nuts. The guard doubled over with a loud oof. He tried to say something, but his words were drowned out by the cheers of the other prisoners. Idiots, they just alerted the other screws. Time to work fast. He whipped out the knife from Officer Hanson’s belt, opened it, grabbed him by the throat, and got him into a headlock, pointing the tip of the knife right at Hanson’s eye. He’d learned people got more scared of that than a blade at their throat. Knowledge gained from long experience. Hanson froze, hands in the air. Tyson let him out of his headlock and used his free hand to grab his g*n. He half expected Hanson to fight at that point—he’d seen the guard give out beatdowns and he was plenty tough—but he didn’t resist. “Your eye is worth more than a guard’s salary,” Tyson said. “Smart man.” Movement just outside the bus. Tyson turned and saw three of the guards right outside, guns leveled. “You can’t kill me before I kill him,” Tyson said, putting the g*n against Hanson’s temple. The guards hesitated. Tyson grinned, knowing he had them. “I’ll make you a deal,” Tyson said. “You let me walk out of here—” “Not gonna happen!” one shouted. “—and I’ll let him go as soon as I’m away. I don’t want a first degree on my record. If we continue with the Mexican standoff, I’ll toss this key ring to the others and let them all free themselves. Then you’ll have a hell of a problem on your hands.” The three guards looked at each other uncertainly. “Do as he says,” Hanson croaked. “He’s only in for manslaughter. He won’t kill in cold blood unless you force him. If he frees the other inmates, we’re in deep s**t!” Pause. Tyson kept his breathing calm, regular. The guards looked at each other. “Please,” Hanson pleaded. “He’ll kill me if you force him. But I know this guy. He’s smart. Real smart. A prison break will get him ten years. Killing me will get him a lethal injection. He won’t risk that.” The guards looked at each other again and backed off. Tyson stood, keeping the g*n to Hanson’s head. “Back off,” he told them. They took a step back. “More. Hanson, grab that bag.” Hanson slowly picked up the large plastic bag they had brought their sandwiches in. “All right, boys, you put your guns, phones, and walkie-talkies in this bag and I’ll toss you these keys. I’m the only one escaping today.” The chorus of swear words from the other inmates almost drowned out the reply. “No way, Tyson. Give yourself up.” Tyson pushed against Hanson’s head with the barrel of the g*n. “Give it up or he gets it.” One of the guards narrowed his eyes. “We’ll give you the phones and radios but not the guns.” “Best you’re going to get, Tyson,” Hanson said. “Shut up.” Tyson thought for a moment. “All right. Toss them in.” Tyson stepped off the bus, Hanson just in front of him as a shield. One by one, the guards dropped their phones and radios into the bag and backed away. Their aim didn’t waver for a second. Tyson tossed them the keys. They landed in the dirt with a loud clink. The murderer turned and put a bullet through the bus’s radio, making the guards and nearest prisoners jerk. Hanson didn’t move a muscle. He’s a cool one, Tyson thought. Watch out for him. Tyson studied the three guards, all pointing their guns at him. “OK, tell you what we’re going to do. You screws are going to sit pretty in the bus while me and Hanson here go flag down a passing car. Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt any civilians. The poor bastard won’t even be in his car for more than a second. Hanson will drive.” The guards moved into the bus, eyes alert for Tyson to make any mistake that would let them plug him. But Tyson never made mistakes. The Southwest Slasher, that’s what they called him, and as far as the police knew he had never been arrested. A bar fight with some thug had landed him with a manslaughter charge. The first time he let his emotions get the better of him. The first and the last. The cops suspected he was responsible for a lot more murders than that, but they couldn’t make the charges stick. Once the guards were inside, Tyson pushed Officer Hanson toward the highway. A billboard was placed just right so Tyson could get behind it, out of sight of the passing drivers but still able to keep both Hanson and the bus in his sights. “You know what to do,” Tyson said. “I won’t give you any trouble,” Hanson said. “No, I don’t think you will,” Tyson said with a hint of admiration. Hanson moved to the side of the road, waving at the passing cars. The vehicles kept speeding by. Some even sped up, not wanting to get involved even though all their drivers could see was a man in a prison guard’s uniform asking them to stop. But soon enough a car slowed and stopped. Tyson smiled. He was home free. He could get back to doing what he was meant to do.