Chapter 23

I crept out of the office and into the empty hall, going through the instructions the guard had provided me earlier. Sure enough, halfway down the hall was a metal door, marked ‘Hazardous: Keep Out’ and locked tightly with a large deadbolt. My captive had told me I'd either have to find a key or a way to break it down, and though neither of those options were particularly enticing to me, I decided to go with the first one. A key could be found, but knocking down a metal door could take forever.

I went back into the office, closed the door behind me, and started rifling through the drawers, looking for a key that could open a lock of that size. The only ones I found were tiny keys that opened other drawers. After about five minutes of searching, I'd come up empty handed. I started to consider whether brute force would be a better option for handling the lock.

I was about to leave the office when a sticky note on the desk caught my eye. Contct Brudin re: investigation. Brudin. That was the same name as a Senator I'd seen in the news. And while it wasn't exactly a rare name, I was curious…

I turned the computer on. It took a minute to boot to life, and then I was presented a log-on screen, requesting both a username and password. I wasn't sure I could provide either, until I spotted another sticky note attached to the monitor. UN: STAFF. PW: FREEDOM. Was it that easy?

I entered them and boom, I was in. I opened the computer's mail client and scrolled through the inbox. It was mainly emails related to the camp—from concerned parents asking if there was room for their son or daughter, a food company asking for details about a shipment, the bank providing information about direct deposits—nothing too salacious or revealing at first glance.

I clicked on the search box and typed in “Brudin”. A solitary email came up:

To the staff at Camp Freedom, Thank you again for your participation in our “Build a Great State” initiative over the weekend. Together, we planted 5,000 trees, stocked three tons of canned food for the needy, and provided a hundred classrooms with new books and supplies.

I am so thankful for your spirit and dedication. It has been my pleasure to have such a mutually beneficial relationship with your camp, and I look forward to many more years to come.

Best, Senator Phillip Brudin

I frowned. By all accounts, it looked like a standard email sent out to every organization that had helped out with the Senator's pet project, and yet that last paragraph, mentioning a “mutually beneficial relationship,” seemed off. Would he have written that to a Boy Scout troop or a ladies' church group? What sort of mutually beneficial relationship did Camp Freedom have with this guy?

I minimized the client and opened the hard drive. I was about to look through the files when the radio cracked to life. “You got a guy coming in through the side door. Got a gun in his hands. Where are you now?”

My own weapon still in hand, I held the walkie talkie up to my mouth. “I’m in an office. Going dark.” I turned the volume on the radio all the way down and waited, crouched behind the office chair. I could hear footsteps in the hall, getting closer to me, passing, and then moving further away, only to stop a short time later. I did the math quickly in my head. If his stride was that of a normal adult, and it’d taken him so many steps to get from the entrance to the office, then… I had nothing. But I was pretty sure I knew where he’d come to an abrupt halt.

I tiptoed through the office and cracked open the door. There he was, barely within my eyesight, unlocking the metal door. I didn’t even think about what to do next—I swung the door wide and was out of the office in a flash, gun raised and pointed at him. “Drop your weapon right now or I will blow your fucking brains out!” I screamed in my best angry voice.

He looked over at me and tried to aim his rifle, but I’d already fired. It missed him and hit the metal door, but he got the idea and lowered his gun to the ground. I was once again temporarily deafened in my right ear. Jesus, how did cops and soldiers fire these things all the fucking time?

“Open the door!” I screamed. “Do you think I’m kidding with you? You think I’m shitting you here? Have you not seen what I’ve done to your friends? To this godforsaken camp? Do you think I won’t put a bullet between your fucking eyes?” There was a lot of rage pouring out of me. Probably all the stress I was under. “Open it! Now!”

He fumbled with his keys and found the right one. The door clicked and opened. I waved my gun inside. “Go. And if you make any move, you’re a dead man.”

He stepped inside, and I followed, closing the door behind me. It was just as I’d been told: a short hallway leading to a set of stairs. He paused at the top. “We have to disable the security system first.”

“What security system?” I asked. I took another step forward. “Just keep walking. Unless that security system involves spinning metal wheels and boulders, I'm not particularly concerned about any of—”

He suddenly spun around, knocked the gun out of my hand and punched me in the face. On a normal day, that would have been enough to put me on the floor, but after all the damage I'd already put my body through on this day, it was almost like I'd become numb to the pain. I pulled away from another punch and then threw a few of my own, though I wasn't able to hit more than the side of his temple.

Then he kicked me in the side, something I wasn't expecting. As I gasped in pain and surprise, he lunged at me, knocking me onto the floor. I threw my legs up, kicking him back, and picked myself up as he regained his balance. This guy was obviously skilled in hand-to-hand combat. Good for him. I, on the other hand, played hockey to pay for my education. And that gave me an entirely different skill set.

I stepped forward, lowered my shoulder and slammed into him, pushing him back the stairs. He tumbled down, while I grabbed onto the railing able to keep from joining him. He reached the bottom and slammed head-first into the wall.

I grabbed the gun off the floor and went down the stairs. The guy was lying in an injured heap at the bottom. “You… you fucking…” he murmured. I stepped over him, trying not to cause him any further pain. This guy was down and out—he didn’t pose any threat to me.

I went down the next flight and arrived at a long, dark hallway. There were just a few bare bulbs above my head, providing dim light. I could make out a few door handles on either side of me, but the guard had told me that Josh would be at the end of the hall, behind a door with—

“Bars,” I said aloud, seeing them fifty feet in front of me. The air became thick and heavy, reeking of mildew and, I was pretty sure, shit. It didn’t stop me from running up to the tiny cell window and grabbing the bars. “Josh! Josh, are you in there?”

I didn’t hear anything. I pressed my ear against the opening, feeling my heart break a million times over. Had they moved him? Was he somewhere else? Or could he still be in the cell, but no longer alive? What if it was just his body in there? What if they’d somehow killed him? Or, worse yet, he’d taken his own life?

“T—Trent?” It was faint, barely more than a whisper, but despite the continuing ringing in my ears I still heard it, clear as day.

I nearly collapsed in relief. Oh, thank God. That squeaky voice sounded better than a million angel choruses.

“I’m here. I’m going to get you out.” I tried the door. It was locked. Obviously. Frantically, I looked around, before remembering that I’d left a set of keys, and a guy, lying halfway down the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

“But this isn’t…” His voice faded away as I ran back to the soldier. He was still half-awake, each breath producing a sharp hiss of pain. I felt bad for him, for all of five seconds.

I felt up his clothes and found a key ring in his breast pocket. “Thanks buddy,” I said as I fished them out and ran back to Josh’s door. “Okay, I have the keys. Let’s see if any of these work.”

“I don’t…” Again, he failed to finish his thought. I began to try each key in the lock. Number one failed. As did two, three and four. Number five fit in, but it didn’t turn. Number six was completely the wrong shape, so I didn’t even try. Number seven didn’t work either.

“Really appreciate your patience in all of this,” I said. “Please standby, your freedom will be delivered moment—and there we go!” Number eight—lucky number eight—slid in perfectly and turned, unlocking the door. I swung it open and then nearly slammed it back shut. It took all of my efforts to not keel over and throw up. “Oh God. What did they do to you?”