the Second Horseman (2006) Read Online Free
Author: Kyle Mills
had this kind of initiative? He'd seemed so happy forcing Brandon to empty rat and grease traps. What would he do for entertainment now? Oh, yeah. Shoot him in the ass, catch him, and ensure that his plaything would be at his disposal for the rest of his natural life.
Brandon's breathing evened out enough to spit a few times and the stitch that had knitted itself in his side began to ease. He started to lean out around the tree but then caught himself. What was there to look at? He already knew that they were coming after him. What he saw wouldn't affect his decision about what to do, so it was just mental clutter. Not what he needed right now.
Options?
Few.
He could circle around toward the prison and take a stab at sneaking into the courtyard in the confusion -- making him the only guy in history to ever break himself into prison. Chances of success? Ten percent. Chances of survival? Maybe twice that if he was lucky.
Brandon wrapped his arms around himself and tried to ignore the cold rain that had soaked his clothing. If he just stood there, he'd probably freeze to death. How long would that take? How the hell should he know? What was he? A forest ranger?
What if he just stayed put and concentrated on keeping warm? The darkness and confusion might give him time to explain himself and emphatically give up before anyone could get a bead on him. On the other hand, the darkness and confusion could be just the excuse Daly needed to shoot first and ask questions later. Who would doubt a viciously attacked, Godfearing prison guard if he said he thought he saw a weapon?
Finally, he could keep running. But what chance did he have? He'd probably either break a leg or poke an eye out in the next hundred yards, and even if he didn't, he had no plan, no idea how to get to the road, no clue where that road led if he found it, and no allies on the outside. Even worse, he was the master of the thirty-minute mile and wearing a prison uniform.
The rain wasn't hitting him directly anymore, instead rolling off the tree behind him and down his back like some half-assed Himalayan waterfall. The thunder was an almost constant drone now, blending with the prison alarm in a way that made it hard to discern where one started and the other left off. Not exactly good for the concentration.
After a few more moments of thought, he decided that heading back to the prison was his only hope. No one would be looking for him pressed against the wall waiting to get back in. And once he was inside, it would be a lot harder for anyone to shoot him under false pretenses. Too many witnesses. The big drawback here was that if he survived, he would not only have his sentence extended until doomsday, but he'd get his place in history as one of the stupidest criminals of all time. With just a little more bad luck, he'd be immortalized in the J. Edgar Hoover Building tour alongside the guy who wrote a bank holdup note on the back of his personal check. Now there was something to be proud of.
Brandon wiped at his glasses with a muddy sleeve and came out from behind his tree, cautiously pushing his way back through the dense foliage toward the clear - cut surrounding the prison. He'd made i t a bout ten feet when he came to a sudden stop. The phone in his pocket had begun to vibrate.
He'd completely forgotten about it. Could Daly be tracking him with it? Some of them had built-in GPSes now. Was he calling to say he was only ten feet away?
Brandon grabbed the phone in a muddy fist and was about to throw it, but then stopped. None of this made any sense. The escape, the phone, Daly. So far, his overdeveloped sense of curiosity had been nothing but helpful to him in life, but it was hard not to remember his father's warning that it would get him in trouble one day.
He looked down at the phone, noticing for the first time a wireless earpiece taped to the back.
What the hell? It wasn't like things could get all that much worse.
He stuck the little speaker in
Brandon's breathing evened out enough to spit a few times and the stitch that had knitted itself in his side began to ease. He started to lean out around the tree but then caught himself. What was there to look at? He already knew that they were coming after him. What he saw wouldn't affect his decision about what to do, so it was just mental clutter. Not what he needed right now.
Options?
Few.
He could circle around toward the prison and take a stab at sneaking into the courtyard in the confusion -- making him the only guy in history to ever break himself into prison. Chances of success? Ten percent. Chances of survival? Maybe twice that if he was lucky.
Brandon wrapped his arms around himself and tried to ignore the cold rain that had soaked his clothing. If he just stood there, he'd probably freeze to death. How long would that take? How the hell should he know? What was he? A forest ranger?
What if he just stayed put and concentrated on keeping warm? The darkness and confusion might give him time to explain himself and emphatically give up before anyone could get a bead on him. On the other hand, the darkness and confusion could be just the excuse Daly needed to shoot first and ask questions later. Who would doubt a viciously attacked, Godfearing prison guard if he said he thought he saw a weapon?
Finally, he could keep running. But what chance did he have? He'd probably either break a leg or poke an eye out in the next hundred yards, and even if he didn't, he had no plan, no idea how to get to the road, no clue where that road led if he found it, and no allies on the outside. Even worse, he was the master of the thirty-minute mile and wearing a prison uniform.
The rain wasn't hitting him directly anymore, instead rolling off the tree behind him and down his back like some half-assed Himalayan waterfall. The thunder was an almost constant drone now, blending with the prison alarm in a way that made it hard to discern where one started and the other left off. Not exactly good for the concentration.
After a few more moments of thought, he decided that heading back to the prison was his only hope. No one would be looking for him pressed against the wall waiting to get back in. And once he was inside, it would be a lot harder for anyone to shoot him under false pretenses. Too many witnesses. The big drawback here was that if he survived, he would not only have his sentence extended until doomsday, but he'd get his place in history as one of the stupidest criminals of all time. With just a little more bad luck, he'd be immortalized in the J. Edgar Hoover Building tour alongside the guy who wrote a bank holdup note on the back of his personal check. Now there was something to be proud of.
Brandon wiped at his glasses with a muddy sleeve and came out from behind his tree, cautiously pushing his way back through the dense foliage toward the clear - cut surrounding the prison. He'd made i t a bout ten feet when he came to a sudden stop. The phone in his pocket had begun to vibrate.
He'd completely forgotten about it. Could Daly be tracking him with it? Some of them had built-in GPSes now. Was he calling to say he was only ten feet away?
Brandon grabbed the phone in a muddy fist and was about to throw it, but then stopped. None of this made any sense. The escape, the phone, Daly. So far, his overdeveloped sense of curiosity had been nothing but helpful to him in life, but it was hard not to remember his father's warning that it would get him in trouble one day.
He looked down at the phone, noticing for the first time a wireless earpiece taped to the back.
What the hell? It wasn't like things could get all that much worse.
He stuck the little speaker in
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