The Prisoner

By Norm Applegate

For fans of Lee Child: this must have ebook is filled with a staccato style of writing and deliberate violent descriptions...

"Norm Applegate is a new voice just emerging onto the field of the mystery/thriller novel that has the rest of us looking over our shoulders." - David Hagberg New York Times bestselling author of The Cabal, Allah's Scorpion and Mutiny.

Best selling thriller writer Norm Applegate, author of Into the Basement, Shockwave and his latest novel: The Prisoner

Syria
A brutal killing in a city jail.
Isolation. Escape. Murder.
A prisoner walks out and disappears.

England
A stranger enters an apartment, a grotesque murder, a passport is seized.

Canada
A woman meets a stranger, a sultry night together, in the morning she’s dead...

USA
A FedEx driver is mutilated, a .50 caliber sniper rifle is missing...

Houston
The President makes an appearance...

The Prisoner: a merciless assassin, cold and ruthless with no compassion for human life.

Jack Dwyer ex-military psychologist puts together the pieces. You go to the FBI, they don’t buy it. You go to the Chinese Embassy, they aren’t listening. You’re followed, picked up on the street. You’re beaten, blindfolded and taken to a safe house. You’re not sure why. But then you meet the prisoner and the pieces come together. There’s only one outcome...violent!

Edited by Deborah Levinson

Cover art Linda Boulanger

• Language: English
• Publisher: Norm Applegate
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476237138

Norm Applegate

I live in Sarasota, and I write thrillers, horror and paranormal books.I’m also a Mac Fanatic. Smooth Jazz enthusiast. Drummer. Former hypnotist and Horror Movie Fan.Norman Applegate is an author and consultant, with a growing body of work to his credit. Born in Glasgow Scotland, growing up in Toronto Canada and now residing in Sarasota Florida with his wife Cheryl, Norm Applegate works and travels for an international consulting company, then occasionally scares the “heck” out of his family with his thoughts and writings.Bibliography:Novels* (2012) The Prisoner* (2011) Shockwave• (2011) First to Die* (2011) Sadist (Turkish translation of Into The Basement)• (2009) Blood Bar, a vampire tale• (2007) Into the Spell• (2006) Into the BasementShort Story• (2011) JumpersAnthologies:• (2008) From the ShadowsScreenplays:• (20010) Grotto• (2009) Into the Basement (co-writer Nicholas Grabowsky)Norm’s writing began while travelling through New Zealand and Australia as a Hypno-therapist with colorful letters to his family of his tales as a hypnotist and the weirdness it attracts.His early years in Toronto were filled with aspirations of the 60’s Yorkville music scene, and as a drummer in numerous bands led to a short lived career playing the bars and clubs in the Toronto area. The band Photograph, signed to a recording studio, made some noise on the coast to coast CBC radio show, the Entertainers. In 1973 the band worked with Canadian artist & producer Tony Kosinec, (All Things Come From God), and after legal issues strangled them into submission, they went their separate ways. The band members were George Szabo and Stan Meissner, (Stan later wrote for Céline Dion, LeeAnn Womack, Eddie Money, Rita Coolidge, BJ Thomas, Ben Orr (The Cars), Triumph and Toronto). The life of drugs, sex and rock and roll were over, sad but true.After a few years of travel, he had the bug, and entered the world of management consulting to become a road warrior, and is now a 2 million miler with Delta. Away from home and with the desire to write a novel it began. His first book, “Into the Basement,” is a raw, dark thriller, described as "juicy." His second novel of the Kim Bennett series, “Into the Spell,” explores the horror of a copy-cat Son of Sam killer and hypnosis.Early 2008, Norm contributed with a short story called “Jumpers,” into the horror anthology “From the Shadows.”In 2009, Norm developed the screenplay for his novel “Into the Basement,” with Nicholas Grabowsky and director J. L. Botelho of Triad Pictures.In 2010 he released, Blood Bar, a vampire tale and wrote the screenplay for a short horror film, Grotto.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Shot at sunrise. That's what the general was told. Nobody knows why but it's always at sunrise. There wasn't any big hoopla, no family, no photographers, no journalists, nothing, no one to witness the end of a life.

Five shooters stand at attention.

Shooting a man is not easy, at least for most people. But if you’re in the Chinese military you do it. Also it's easier to shoot a man when one of you has the dummy bullet. No one knows who fires the fatal shot; five guys; four live rounds. That's the way it was to be done today.

He was cold, frail, disgraced. A shadow of the man he used to be. His clothes, tattered, filthy, hung from his torso like strips of yellow newspaper. He was shaking.

Home for thirteen months had been a dusty cinderblock room, six by eight, barely enough to stretch. A cot, a thin blanket and running water that trickled from a rusty pipe, froze in the frigid winter. No windows.

He raised his eyes to the men about to march him to his death. No eye contact, cowards he thought. He felt something cold on his ankles, metal shackles. Heard them snap into place. He lowered his eyes and looked down. A chain tethered his feet together, fourteen links of walking space. He couldn't move. It was like he was stuck in a foot of mud.

He ran his eyes over his feet, yellow, toenails missing. He'd aged. Felt old. A wet cough, maybe pneumonia, maybe something worse.

Someone grabbed an elbow. Then his other one. His arms, twisted behind his back, hurt. Familiar sound, metal snapping. His hands were numb, the weight of the cuffs, the weight of isolation. He froze. His heart raced.

Two guards stand behind him, waiting for him to walk. Hands land on his back, heavy, strong, meaty, the first physical contact in months. He's pushed forward. Shuffles his feet one after another and eyes the long hallway, dark and hollow. Echoes bounce off the walls filling his ears.

General Yeung was fifty-six years of age but looked older. His black hair, once shiny, was dull and thin. At five foot seven, stooping over he appeared shorter. Anyone watching would have guessed he was an old man. He dragged his feet. His skin was pale, spotted with open wounds, self-mutilation from the stress of loneliness. Isolation is like starvation. It kills slowly. The general was falling apart mentally and physically. His head hung in shame.

He enters the corridor.

The floor is grey, the walls are grey, and the ceiling is grey. Long and empty, three lamps hang from above. They are spaced evenly down the hallway and covered with wire mesh. How ironic; protect the lamps destroy the human. The General's mind was spinning. His eyes cut to each bulb; they flicker yellow. Focusing at this point makes him dizzy. His eyes find the door at the end. He sees a glint of light, sky blue, calm. But his heart is pounding; realization of what is about to happen. He hears it, thumping deep in his chest, almost painful. Light filters in from around the doorframe. He squints, his eyes adjusting.

He stumbles along.

Two men behind. Three in front; one leading the way. He hears their boots, the rhythm, and the beat of them marching. Someone pushes him again. He loses his balance; stumbles slightly. His concentration shifts. He realizes he's walked further than he has in months.

The door opens.

Blinding light. Pain, he looks away. Pushed again, he is outside, fresh air, cool almost cold and it hits his lungs like a punch.

Five dark silhouettes are standing forty maybe fifty feet away to his right, to his left, a brick wall. He's moved toward it. Seemed far at first, but suddenly he was there, standing in front of it. Someone, a blur, placed their hands on his shoulders and spun him around.

He faces the firing squad.

An officer in uniform raises his hands toward the General’s face. He's standing about two feet away. In his fingers; a blindfold and a white vest with a red circle, a target to help the shooters. They won't focus on his face, won't think about killing a human, just target practice.

Over the commanding officer's shoulder the General sees five men. All in uniform, healthy young men, military men and they have rifles.

The officer's hands are close to General Yeung's face.

Panic takes over. The General knows this is the last moments of his life. He wasn't about to let the executioners get away without looking at his eyes, his soul, as they killed him. He shuns the blindfold. His wife and two sons would hear of his death the next day. Customary in a military execution, and he wanted them to know he fought back.

Two hands holding the blindfold are inches from his head.

The General reacts. He snaps, something primordial took over. He looks at the hand to the left of his face. It is inches away, moving toward his eyes. There's strength in hatred. He opens his mouth; looks like he is going to say something.

The commanding officer shakes his head. Here we go, the crying will start. Why do they always have to cry? It's too late.

The biting strength of a man's jaw is strong. But the strength of a man about to die is like a pit bull. The General bit hard like a dog gnawing on a bone. His teeth sawed through skin. Crushed vessels. Chiseled into bone

The officer screams.

The General's jaw clamped shut, he squeezed, bit harder. It was all about inflicting pain. He twisted his neck and shook his head. Veins in his face popped. A trickle of blood runs from his lips.

The officer reacted, pried his hand away. It was the only thing to do. Blood squirted.

The General's lips were red.

Blood dripped on the ground. The officer cried out and shoved his hand between his legs, natural instinct to control blood flow. He fell to his knees, natural instinct to get away from the pain.

Staring up at the General, he couldn't believe what happened.

The General had gone too far but it didn't matter. He would never be asked to explain himself. He would never see another sunrise. He'd done something so vile he didn't know where it came from. He saw shock in the eyes staring back at him.

Spitting a worm of red liquid at the officer's face, he felt justified.

There was commotion. The General saw soldiers running toward him. Shadows moving fast. Their faces angry, mouths open yelling, screaming. He could hear their boots trampling the ground. Saw a rifle being raised. Then pain. Then a billion stars went off in his brain.

The General was lifted from the ground. But not before a few soldiers took the boots to him. When he came to he tried to balance himself, felt restraints around his arms. Felt pain in his ribs the same instant hands were all over him. The white vest was dragged over his head, a red circle on his chest; above his heart. Both arms were pinned to his side. He was weak, wobbling on his feet.

He was standing now, watching the backs of five soldiers walk away from him, walking toward their shooting position. He counted their steps. He was used to counting steps. He’d being doing it for months. Sanity was a daily battle.

Twenty, twenty-three, twenty-five steps.

Five men stopped, turned and faced the accused. To their right, the officer missing a finger stared menacingly with black oval eyes. He held the glare for a beat. Wiped blood from his face and spat on the ground.

The General could see the officer's damaged hand. Bandaged, wrapped in white gauze, red seeping through. He held a menacing glare of disgust at the officer's eyes. Neither man would look away, bravado, strength, even at the end.

The officer raised his right arm.

The General didn't wince.

Attention.

A loud command broke the silence. Five men snapped alert. Legs together, shoulders straight, rifles at their side.

The General knew this was it. He tried to breath, chest wasn't working to well. He shivered.

Ready.

Another command and the soldiers raised their rifles in unison. With a quick over and under grip the rifles were across their chests.

The General held his breath.

Aim.

The officer gave an order. In a snap the five soldiers changed positions. They were in the shooters stance, left leg in front of the torso, weight leaning forward, legs shoulders width apart. Left arm extended, fingers gripping the wood stock of the weapon. Right arm bent cradling the rifle. Trigger fingers touching metal. Their heads tilted as they looked down the sights.

Silence lasted for what seemed like a long second to two.

The executioners held their weapons steady and honed in on the red circle.

Then there was a quick movement.

Like it was dead, the officer dropped his right arm.

The men saw it.

The General didn't.

Fire.

Nor did he hear the bang of five weapons being discharged at the same time.

The Chinese made version of the AK-47, the Type 56 SKS assault rifle is the mostly widely manufactured assault rifle in the world. For today’s exercise it would do. A General who had failed was to die.

The officer in charge watched. He saw a puff of material on the white vest, then another and another; bullets hitting their target. The target was shiny, moist, as the red stuff bubbled its way to the surface. The vest changed color. The General dropped to the ground. One of the shooters had a blank, but none of them knew which one. Four rounds penetrated the General's chest shattering his sternum and flattening out as they drilled into his torso. One slug ripped through his heart, probably killing him instantly. The other projectiles tunneled through his body. One nicked the spine. Both blew an exit wound the size of a crater in his back. He lay on the ground, motionless. Leaking out everywhere.

The men lowered their weapons. The acrid burning of gunpowder wafting in the air.

Walking toward the dead general, the officer reached with his right hand and pulled a sidearm from his holster. He twitched, the pain of the missing finger throbbed. He cursed the General. Picking up the pace, he was hoping the General was still alive. Hoping to inflict the final blow. He placed the pistol in his left hand, stood above the lifeless body and looked down eyeing him for movement.

The General was dead.

The officer extended his left hand. He was steady. Squeezed the trigger and watched the General's face implode.

Chapter 2

Fourteen Months Later

It was early morning when a black Mercedes CL600 Coupe, eased to a stop on Commerce Street in a thirty-five-block area of Beijing's financial district in front of a modern glass and steel building that was the corporate office for the Imperial Bank of China. The driver put it in park, shut the car off, and made his way to the passenger rear door. An older man, Chow Lee stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Chow Lee, the head of the Imperial Bank, walked quickly. It was a day of decisions. His driver, his bodyguard, kept up, keeping to his left. Chow had stayed up most of the night, his face showed it. He was in his sixties, felt in the prime of his life, and wanted to secure the future of his country, his bank, and his legacy.

He was tall with a slight build of a Chinese businessperson who kept himself in shape with a daily regimen of Tai Chi and swimming laps. His hair was thin, black, cut short and he had a round smooth face that his subordinates said never smiled and brown eyes that were penetrating if he stared at you.

He was wealthy, powerful, had an air of nobility about him and had made his bank a fortune. He wasn't about to let American economics change the game.

Fourteen months ago he had nominated General Yeung to lead a two-man team to assassinate the American President, Mary Connolly. It had failed. The high-ranking Chinese general had planned a car bombing in Washington. The President was to be killed as her car passed a vehicle parked on the side of the road. The team had maneuvered the car into place after the General had called them; alerting she'd left the house. It was loaded with a mixture of fertilizer and gasoline. A detonator, a small explosive was wired to a cell phone. The General's two men were positioned down the street sitting in an outside cafe.

The General and his men had watched her for weeks, studied her routes. Knew the speed she drove, knew the turns she made, knew all the alternate streets they took. They were taking a gamble, playing the odds, not knowing what streets she would take after leaving the White House. But this road was one she had travelled numerous times. They played their hunch. The General made the phone call. The car was driven into place. Two Asian men left it parked, walked down the street to a cafe. Took a table outside and ordered a couple of beers. Waited.

Two motorcycles approached first, stopping traffic at an intersection. An unmarked police car with flashing lights pulled up next. The motorcycles moved on, clearing the road of traffic. An SUV with dark windows appeared, behind it the President's black limo. They were moving at a quick speed. If the assassination was to be successful, timing was going to be everything.

The Asians watched. One of them had a cell phone in his hand. The number was dialed except for the last digit. No one was watching the two men as they began the countdown nor was anyone watching them studying the President.

The limo was approaching their car.

The last digit was entered into the phone.

The limo was in place.

The call went through.

There was a huge fireball that engulfed everything around it. Flames soared into the air forty, fifty feet. The car lifted off the ground and blew apart. Pieces of metal, shrapnel, were everywhere like rain in a hurricane.

The President's driver was blinded for a beat, a wall of flames in front. He held the wheel steady, drove straight through it, special training. Bits of metal ricochet off the car. The wheels were punctured, flattened. But it didn't stop them. The President's limo pushed forward. The windows black, the paint singed but it kept moving, the tires flattened.

The President was caught off guard, panicked, screamed. Hands shot to her head, protection. She didn't have time to duck down or think about who would want to kill her.

The President's vehicle held up as expected. She was alive. The assassination failed.

Chow Lee walked through the glass doors nodding to security as he entered the lobby and moved straight to a bank of elevators sixty feet ahead and slightly to his left. Two guards on either side of the front doors notice him, so did the morning businesspersons making their way to work.

Chow and his driver enter an elevator. He moved to the back, turned around and faced the door. He felt protected knowing nobody could come at him from behind. The driver stood in front, waited until everyone else pressed the buttons, waited until everyone had made their selections. Then he pressed the top floor.

Chow stared straight ahead. He had studied each man as they got on the elevator. He looked for familiar faces. Ones he'd seen in the building before. He watched their eyes, movement, blinking, what they were looking at. He made a habit of calculating his next move should something happen unexpected. This morning he felt safe. No bulges in anyone's jacket. No weapons. No one looking suspicious, everyone standing still as if they knew a sudden movement could be fatal.

The elevator stopped at three floors. Men got off, no one got on. No one spoke. Chow and his driver rode it to the fifty-seventh floor.

They walked out into a foyer. Unusually large for this type of building. Light wood floors, two chairs, minimal furniture and a lamp in one corner and across from the elevator a counter with a pretty Asian woman who smiled at the CEO as he hurried by. She pressed a button and Chow heard the soft chime of the main doors to the executive suite unlocking.

Inside the offices of one of the most powerful men in China, maybe the world, the pace was different. Executive assistants had been up for hours preparing reports and getting documents printed, organized and put in folders for today's meeting.

A middle-aged man rushed forward and presented the CEO with a grey folder. Without breaking a stride, Chow Lee held it at his side, and made his way to a conference room. Everyone stood in silence as he passed. His face was firm, almost unpleasant. He made people tense. Any executive who questioned whether a leader should be feared or loved was asking the wrong question. For Chow the answer was obvious, feared.

Chow opened the door to the conference room where ten men sat at a rectangular table. Pictures of former executives of the bank hung on the wall, mostly photographs, a few paintings and in one a picture of an older businessman shaking hands with the Emperor in the nineteen twenties.

One of the men seated at the table stood up and cleared his throat.

Everyone is present and waiting for you sir, he said.

He was a short thin man, with black hair combed straight back, making his face look square. His suit was tailored as were those of the other men, all in black two-piece outfits.

Thank you, gentlemen, Chow Lee said.

He sat down at the head of the table and laid the folder out in front of him. He surveyed the room, pausing at each man's face, acknowledging their presence.

Gentlemen, he said, It is time for us to act again. Whether luck or a failure of planning, last year’s incident is behind us. The Americans have taken their eye off the target, opening a window of opportunity.

He paused, making sure he had their attention.

The development in the last few months, unemployment, the stock market crash, the inability for the American Congress to work together, and the upcoming election makes us a target. The President, Mary Connolly, has turned her rhetoric to manufacturing. The incentives to pull American business back to the U.S. are unprecedented. It must be stopped. She must be stopped.

The Executives were silent. They represented the core of China's financial, manufacturing, and powerful government sectors.

It is the end of the beginning. Chow stated. For thousands of years our ancestors fought, cultivated and built this great country of ours. We owe them. We owe them the future and we will deliver it. We are the super power.

Chow let the words hang in the silence of the room.

A few men smiled for they believed, like Chow Lee, China's dragon had awakened.

On Chow's right sat the heads of the five main banks of China. To his left, the Finance Minister. Beside him, Zhong Ming, the author of the report that sat in front of each man. The other two men were department heads representing the foreign affairs of the People's Republic of China. At the end of the table the man who would be charged with solving their problem sat quietly. The man who controlled internal security for the whole country, Song Wei, knew the ultimate solution. His network reached beyond the shores of China.

Chapter 3

Chow Lee gave a pronounced signal with his hand; nodded, and the men seated around the table opened the folders. Inside were short biographies of men who could deliver on the assignment. There was a history of each individual, place of birth, current location, the crimes they had committed, and most importantly their skills. The information was up to date. Chow Lee's team had prided themselves that the stats on each person were accurate, and that given the go ahead, they could contact any one of the assassins within a day.

Included in the folders were the fingerprints of anyone currently in jail or had been under the watch full eye of Interpol. There was also a contact; a name of someone, verified, who could establish dialog with the person of interest.

So this is our challenge, gentlemen. continued Chow Lee. You have read everything you need to know on our candidates. Now the decision is ours to make. I'll remind you, the secrecy of this endeavor is unprecedented. You have been sworn to have no communication of this meeting, or any other correspondence between yourselves, after today.

The men looked at each other around the table. No one was smiling.

You are here today because of what you represent, Lee said. "You are the power of our great country. Each one of you influences and shapes our China. Each one of you must