CHAPTER SEVEN
It was Tuesday night when the lights went out. The power was cut over a small area of London: a small area that included the maximum-security Hillingdon prison. The fact that the surrounding area was also powerless was what convinced the guards at the prison that this was just one of the routine power cuts which had been happening with increasing frequency lately. And since they believed it to be nothing but that, they didn't increase the number of guards on duty.
Then it happened. A large motor vehicle slammed into the gates of the prison, driving straight through and heading directly for the main reception. As it approached like a speeding train, crosses hanging from its sides were set on fire, and as it smashed into the building, figures leapt from the sides and crashed to the ground. The guards swarmed towards the vehicle, opening fire at the figures as they stood up. Most were killed immediately, but some began to fire back with weapons of their own, whilst others charged at the guards, and exploded as they came close.
On the lowest level of the prison, there was a small store room where the guards kept the drugs they used in interrogation, which exploded midway through the attack on the gate.
As the dust settled, the guards came running, peering through the huge hole in the floor. A few tried to radio it in to the control room, but before they could even touch their radios, all four were taken out by a silenced Beretta sniper rifle. A figure dressed in dark clothes hauled himself out of the hole, and quickly took the guards' weapons. He moved quickly down the corridor, heading for the level's office. The guard turned around as the door was kicked open, and received a bullet in the head for his trouble.
The figure dragged the chair to the corner of the room, pulling the guard's body out of it, stood on it and wrenched the security camera out of the wall.
Then the prison's lights flickered, and the emergency generator came online after about eight minutes of blackness. It was all just as the figure had planned. He accessed the computer's database of prisoners, and found the one he was looking for. Then he removed a small device from his backpack, and fixed it into the office's plug socket. Hitting the switch sent activated the electrical transformer within the device, causing the current flowing within the prison's power grid to rocket upwards. All through the building, fuses blew and electrical equipment was rendered useless.
The figure was already moving, heading directly for the cell he had located. He attached a small explosive to the lock, and stepped back. With the lock taken care of, the door swung open.
The figure paused in the doorway, looking at the prisoner in front of him. Griffin O'Conner looked terrible. After a week of having no food or water, except being force-fed his own shit and piss, he was thin, and looked more than a little ill. He was naked, and his body was covered with cuts, scabs, bruises and burns and his own dried blood. His head had been shaved, and there was blood all down the side of his face. His eyes were closed, and his thin chest was barely rising and falling.
The figure wasted no time, hauling Griffin's naked body over his shoulder, and heading back to the hole in the ground.
News of the breakout was suppressed, whereas news of the attack by fundamentalist Islamists wasn't. The escaped prisoner was not found, despite the discovery of an open manhole cover nearby, where the prisoner's accomplices had probably entered the sewers.
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Griffin's eyes cracked open, and as the world around him came into focus, he looked around him.
He was lying, naked, on a bed in a dark room, sweat covering his skin, connected up to tubes and wires. There was a bleeping noise from the heart monitor beside the bed, beating in time with the thumping of his head. His vision seemed to be hazy, dark, and he could hear faint voices.
He tried to sit up and pull the electrodes from his bare chest, but he couldn't move. His eyes flicked around the room, trying vainly to pierce the darkness. There was the noise of a door, and the sound of footsteps.
"Ah, you're awake," said a voice in the dark, "You're probably unable to move at the moment. That'll be a side-effect of some of the drugs. Very unpleasant substances – hallucinogens, stimulants, pain-causers. I had to get pump you full of more drugs to counteract their effects."
The owner of the voice lifted something to a bag hanging from a hook, and seconds later Griffin felt a coldness travelling through his veins. He guessed he was connected to an intravenous line, which had just deposited the drugs in his system.
"You've been in a coma for three weeks, so movement should be a while in coming back."
Griffin said nothing. Not that he could say anything.
"I'll be back later," said the figure, and left the room.
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Cole stepped off the plane, anger stabbing into his brain. O'Conner had been broken out of prison. Woo-hoo. That meant his little group would have to spend the next month or so hunting for the boy amidst the dreary English weather, and whoever had broken the brat out was no fool. To break in to a maximum security prison and escape would require some place to lie low for the next year. This mysterious party would no doubt have one which had been very carefully selected, so as to be as secret as possible and easy to escape from should they need to do so.
Cole ground his teeth. It was all to do with those American bastards, the remains of the CIA, and that probe into the Red List. Even with top Torchwood access, he'd only been allowed to view details of the plans concerning the people on that list. The Supreme Pope had spent the last few years trying to eliminate the people on that list (O'Conner's termination had been set for the first Tuesday in October next year). But the CIA twats must have known this was coming, and got him out, probably with help from the ruins of the British SIS. That was the annoying thing.
Even before the armies of Christendom had taken over the Americas, at least half of the population of the US of A had been incredibly stupid and self-obsessed. The powers that be had determined to keep them that way, and had done very well. The few patriotic imbeciles who put their country first had easily been caught out making stupid mistakes, thus denying the American Resistance much of their support base. But clearly not all.
The British Resistance was much more difficult to ferret out. On the whole, British people were much more intelligent than Americans, and also more patient as well. They wouldn't be found for the simple fact that they did almost nothing to actually resist, spending their time building up support networks between the ex-MI6 and MI5 operatives, who'd had the sense to scatter and destroy their databases when the armies came a-calling. They also had the sense not to be caught out by doing something simple.
Whatever the reason, Griffin O'Conner was being sheltered by ex-MI agents who no doubt planned to ship him out to the Americas sometime soon.
"Nero," Cole said, calling his lieutenant over as they climbed into the waiting SUV.
"I want all outbound travellers from Britain searched. I don't care where they're going or what mode of transport they're using. Boat, train, plane – search it, X-ray it, tap it with a tuning fork – just search it."
"Could O'Conner have left in the weeks since his escape?" Nero asked, aware it had been several weeks since the breakout.
"The prison governor said he was in a critical condition," Cole replied as he lifted his mobile phone to his ear, "It was really dangerous to move him, and if he survived the breakout, he'll spend a few weeks in a coma at least."
His call was answered by the government complex in Atlanta, where Torchwood had recently raided an NSA resistance base.
"I want a check of the records on the computers we recovered," he said, after confirming his authorisation, "Look for any connections with British resistance cells, and any other American cells that might be connected with British cells."
He clicked off his phone, then activated the laptop computer concealed in the dashboard in front of the passenger seat, and set about sending some important emails.
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Later.
Griffin was able to twitch his fingers and toes, but he was still unable to move enough to pull the needle delivering drugs into his system out of his hand. His host had been kind enough to provide him with some music to listen to, but it was repetitive pop music with the kind of religious undertones that drove Griffin mad. However, all he could do was put up with it.
He was also uncomfortably aware of the various medical equipment and tubes stuck into his various orifices, such as the pipe that went through his nose to deliver solid food to his stomach. He was also acutely aware that eventually he would have to have them pulled out at some point, and he was really not looking forward to when the catheter inserted into his bladder would be removed.
His host, who had introduced himself as James Griffiths when changing the intravenous bag a few hours ago, had explained he didn't mean Griffin any harm, and that he had a certain proposition, which he would explain when Griffin was feeling better. Griffin had wanted to ask why the paladins had taken him in to custody, but of course he couldn't, since he wasn't in full control of his vocal chords. Since James seemed to be aiding his recovery, Griffin decided to wait around and hear the kid out. Well, James was certainly a kid, even if he only looked a year or two older than Griffin, who was eighteen.
Most of the time Griffin was alone, with the various tubes sticking out of him, a heart monitor bleeping next to him, and occasionally a little music playing. The music could only last for an hour or so, as James claimed it was to 'conserve power', but had graduated from irritating pop music to a more varied mix – heavy metal and rock (which was banned under the current regime), and some classical. Though he would never admit it, Griffin was now getting quite fond of the New World Symphony. There was also music from the Lord of the Rings movies and the TV series Doctor Who, which were great, if spoiled by the Christian overtones (such as the Hobbits taking time out to pray to the Virgin Mary and the Orcs reading the Qur'an or the Daleks wearing turbans and declaring a fatwa on the Doctor). Still, the music was good.
